#I have no earthly idea what I’m doing

[little-fae-hero]

A body that doesn’t feel right

Could you just imagine, a body that never fits.

-

This is just based off that idea, just how much the time traveling messed with Link view of himself and how he likely never felt at home in his body after.

Enjoy the bad comic art lol

[heliosunny]

Heaven’s Gold Noose

Yandere!Sunday x Reader

Life hasn’t been kind to you.

Every job interview ends in rejection.

Every relationship fizzles out.

Even your coffee always spills at the worst possible moment.

But then… he appears.

A man with soft, feathered wings and a halo—Sunday, your newly assigned guardian angel.

"The celestial council has reviewed your past life," he murmurs, "You were a soul of pure kindness. And now, in this life, you’ve been given misfortune as a test."

His fingers brush your cheek, "But don’t worry. I’m here to guide you."

You should feel relieved. But...

Now, he’s sitting across from you at a café, dabbing at his stained white robes with a napkin while giving you a pained but patient smile.

"Okay, let me get this straight. You’re an angel. From Heaven. And you’re here to… what, fix my life?"

"Precisely! Consider me your divine guardian—" "Uh-huh. And how much is this ‘heavenly guidance package’ gonna cost me?"

"I would never—! This is a sacred duty, not some… earthly pyramid scheme!"

You take a long sip of your (third) coffee, squinting. "Prove it."

Without missing a beat, he plucks a feather from his wing and offers it to you. "A token of my sincerity."

You grab it—then yelp as it bursts into golden sparkles in your palm.

"Okay, that was cool. But I still think you’re either a hallucination or a really dedicated cult recruiter."

You wake up the next morning to find your broken phone fully charged, your dead plant thriving, and your cat suddenly fluent in Latin ??

"…Did you just say ‘ave dominus’?"

"Meow." 

Then, Sunday materialized just behind you.

"Ah! I see you’ve noticed my small blessings!"

"Dude! Do you have to pop up like a jump scare?!"

"Apologies. I forget earthly beings are so… fragile."

----

You’re on a terrible date (third one this month—curse your bad luck) when Sunday manifests in the restaurant’s chandelier, glaring daggers at your oblivious companion.

"So, I think splitting the bill is only fair—"

"HERETIC."

"SUNDAY. NO."

"Uh… did you just say ‘Sunday’?"

"Yep! Gotta go! Bye!" 

Outside, Sunday floats beside you, pouting. "That man was unworthy of you."

"Yeah, well, possessing the lighting fixtures isn’t gonna help!"

"But you did leave with me."

"Oh my god—"

----

At first, you thought it was all some elaborate joke—or worse, a scam. A literal angel showing up in your life? Yeah, right.

But after weeks of inexplicable blessings: your rent mysteriously paid, your chronic back pain vanishing overnight, even your perpetually dying houseplants suddenly flourishing... You finally gave in.

"Fine," you muttered one evening, throwing your hands up as Sunday hovered expectantly by your window. "You can stay. But no more weird angel stuff, okay?"

"I shall adhere to your mortal customs... within reason."

You set boundaries, of course. You weren’t religious, and the idea of divine intervention still made you uneasy. But Sunday was... different. He wasn’t preachy or holier-than-thou. He was just... there.

You kept your distance, treating him more like an overly affectionate roommate than a celestial being. He respected your space, though his presence lingered in small ways—freshly brewed tea waiting when you woke up, your favorite snacks restocked before you even realized they were gone, and an unsettlingly perfect knowledge of your schedule.

"You don’t have to do all this" you told him once, frowning at the spotless kitchen.

"But I want to" he replied, "Your happiness is my purpose."

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you just nodded awkwardly and went about your day.

Then came the day you almost died.

Tires shrieked against asphalt as headlights flooded your vision—too bright. Your coffee cup slipped from numb fingers, hitting the pavement in a burst of scalding liquid. The truck’s grille filled your entire field of view, chrome gleaming like a predator’s smile.

You had half a second to think: This is how I die.

You gasped, blinking as you found yourself standing safely on the sidewalk, Sunday’s arms wrapped tightly around you. His wings were fully unfurled, casting an eerie glow in the dim streetlights.

The sound of screeching metal filled the air as the truck crashed into the guardrail right where your car should have been.

Your legs gave out.

Sunday caught you before you hit the ground, cradling you against his chest.

The warmth of the milk cup seeped into your fingers as you sat curled up on the couch, the near-death experience still fresh in your mind. Sunday sat across from you, his wings now neatly folded behind him, his golden eyes watching you with quiet intensity.

The silence stretched, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

----

You both returned home after that.

You took a slow sip of your warm cup of milk, then finally spoke.

"So… when are you leaving?"

Sunday blinked, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Leaving?"

"Yeah. Like, is there an expiration date on this guardian angel gig? Do you get reassigned? Or do you just… vanish one day when Heaven decides I’ve had enough blessings?"

"Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not here on a temporary assignment."

"So… you’re stuck with me forever?"

"Not stuck," he corrected gently. "Chosen. My presence isn’t bound by time. I stay as long as you need me."

"Which is…?"

"However long that may be. Perhaps a lifetime. Perhaps longer."

"Okay, next question," you said, shifting topics before your brain could spiral. "Do other angels do this? Just… move in with humans and fix their Wi-Fi and scare off bad dates?"

Sunday tilted his head. "Some do, in their own ways. But most guardians are subtler. They prefer signs, whispers, the occasional miracle. I, however…" He gestured to himself, wings and all. "I believe in a more hands-on approach."

"No kidding." you muttered.

"Besides," he added, "you’re special."

You ignored the way your face warmed at that.

"Last question," you said, pointing at his robes. "Heaven’s got, like, upgrades, right? You guys aren’t all harps and scrolls up there?"

Sunday laughed in a rich, melodic sound. "Oh, we’re quite modern. Cloud computing is literally cloud-based. The Pearly Gates have biometric scanning. And the angels in charge of mortal affairs? They love spreadsheets."

You nearly choked on your milk. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." He leaned forward, mischief dancing in his gaze. "Would you like to see my divine tablet? I have an app that tracks prayer requests in real time."

You stared. "…You’re joking."

He pulled out a sleek, glowing device from thin air.

"Nope."

As the night wore on, you learned more than you ever expected:

Angels have hobbies. Sunday’s was composing hymns… and binge-watching human dramas.

They adapt to human culture. He preferred loose sweaters over robes at home ("More comfortable for lounging") and had strong opinions about coffee brands.

Heaven does have WiFi. ("But the connection in the mortal realm is terrible.")

At first, you had to remind yourself constantly: Sunday is invisible to everyone else.

You’d catch yourself mid-conversation in public, only to bite your tongue when strangers shot you weird looks. You learned to text him instead of speaking out loud, to nudge him under the table when he laughed too loudly at a restaurant, to pretend you were on a phone call when he whispered warnings in your ear.

But slowly… you stopped caring.

Because Sunday wasn’t just your guardian angel anymore.

He was your best friend.

You’d wake up to find him humming hymns while making breakfast, his wings brushing against the ceiling.

He’d sit beside you on the couch, scrolling through memes on his divine tablet and snickering at cat videos.

When you had nightmares, he’d stroke your hair until you fell back asleep, murmuring, "I’m here."

You started looking forward to coming home—to his warmth, his laughter, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you.

----

One evening, as you lounged together, Sunday suddenly went still.

"There’s something I need to tell you." 

You tensed. That tone never meant anything good.

"You weren’t just randomly assigned to me," he admitted. "You… you’re not entirely mortal."

"What?"

"Your soul—it’s different. " His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. "That’s why I was sent. Not just to protect you, but to… prepare you."

"Prepare me for what?"

He hesitated. "One day, you’ll have to decide—stay human, or ascend."

All this time… he’d known.

And he never told you.

"So what, this was all just a mission to you? All the—the tea, the jokes, the saving my life—just part of the job?"

Sunday’s expression shattered. "No. Never." He reached for you, but you flinched away. "I was supposed to guide you, yes, but my feelings—my devotion—that’s real."

"Then why hide the truth?"

"Because I was afraid!" The raw desperation in his voice stunned you. "Afraid you’d hate me. Afraid… you’d choose to leave."

You stared at him.

And yet…

You still didn’t know if you could trust him.

You needed time.

So you did the only thing you could—you walked away.

And Sunday, for once, didn’t follow.

At first, you told yourself it was fine.

But then…

Your coffee went cold because he wasn’t there to reheat it with a touch.

Your nightmares returned, and there were no gentle hands to soothe you.

The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, like the world itself had dimmed.

And worst of all?

You missed him.

Meanwhile, in Heaven…

Sunday stood before the Celestial Council.

"Remove their name from the records," he demanded, "They don’t belong in this trial."

The council murmured amongst themselves.

"The choice was never yours to make, Sunday." 

"You would fall for them?"

Sunday didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

Three days passed.

Then, on the fourth morning, you woke to the scent of fresh tea and the sound of rustling wings.

Sunday stood at the foot of your bed, his form flickering—like a star about to burn out.

You sat up, "You… you look terrible."

And he did. His glow was dim, his wings frayed at the edges. But his smile was the same.

"I had to see you one last time." he whispered.

"What do you mean, last time?"

"I made a choice. You won’t have to."

And then—

He began to fade.

For weeks, you searched.

You screamed his name into the empty air. You prayed—something you’d never done before. You even tried to bargain with the universe.

"Bring him back. Please."

Until—

It was a rainy afternoon when you saw him.

A man sitting by the window, his eyes scanning the street with an expression so achingly familiar it stole your breath.

But he wasn’t Sunday.

Not quite.

No halo. Just a human—or something close to it—with a faint, lingering glow at the edges of his silhouette.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up.

You stood in front of him.

He looked up.

"Do I… know you?"

It was him.

And he didn’t remember.

You smiled politely at the stranger with golden eyes, exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries, and walked away.

What else could you do?

He didn’t remember you.

And maybe… that was for the best.

----

That night, he dreamed. Visions of a life he never lived flickered behind his eyelids—a celestial choir, a mortal with your face, the weight of devotion so fierce it burned like holy fire.

He woke gasping, fingers clutching at his chest.

And then—

His voice.

"You loved them enough to fall," whispered the shadow of his former self in the mirror. "Are you really going to let them walk away?"

Piece by piece, the memories returned.

The way you used to scowl at him for hovering too close.

The sound of your laughter when he tried (and failed) to understand mortal slang.

The betrayal in your eyes when he told you the truth.

And worst of all—

The way you looked at him in the café.

Like he was nothing.

Like Sunday had never existed.

-----

He found you again on a stormy evening, standing at your doorstep, drenched and desperate.

"You know me," he said, "Don’t you?"

You froze, keys slipping from your fingers as you tried to insert it to the keyhole.

This wasn’t the same man from the café.

"Sunday?"

"You remember."

"No," you lied, turning away. "I don’t."

The moment you lied—"I don’t know you"—something in Sunday snapped.

Before you could turn the key fully, his hands slammed against the door on either side of you, caging you in. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in.

"Liar" he whispered.

His fingers curled into the wood, splintering it slightly as he spoke.

"I gave up everything for you," he hissed. "Heaven cast me out the moment I begged them to spare you from your fate."

His nose brushed against the nape of your neck, sending a traitorous shiver down your spine.

"And you dare pretend I never existed?"

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you from behind, crushing you against him.

"I don’t regret it," he murmured, lips grazing your skin. "Even if Heaven abandons me forever, even if I have to claw my way through eternity alone—you will never be alone again."

He was no longer an angel.

At first, the changes were small.

Almost kind.

You used to wake up groggy, stumbling to the coffee maker like a half-dead thing. Now, there’s no need. Sunday is already there, pressing a steaming cup into your hands before your eyes even fully open.

"You function better with caffeine before seven," he murmurs, "I’ve timed it perfectly."

He learns your preferences down to the smallest detail. The way you prefer your eggs (soft-scrambled, no pepper). The exact number of seconds you like your toast browned.

(You try not to wonder what else he’s memorized.)

This is where it gets dangerous.

You mention offhand that you don’t like your coworker. The next day, they transfer departments.

You sigh about the noisy neighbors. That night, their apartment goes mysteriously silent.

"Sunday," you say slowly, "are you—?"

"Making your life easier?" He tilts his head, innocent. "Of course. That’s my purpose."

(He doesn’t mention the blood on his hands. You don’t ask.)

Then comes the night you catch him editing your journal.

You freeze in the doorway, watching as his fingers glow faintly over your open notebook—words rewriting themselves under his touch.

"What are you doing?"

Sunday doesn’t startle. He just turns, smiling beatifically.

"Fixing it," he says, as if it’s obvious. "You were too hard on yourself here. And this memory?" He taps a page. "It hurt you. Now it won’t."

"That’s not your choice."

For the first time, his smile falters.

"Isn’t it?" He stands, stepping closer. "Who knows you better than me? Who loves you more?"

His hand cups your cheek.

"Let me perfect you."

You wake up one morning with a gap in your memory.

A childhood birthday party—except now, when you try to recall it, there’s a new figure standing beside you in every photo.

A boy with golden eyes.

That’s not how you remember it.

That time you failed your driving test? Erased. Now it’s Sunday in the passenger seat, guiding your hands on the wheel. "Perfect" he praises.

The funeral you barely survived? Rewritten. He’s there, holding you up, taking the pain away.

You clutch your head, dizzy.

"This isn’t real."

Sunday smiles, stroking your hair.

"Isn’t it better this way?"

You remember now—the truth.

The day you almost died in that car crash.

How Sunday didn’t just save you.

How he leaned over your bleeding body and whispered:

"Let me make it all beautiful."

And then—

Nothing.

Just him.

Always him.

[honeypiehotchner]

kiss her, you fool (Hotch x fem!Reader) -- one shot

Anyway I'm back in the fucking building again!!!! Listened to "Kiss Her You Fool" by Kids That Fly and had this one shot written in like an hour. The love for Aaron Hotchner never dies apparently

Summary: You're in the middle of spring cleaning when Aaron calls and says he forgot something at your place (he didn't).

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff! I just wanted to write some romance

It’s the middle of the day and you’re in the middle of a cleaning frenzy when your phone rings for what looks like the third time. It’s Aaron.

“Hey! Sorry,” you laugh, grabbing the TV remote to pause your music, phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder. “I’m spring cleaning and clearly way too far in the zone. What’s up?”

“That’s okay,” you can hear him smiling as you readjust your phone in your hand. “Would it be alright if I stopped by? I think I left something there last night.”

You furrowed your brows, spinning around the living room. You definitely would’ve noticed if he left something here last night. You’ve practically turned your entire apartment upside down to clean it.

“Are you sure?” you ask, moving to lift the couch cushions for a third time. “What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” he says, which totally isn’t suspicious at all. “Can I just come look?”

“I mean,” you let out an awkward laugh. “I guess you can. I’ve been cleaning since this morning, though, so I think I would’ve spotted it, but—”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he says. “If that’s okay?”

You sigh, selfishly glad you’re getting to see him again, two days in a row. It feels like you’ve hit the jackpot. “Yeah, of course it’s okay.”

“Great, see you in a few.”

“See you,” you bite back your grin, ending the call. You turn the music back on, a little lower so you’ll hear him when he knocks.

You have no earthly idea what he could’ve forgotten. He had his phone and jacket in hand when he left. He never took his wallet or keys out of his jacket pockets, so they must’ve stayed there. Unless either of them fell out, but again, you feel like you would’ve noticed.

Whatever it is, he’ll either find it or realize it isn’t here. Regardless, you’re getting to see him again, so you’ll take it.

With his job, the days that you do see Aaron are typically one long day spent together here and there. Yesterday was an exception, a rare dinner mid-work week because he happened to be done at the office early and you were free, so obviously the opportunity was taken advantage of. It’s only been a few weeks of seeing one another, so you both take any chance you can get. 

Despite this, though, things have moved…slow. Slower than you expected because, to be frank, every guy you’ve been with has been quick and to the point. Not that you always minded that. Sometimes you wanted the same thing — quick, hot, heavy. But those days have since left you, and you went through a period of seeing no one, aside from one guy who left as soon as you said you were interested in moving slowly. 

It’s nothing against Aaron, but when he first introduced himself at your local coffee shop, you kind of assumed he’d be the same. It’s hard not to assume when everyone acted that way, and when the men who frequent said coffee shop don’t exactly have the best track record for being polite and respectful.

Aaron, though, took weeks to ask for your number, let alone to join your table one morning to sip his coffee — and even then, you offered him the seat; he didn’t invite himself. That alone was enough for you to agree to give him your number, and then to an official first date.

He kissed your cheek after the first date, your forehead after the second, and kept to those areas alone. You found yourself wondering if something was wrong with you somehow, but he wasn’t disinterested. Quite the opposite, actually, from how he held your hand and kept his arms around you, how he made sure you were safely inside your apartment before heading off, how he still texted when he arrived home to ask you if you were still safely inside.

Or when he had to cancel a date last minute, and sent flowers to your apartment in lieu of his presence. He apologized over the phone, but the flowers had an apology note attached too. And another apology when he arrived at your door four days later, fresh off the plane, with a real explanation of his job and why he didn’t have time to explain it all to you before he left.

Your friends think it’s a little crazy, that it’s been almost a month of dating and there hasn’t been a single kiss — “On the cheek doesn’t count!” they argue. You think it does. If anything, you’re just happy there’s no pressure.

The underlying anxiety is there, sure, of what if it never happens? But you can’t bring yourself to entertain the thought. Mainly because you want to kiss him so bad, you’re practically going to leap onto him one of these days.

You’re mid-dance when a knock sounds on your door and you jump, having forgotten Aaron said he would be here soon. You turn the music down as you head for the door, unlocking it to let him in.

He stands there in his usual dark suit, sans tie this time so the top buttons are undone, bouquet of flowers in hand and dumb smile on his face.

“What are these for?” you ask when he hands them to you. 

He steps inside and shuts the door, pausing to press a kiss to your forehead. “Because I wanted to.”

You give him a look, cheeks feeling warm. “If you keep doing this ‘because you want to,’ I’m gonna need to open a flower truck,” you joke, gesturing to the other vase of flowers sitting in your window. And there’s another in the bathroom. And one in your bedroom. 

“Just let me know what kind of truck you want,” he teases.

You press the flowers to your nose to hide your smile. “Oh, what did you forget? You’re welcome to look for it, but—”

He lets out a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I might have lied.”

“I knew you were, you idiot,” you swat playfully at his arm. You turn to head into the kitchen in search of another vase. “I got off the phone and paced around like what did he possibly leave here? I figured maybe your wallet or something, but I definitely would’ve found it earlier. You should’ve seen the living room this morning — I had the couch on its side and the coffee table in the middle of the hallway—”

You’re in the middle of rambling, digging around under the sink for a vase, when Aaron pulls you up by your hand, spinning you to face him.

“—it was a disaster trying to vacuum. Remind me never to do that unless you’re over here to lift all of it. I think I nearly—”

He’s smiling at you, and you don’t have a single moment to spare to register that he’s leaning in before his lips are on yours. 

You sigh into the kiss, pleasantly surprised to be interrupted in this way, and glad your hands are free so you can hold onto him. Maybe this is why it’s good he hadn’t kissed you yet — one second of it and you’re ready to collapse under the sweet weight of it all. His arms circle your waist to lift you up, and your arms circle his neck, keeping him close. As close as you’ve really wanted him.

When you finally break for air, it’s only to press your foreheads against one another’s, not wanting to move too far.

“Well,” you laugh.

“Technically,” he says, pausing to peck your nose, “that’s what I forgot last night.”

You roll your eyes. “You are so stupid.”

“Mm, just because it makes you smile,” he says, kissing your lips again, and again. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Ideally,” you pause, letting him kiss you again, “ordering dinner in and making out with my boyfriend until the sun rises. You?”

“You know, I was thinking about taking someone special out to dinner,” he pauses, pulling you closer again, “and then kissing her until she tells me to stop.”

“That could be forever, for all you know.”

“That’s fine with me.”

You grin and he kisses you again, pausing to say, “Sorry, I can’t help myself—”

“Trust me,” you move even closer, your eyelashes practically touching his cheeks when you blink, “you don’t need to apologize.”

He responds by kissing you some more, and more, until he’s lifting you into his arms and placing you on the kitchen counter. 

“Aaron!” you squeal, nearly crushing the bouquet. “Let me move the flowers at least!”

“I’ll buy you another,” he says, just a whisper away from kissing you again. 

“You know—” You have to pause in between words as he presses his lips to yours. “—I still have—cleaning—Aaron,” you giggle. “I need to put my apartment back together.”

“Do you?” he asks, relenting only slightly, his fingertips pressing into your lower back, keeping you against him. “Do you need help?”

“I do actually,” you chuckle, running your fingers through his hair. “The couch isn’t back where it was.”

He smirked. “I noticed.”

You tug on his hair slightly to tease him for that jab, only it lights a new spark behind his eyes. Your cheeks grow even warmer. “No, seriously,” you say. “It’ll stress me out if it’s not back in its spot, but then…”

He nods, kissing your lips. “Then we’ll get ready for dinner.”

“And then come back here for a movie?”

“We’ll see how much of the movie we actually pay attention to,” he smirks, eyes traveling all over your face. 

The urge to let him ravish you right now against the kitchen counter is so strong it nearly makes you lightheaded. But soon Aaron is helping you down, pressing another kiss to your forehead. 

“Did you get to vacuum under the couch all the way?”

“…kind of.”

“Come on,” he chuckles, pulling on your hand, leading you back into the living room. “Call me next time?”

“If I get kissed like that during spring cleaning then I’m doing it every day,” you reply, mostly joking. Kind of. “Fuck I forgot the vase for the flowers—”

Aaron kisses you to interrupt you once again. “One thing at a time,” he says.

The kissing doesn’t stop, and you never do get to vacuum under the couch. It can wait.

[evilgwrl]

Arranged marriage! With ghost where she’s from a small island and ghost comes to collect taxes well the island is just a few hundred short they can make it up next year? Right?! Nah ghosts is like mmmmm I’ll take what yall call a princess mean while she’s struggling as much as the other fokes on the island so when Simon takes her way and finds out she’s never lived the simple life he makes it his mission to show her the good that can out of this arrangement smutty if you would 😭 I’m obsessed with the arranged marriage trope with ghost he’s a cutie patootie

Arranged Marriage w/ Simon Riley

Holy moly I love this…

Thank you for this idea @creepytoes88 I hope you don’t mind that I made him a king, I just wanted it to flow with giving her a better life and the tax collection <3

King!Simon Riley x Reader

Archipelago

CW: Being sold by your family to pay off debt, sharing a bath, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm bc simon knows what to do ;)

Word Count: 2,623

Twisted fingers hooked under the bark, knees scraped with stagnant flora, coiling limbs of bushy thorns blistering around the tropical plains. There was a subtle burn that sunk through your thighs, muscles gnawing at your bones before you finally settled on a thick branch, wind hissing in your ear, almost warning you. You paid no attention.

Pupil-blown eyes stared off to the view in front of you, lapping in the vicious strain of turquoise, untouched coral glistening an array of colours under the harsh sun. There was a trickle of sweat that ran down the back of your neck, your hair thrown into a rough bun as you shielded yourself with raggedy, overworked fingers.

You watched the skerries surrounding your island, a flurry of birds swooping low before nestling down on the warmth of the rocky floor. It was a peaceful sight. Nothing but the low crash of waves to be sound, the occasional calling of a fellow Islander working its way through the palms and out of the sand, before landing in your ear.

You felt the prickle of pain shoot through your feet as you landed on the ground, the grass covered in speckles of yellow dust sticking in between your toes as you hurried down to the village. Any bit of tranquillity soon disappeared as your eyes locked into the sight of the townspeople, the Island far too small to accommodate such needing families.

“Y/N! Where have you been? The King shall be here soon and you’re off running with the fairies.”

Your Mother’s tone was harsh and reprimanding, her eyes tight with wrinkles as she scowled, chucking a makeshift broom at you. You weren’t exactly sure what the difference of you sweeping would make, the life you live here, swept or not, is strikingly different to the one of a King. No matter how beautiful your Island is, your feet are permanently stained with grains of sand, skin is littered with dull scars and fresh scratches.

You understood her worry, offering her a gentle, apologetic smile as you followed her bustle of orders. Your Father was the village Chief, a wise man who led the people to survive without the worry of advanced civilisation.

You were seen as a headcase to the others. A woman whose head wasn’t fixed well enough to her shoulders. A dreamer. Your mind was amplified by the need to do more, to see more. Untouched beauty too turns mundane when you’re not allowed to experience it.

As night fell, the waves seemed to settle, burying themselves in the crops of sand that spanned around you, 10-legged creatures hiding away in the cocoon of a cracked shell. Palms slept with the safety of coconuts that would blossom into the town’s delicacy, the meat tender on the tongues of children, the water fuel for the fishermen. There was a large bonfire lit, the earthly crackle occasionally popping as a spark flew out, hissing against the cool air before dispersing into a drag of smoke.  

Girls chattered around you, smoothing down their appearances as they used crushed berries on their lips and the apples of their cheeks. You were never fussed about the King, hardly paying attention to him on his previous arrivals if he even bothered to show up. You took note of his lack of empathy, normally sending one of his men in his place, unbothered by the Island that’s supposed to fall under his command.

You heard the ship pull up, wood striking against the ground as it split between the beach, a carved woman tangled to the figurehead, flowing hair etched between wood and a man’s knife as she breached the island. They were a loud bunch, deep voices echoing across the Isle as your father walked down to greet them formally.

The air grew silent, thick smog suffocating the air as your father appeared, his figure shaking as he hobbled towards you. Toughened hands gripped your cheeks, stroking the sun-kissed skin to comfort you.

“Father, what’s wrong?”

“We- We’re short on our taxes,” he gulped, a hand planted in your matted hair as you scrunched your brows together.

“But how? We’re sensible, we work harder- How?”

“Things happen beyond our understanding sometimes, sweetheart, just know me and your mother love you very much.”

“I know? Why are you-” you stalled “- Why are you telling me this? What’s going on?”

“The King needs a wife,” he hiccupped as realisation set in, spine snapping into a cold flush as you attempted to wriggle free from your father’s grip.

“No-“

“I have to, Y/N, I don’t have a choice!”

“A choice? There’s always a choice! How could you do this to me?” The strain of a sob wracked through your chest, your heart beating eerily slow against your rib cage as you wailed out for your mother who only walked away, her face concealed by strands of hair. Hands coiled around your biceps, dragging you towards the ship as you carried on, cementing your heels into the dirtied sand to anchor yourself.

“Stop resisting,” A harsh voice spoke into your ear, nails breaking the surface of your tender skin as you nipped at the air, wriggling. Your limbs felt mangled as you were thrown over someone’s shoulder, your stomach caving in with a penetrative force as you choked on the air, saline tears streaming down your face.

Aching skin collided with the sand as you were thrown onto the floor, leather boots staring back at you as your head cocked up. His figure was tall, dressed in all black with a row of medals displayed on his breast pocket. His stare was dark, irises the colour of burnt whiskey, pale lashes flickering down at you before looking back up. The rest of his face was covered by a woven garment, handcrafted to perfection, painted with a white skull.

“Did you find it necessary to throw her at my feet like she’s some dog?”

“Your Majesty she was res-“

“It is a yes or no question.”

His voice was thick with malt, a hidden arrogance underlying his words as his eyes spoke for him. A veiny hand was offered to you, light scars tracing his knuckles before he lifted you, admiring you for a brief second.

“She’ll do. I’ll be back in 6 months,” The King spoke roughly.

The sea breeze was tranquil given the circumstances, the ocean rocking your tears to a halt as you huddled yourself away in the captain’s quarters. Your body was trailed with layers of silk, dirtied clothes moulded to your skin as you sniffled. There was a vast smell of salt, almost suffocating you as it burnt through your nose and hair. You scrunched your skin, rubbing at your nostrils before nestling yourself into a pillow.

You awoke to the sound of commotion. You took in the handful of women surrounding you, their hair tied back in a tight bun, protected by a frilly cap. They wore black and white dresses, aprons attached to their fronts and smiles on their faces.

“Good evening, your majesty. Shall we run you a bath?”

You sat up, hands creasing against the sheets below you as your eyes adjusted to the new scenery. You weren’t on the ship anymore.

“Where am I?” You choked out, huffing your chest out to look more intimidating. In reality, you look cowered, skin droopy with betrayal, burst blood vessels evident under your eyes.

“In your private quarters, the King requested we come to you, settle you in.”

You scowled, “I just want to be alone.” They left in a hurry, feet skidding against the floor in a squeak as they shut the large oak doors behind them.

The room was one for Royalty. The large bed was dressed in golden sheets, red swirls detailing the plush headpieces, solid gold baubles along the edges as tall stakes met the ceiling, lace hanging from them for privacy. Your feet hit the polished marble floors; calloused skin not used to such luxury that you almost yelped in unfamiliarity. Glass trickled from the overhead chandelier, an arrangement of crystals advocating flickers of light across the room, an occasional rainbow seeping through like a diamond in the rough.

Oil paintings hung from the walls, detailed gold wrapping around them as the figurines stared at you dauntingly. A plethora of books rested on shelves, a comforting sofa tucked away in the corner, highlights of red bursting through the stuffed pillows, plucked by the finest of feathers.

The room felt suffocating, the air a terminal sickness that wove into your lungs as you realised the severity of the situation. Your father – your parents, had sold you away to the King to pay for lost taxes. You were a miserable sight as you huddled over onto the floor, chest collapsing with cries as you attempted to grip the material beneath your knees, desperate for the sensation of sand.

Simon watched you intently from the door as he cracked it open, a deafening cough sounding from him as you looked up at him, bewildered.

“I understand the circumstances aren’t the best, but your people owed me, and they chose you as collateral.”

“I want to go home,” you hiccupped, facing away from him in humiliation. His leather shoes hit the floor, striding up to you in only a few steps.

“This is your home now, and in a few weeks, we shall be wedded. Whether or not you choose to invite your family is up to you, but I shall not tolerate disrespect. If you didn’t want the maids to tend to you, that’s fine, but I will.”

You watched his stalking figure disappear into another room attached to your quarters, the heavy pour of water indicating that he was running you a bath. You rose to your feet anxiously, popping your head around the corner as you took in the room. A large tub was carved with porcelain, wide in size with golden feet, bubbles guzzling under the powerful stream as the scent of lavender filled the air.

“Undress,” He spoke as you cocked a brow.

“In front of you?” You scoffed.

“You didn’t want the maids, now you have me. Undress.”

Your clothes itched as they were ridden from your skin, bare body flushed under the light as you attempted to conceal yourself from his bruising vision. The water scolded you as you sunk in, muscles relaxing instantly under the soothing oil. It was an irregular feeling.

You heard him shuffle behind you as you turned, eyes gawking wide as you took in his naked figure, cock resting low against his thigh. A squeak slipped through your lips as you turned around in a fluster.

His mask was off, his face a welcoming surprise. His brows were thick, bulging above slit frames, his nose slightly crooked with a masculine appeal to him.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, chest tight, eyes bulging.

“Bathing,” he practically snarled, “move over.”

Your belly felt hot, the unknowing feeling of arousal seeping through your pores as you adjusted in the water, the liquid rising as he stepped in before you were pulled back against him, bottom flushed against his thighs. You were tense.

“Relax, it’s just a bath. We will not do anything until you’re ready but after marriage, I will need heirs.”

“Heirs? I don’t even know your name!”

A hand coiled around your waist, tugging at the tender skin for a moment before it rested, settling at your upper thigh.

“It’s Simon, Y/N.”

“How do you- “

“What kind of King would I be if I didn’t even know the name of the woman I’m marrying?”

The air was hazy with steam, almost suffocating you as you felt yourself relax against his hard chest, delicate twirls of hair tickling against your spine. As your body settled, Simon washed you, entwined rag lubed with delicate soap as he massaged it into the crevices of your skin, any dirt seeping into the water. His fingers were long as they massaged against your scalp, digging any knots out with a gentle force before rinsing it.

You found yourself refreshed as you settled into the sheets once more, body fresh with a floral scent, skin drenched in almond oil, the glistening reflecting against the flame of the fireplace. The bed sunk in as Simon crawled in next to you, menacing frame wracking against yours. It was silent, the usual sound of waves and birds no longer hushing you to sleep.

Your fingers twitched as you played with the hem of your nightgown, letting out a low, exhausted breath.

“I shall not hurt you for as long as you are mine, Y/N. I hope you grow to trust me and understand that I am a man of my word. If you allow me, I would like to show you who I am and the life you can have here.”

You swallowed. There was an itch inside you that couldn’t be scratched, his words only adding fuel to an uncontrollable flame as you turned to face him, cocked up on one arm. Your gown hung low, strap dangerously low on your shoulder as he adjusted his vision back to your face, lips parted with a flushed manner.

“I’ve never experienced anything before.” Your voice was low, an evident streak of self-consciousness staining it as you averted your gaze.

“Let me help you.”

Rugged fingers lifted your gown up, silk resting against your stomach in a hunched manner as Simon gripped at your thighs, spreading them lewdly. He huffed out a hum of appreciation as you jolted in embarrassment. You were so open, so exposed to fresh eyes.

“No one’s ever touched you here?” He asked. You shook your head, gazing down at him with an unspoken innocence. You felt his lips curl against your thigh as he placed a gentle kiss to it, letting it rest against the warm skin before two fingers pulled apart your lips, glistening folds presented before him.

You felt pleasure tickle up your spine as the King placed a small kiss against your clit, a mewl escaping you as you instinctively attempted to press your thighs together. He let out a tsk as he looked up at you, amused by your reaction.

“Relax for me,” he said, arms flushed around your thighs before his tongue soaked up the middle, your juices drenching his lips as you squealed, your fingers wrapping into his dusty hair as he ravaged the taste of you.

The noises you made were wanton, slopping breaths soaking the air as he worked against you, slurping you into his mouth with an aggravated need for you. His teeth grazed against your sensitive clit, wrapping his lips around it before sucking, an obscene scream sounding from you as he continued the assault.

“Taste so fucking good,” he quipped, holding your belly down in place as your hips lifted, clit overstimulated by the amount of pleasure it only just began receiving.

“Sim-Simon, I feel strange- somethings happening,” you croaked, pulling at his hair in an attempt to stop him.

“Let it happen,” he growled, his tongue thrusting against your entrance as a finger pressed against your nub, rubbing it in circular motions as you began to hold your breath.

The pressure in your belly was turmoil like an unknown danger was approaching. Simon didn’t stop, the sound of your breath hicking stirring something primal inside of him as he held you down before the pressure inside you popped, a broken whine piercing the air as you came, hips rocking desperately against the King’s face as he growled against your heat.

He pulled away, spit slick against his chin, cocky smile on his face as you panted, chest rising and falling in a synchronised fashion. Your legs closed instinctively, wetness seeping between your bottom as you shivered, satisfied clit throbbing.

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart.”

[pricklyjim]

Oh god, I read the posts about relationships (it was really interesting) and I gasped when I read the bit about Magnus and Rodimus. If it's okay, can I ask what the heck happened?? It made me feel so sad for them! Ouch!

This AU is a really interesting idea, and it's cool to see how it's developing :]

I was going to explain it, but I decided to write it out instead. It doesn’t have the same impact when explained, and I think it’ll be better understood this way. So, here is what happened.

also i’ve written Rodimus’s because writing hot rod over and over makes me laugh. he’s hot rod here- i’m just lazy.

[Rodimus and Magnus LORE]

Cybertron…

The night’s air is cool and the the stars above Iacon burn brightly, their light reflecting off tall pristine buildings that extend high above the ground.

Rodimus sits on the edge of a towering platform belonging to the other prime’s, overlooking the city, his legs dangle in the open air.

In his hands, he turns over a small, metallic card. a key card, well worn but lovingly maintained.

Magnus stands behind him, his silhouette contrasted against the backdrop of the city lights as he sighs.

“Rodimus… You should rest. Tomorrow is—”

“Yeah. I know.” He interrupts, his voice void.

“The big day. The moment I’ve been ‘destined for’ whole life.”

Magnus steps closer, crossing his arms. “That’s right. Tomorrow you’re Rodimus Prime. It’s what we’ve been working towards for years. It’s what sentinel has trained you for… to be his successor.”

Rodimus turns the key card in his servo watching as the light catches the edges of the faint city light.

“What you’ve all worked toward.” he mutters. “I’m starting to wonder if it was ever what I truly wanted.”

Magnus frowned. “I—”

“Do you know what this is?” Rodimus asked, holding up the key card without turning around to face Magnus.

Magnus glanced at it, then responded without hesitation. “The key card. To your private ship.”

Rodimus nods. “Yep. My ship. The one real little piece of me in this whole crazy world.” He laughs softly, though the sound is hollow.

“Not that I get to keep it. After all Head-Primes aren’t supposed to have personal possessions, right? Everything I own gets handed over to the Council and other primes. Even this.”

Magnus doesn’t reply.

Rodimus finally looks back at him, his optics bright with something between defiance and last minute desperation.

“That’s why I want you to have it.”

Magnus blinks, taken aback. “What?”

Rodimus stands tall and confident, turning to face Magnus fully. He holds out the key card, the edges glowing faintly with a unique encryption code on its surface.

“Take it. Take my ship, Magnus. And take me with you. Let’s get out of here—

-Away from the Council, the Matrix, that stupid fragging ancient song- All of it. We can go somewhere no one will find us. Live a life that’s our own… Maybe Alpha four? or three- three has better energon-“

Magnus stares at the key card, his expression in shock. “you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Rodimus states, stepping closer. “For once, I know exactly what I’m saying. I’ve spent my whole life being told what I’m meant to be, what I’m meant to do. But this—you—this is what I want. I don’t care about being Head Prime, Magnus. I care about you. What we have? means more to me any anything in my life- If I can’t have earthly possessions- fine- but if I can’t have you- as we are now-“

“Don’t do this—” Magnus’s voice is quiet, hesitant.

“Please,” Rodimus whispers. “I’ve given up so much already. Don’t make me give this up too.”

Magnus’s optics flicker, his gaze shifting from Rodimus’s to the key card in his hand. He could see the desperation, the vulnerability in the his expressions, the unspoken plea.

“No,” Magnus says, his voice low but steady.

He forces himself to stand firm.

Rodimus’s optics widen. “What?”

Magnus steps back, shaking his head, trying to convince himself this isn’t real. He wishes it wasn’t, it makes his processor fill with overwhelming static.

“I can’t. You have a duty—a responsibility— As do I! to Cybertron. To your people. Running away from that isn’t the answer. This- isn’t Primus’s plan!”

“To scrap with Primus!” Rodimus snaps, his voice shrill. “What about what I want, Magnus? What about what YOU want?”

Magnus’s spark twists painfully at the crack in Rodimus’s voice box, but he doesn’t let it show.

“This is more important than what you want,” he states firmly.

“You’re destined for something far greater than yourself. I didn’t train you to abandon that. I trained you to rise to it. To be the prime we need.”

Rodimus staggers back, his grip tightening on the key card. “So that’s it? You’re just going to let us walk into a life we never wanted?”

Magnus hesitates, then steps forward gripping onto Rodimus, his voice calculated.

“I want to do what’s right. By everyone. Us leaving together? Listen to yourself! It’s ridiculous! Cybertron doesn’t exist without us, when the scriptures come to fruition, you- we need to be here for it.”

Rodimus stares at him, his optics wide with a mixture of hurt and anger. Then, without a word, he throws the card to the ground at Magnus’s feet. letting it clatter against the platform, its faint glow flickering to a dull nothingness.

“I guess, then, you’ve made your choice,” Rodimus states bitterly, his voice trembling.

He turns away, his shoulders hunching and his steps heavy, his head bowing with the weight of tomorrow.

Magnus watches him go, his fists clenching at his sides. He looks down at the key card, a faint reminder of what he’d just refused. He told himself he’d done the right thing, that this was for Rodimus’s own good.

But as the quiet of the night collapses in around him, Magnus couldn’t shake the feeling he’d just turned away from the one thing he ever actually wanted to protect…

and in the future?

Magnus thinks about that night often. Sometimes, in the tactical planning office now owned by Orion Pax, he finds his mind drifting back to it like clockwork…

He wonders if they would have been happy—truly happy—leaving with one another. He imagines it sometimes…

their silhouettes pressed against the stars, the hum of a ships engine carrying them across the cosmos.

But the thought always ends the same, it zips through his mind as quickly as a star and is replaced with his current bleak reality.

His gaze drops to the grey keycard that somehow makes its way into his hands, the card worn down in some spots from years of restless touching.

It feels heavier than it should, weighed down by the memories of its previous owner.

He wonders… Did Rodimus hate him in the end? He must have. After all, he let him walk to his death with confidence, encouraged him to believe in the lies—a false song with hollow truths.

The keycard slips through his fingers, falling in slow motion towards a puddle of cold, energon.

Magnus stares at it blankly, now realising his cheeks are wet. When had he started crying?

Though the question doesn’t matter. Not really, It feels like he’s been crying forever, crying, praying, hoping to wake into a diffrent reality with each passing day…

[sthilarions]

Bear with me here because I’m thinking this idea through as I type it and also this is rather gory/borderline body horror so scroll away if that bothers you

Runes/enchantments/spells written on Edwin’s ribs - but there’s no magic way to make them appear there, they have to be actually manually engraved

Edwin’s pain tolerance/history of being torn apart in much worse ways means he thinks this is totally fine. Just apply a little iron to get him solid (and in possession of internal organs such as a skeleton), get the necessary tool, peel -

It’s right around the word “peel” that Charles stops staring in horror and starts throwing things, and Edwin never gets to the genius part of the plan, which is that once the iron is off, his ribs go back to being not-really-real, just part of his spectral after-image, as it were, which means it’s impossible for anyone to break the enchantment without destroying him entirely, as it’s now part of his soul.

The problem is, though, that Edwin can’t get the angle to do the engraving himself. (At least, that’s Edwin’s problem. Charles seems to have some other one.)

The matter is dropped for multiple decades, until after Port Townsend.

Because the enchantment Edwin wanted, you see, was a planar binding curse. Locks the enchanted item - in this case, Edwin - onto the earthly plane, so it can’t be taken whether by choice or force to any other… such as, for example, Hell.

And now Charles has seen Hell; and he knows what Edwin meant, when he said Hell was far worse than getting a bit of body art; and it’s getting rapidly harder for him to disagree.

[lumosflairr]

blurb suggestion! Ron having a sleepover with his girlfriend for the first time

note: okay i loveee this idea!! I’m just starting to write again so it might not be the best. This can take place whichever year you prefer (probably year 4-6?) Gryffindor! reader.

Warnings: none

Contains: fluff. simply JUST fluff!

Sweet cuddles.

You were in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione, studying for your next test coming up in Potions. Potions was never your top subject, as the process of what goes here, or what goes there, always left your brain in a twister.

“y’know how lucky I am to have you?” you laughed, after Hermione explained the problem to you. She gave you a smile and chucked along with you. “Im just glad you actually take in the information I give you, usually people just want the answer, which is not going to help you in the long run. If you just simply get the answer but have no Earthly idea on how you got it.. how will that become beneficial? I-“ “Hermione, your doing it again” you laughed, louder than last time. Her cheeks flushed and let out a giggle. “Sorry.. sometimes i get carried away..”

As you finished studying and were packing up, you saw Ron and Harry walk in. You could tell they came from Hogsmeade, Ron with a bag slam full of candies you were sure Harry bought him, and Harry with a couple chocolate frogs and Fizzing Whizbees.

The two walked over to where you were as you and Hermione said your hellos. Ron leaned down and gave you a kiss on your cheek, which you gave him a smile in returned as he took his seat beside you. Harry examined the notes and homework the two of you had completed. “Been busy, have we?” Harry said, which Hermione grabbed the paper she had her notes written on in the sassy way she usually does.

“Yes, and i suggest the two of you get to it as well, because y/n and I are not letting you two just copy the answers down!” You could tell shes been tired of people simply only speaking to her for answers. She knew the three of you don’t see her as a cheat sheet, but everybody has their limits and hers were being pushed.

Harry put his hands up in a defending manner, and Hermione sighed and put all her belongings away.

Ron tapped you on your thigh and whispered in your ear which a smile on his face, “You’ll give me the answers right?” “Nope” you said, popping the p at the end. He gave you a look, his smile dropping. “‘m only joking, yes ill give you the answers” you said with a giggle. “Bloody hell woman, you had me scared for a bit. Almost thought you were gonna be a little miss know it all and be all evasive” He let out a relieved sigh and laid his head onto your thigh, relaxing as you put your hand in his full head of hair, playing with the Ginger locks.

Although you had only been dating for about 2 months, You’ve known each other for about 5 years. Everything the two of you did together was basically second nature.

As the four of you sat and chatted for a while, Harry took a look at the clock and read the time, ‘9:54”. Harry stood up from his position, grabbing his bag from Honeydukes. “We might want to head off to bed, been a long day” Harry spoke.

You all agreed, except for a certain someone who happened to be in your lap. As Harry walked off, he didn’t hear a following path of feet behind him. Whenever he turned around, all eyes were on Ron. Everything was second nature, besides napping or sleeping together.

You two never really went into each other’s rooms and took naps, you normally just talked or watched muggle movies. This caused a smile to creep on your face as your cheeks tinted a shade of pink.

Harry and Hermione let out a laugh as Harry spoke “Well then, hes all yours for the night. Beware though, he snores and talks in his sleep all night long” He smiled big at that last part with a laugh and you looked up at him and returned the smile ��Oh shut it..” Hermione grabbed her bags as Harry left, walking up to you on the way to your shared dorm. “I’ll be in our room, Are you staying on the couch with Ronald?” She questioned.

“No, I’ll be up there in a moment” She let out a hum in returned and bid you goodnight. You sat there with Ron in your lap, as you patted his shoulders. “Ronnnnn…” you spoke, attempting to wake him up. “Ronnn.. honey wake up..” you pressed your knee up against his chin, shaking his head as he let out a tired groan. His eyes fluttered opened and turned his head to face you.

“sweetheart...” He said as he wrapped his arms around you. Merlin you loved his voice when he was waking up. “Ron, it’s 10 o’ clock at night honey, its time for bed.”

He stirred and let out another groan, sitting up as he rubbed his neck. “Whats it look like i was doing?” You rolled your eyes playfully at his comment. “Let’s head to my dorm, yeah?” His cheeks flushed red at the comment. “Your dorm? as in im staying with you tonight?” His lips curled into a smile, a nervous one. “Obviously” you humorously scoffed.

“Thank Merlin, i was tired of hearing Harry chit chat in his sleep” He mentioned, an annoyed tone in his voice. You looked at him with playful eyes and a smirk once again, “Oh yeah? I heard you were the one talking in your sleep and snoring all night” you stated, your arms crossed as you look up at the Ginger. Ron, clearly embarrassed, turned his head around “Can we go to your dorm now?” You kept the smirk on your face and held your hand out “Let’s go then.”

As he took your hand, you both walked to you and hermione’s shared dorm. She was fast asleep, her night lamp cut off and her blinds shut.

You dug into your dresser, pulling out your sleep shorts and tank. They were white with pink flowers and lacy straps, with the matching pair of shorts. As you grabbed your pajama’s you realized Ron didn’t have anything, and walking downstairs then back up across the common room was way too much work. “Would you like an old shirt of mine to sleep in?”

you said, giving him a look with your eyebrows raised. That bashful look came back on his face, “It’s alright love, ill just sleep in what i have on. Your stuff wouldn’t fit me anyways.” ‘That was very true’ you thought to yourself, Ron had surely buffed up since last year. His muscles had grown at a somewhat scary amount, which honestly left you drooling. You nodded your head and turned around. 

You peeked over your shoulder and noticed Ron was still staring at you. You let out a giggle “Some privacy?” you smirked, His whole face turning red. “oh.. oh erm yeah sorry sweetheart..” he let out that nervous chuckle as he turned around while you changed.

“Alright love you can turn back around” As he turned and his eyes landed on your figure, he took in just how beautiful you truly were. His eyes scanned you up and down as he walked up to you and placed kisses all over your face. “You’re so beautiful..can’t believe you’re actually mine..” he whispered, placing his head into the crook of your neck. “All yours..” you said as you traced circles on his back. 

“Let’s get in bed, yeah?” You felt him smile as he pressed a kiss on your neck and crawled into bed. You got in right after him and pulled the covers over the both of you. He pulled you into him, nestling your head in his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your waist and you both let your feet intertwine together. You loved having these intimate moments, the sweet ones. “You give the sweetest of cuddles…” he whispered into your ear which you returned his comment with a kiss to his shoulder. “Goodnight love” you said, feeling sleep take over you. You smiled mentally to yourself. “Goodnight, Sweetheart”

hey!! so this was my first blurb written in what feels like centuries so if you have any writing tips or things i could’ve done to make this story a little better please lmk! I enjoy feedback alot💜

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

from the flames | b. blake

masterlist

summary: season three — to signify the newly recognised alliance between the sky people and the grounders, a celebration is held within polis’ market square. a bonfire, alcohol, and the bawdy pulsation of drums is a sure-fire recipe for a stimulating night. add a watchful bellamy blake and his dancing muse into the mix, and, well… i’ll show you the consequences of such a potent combination.

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader

warnings: alcohol consumption/intoxication, sensual dancing, jealousy, sexual desecration??, mild possessiveness, arguments, bellamy speaking in trigedaslang (giggling and kicking my feet), dialogue-heavy, manhandling, mild angst, smut, unprotected p in v (do not), reader is short because i’m short, deal with it <3

notes: i haven’t recently been watching the 100 so the timeline and characterisation may be a little off. also, ik this took me a long ass time, but i’m gonna try and make sure the next two parts come out a little quicker <3 i love y’all!

word count: 2.5k

“People of Kongeda and Skaikru, tonight we gather as one, united by a common purpose and a shared future of alliance. Before us, this bonfire symbolises more than just a flame; it is a beacon of hope, an opportunity to cleanse old grudges and pain that has divided us for far too long.

“Let this fire signify a new beginning and serve as a reminder that unity is not our weakness, but our strength. Let it be known that from this day, we join not as enemies, but as allies, and anyone set upon spilling the blood of our allies is spilling the blood of us all. Let it be known: Jus drein, jus daun!”

“Jus drein, jus daun!”

As much as Lexa’s words intended to inspire harmony, the crowd massed below the second-floor balcony of the dominating tower she resided on reacted in any way but. Fierce declarations of worship were cried out; large fists were pumped in celebration; and misty clouds of brew and saliva were sprayed into the tepid night air.

All was well, for the first time since we landed on Earth.

“Happy Unity Day,” I murmured to myself, taking a sip from the metal cup in my hand. I was standing on the outer edges of the unruly crowd of dark, rugged figures, who were surrounding an unlit wooden mountain and raving as it abruptly burst into vociferous flames.

The monstrous tepee of sticks was raging at the centre of Polis’ trading square, an open area bordered with stalls and operating food vendors that infused the air with a salivating meaty aroma. Glimmers of light chipped away into the familiar starry night above and an orange ambience was cast throughout the square, seeming to blaze beneath the skin of those who orbited the fire.

It was a somewhat perplexing scene: to be together as one people, celebratingratherthan being at war with one another.

A pensive mechanic stepped in beside me, eyeing the mixed crowd of Grounders and Sky People.

Raven folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t you think the fact that the Ark originally had thirteen stations and the coalition now has thirteen clans is kind of…”

“Unsettling?” I finished for her. “Yeah. Probably best not tell these guys the story of how Polaris got blown out of the sky. Don’t want to give them any ideas.”

“Polaris… Polis…” she continued contemplating. “Think there’s anything equally unsettling about that?”

I looked at Raven. She looked back at me.

I sucked in a sharp breath—“I’m not drunk enough for this conversation”—and tipped the harsh contents of my cup down my throat. The liquid was molten in both its ferocity and colour and was infused with some potent earthly spice; it was a blow to the stomach upon consumption.

“Is that such a good idea?” Raven asked, judging me as my head craned back to capture the last few drops of throat-scorching goodness. “I’m all for pouring a glass when the occasion calls for it, but these people have stomachs lined with steel—what do you think yours is made of?”

I grimaced at the taste. “You tell me. You’re the genius.”

The roll of her eyes was deafening. “I’m just saying, they’ve probably spent decades perfecting their drinks to suit them, to match their tolerances. I mean, even that human fountain over there couldn’t handle it.” She nodded towards a cluster of barrels where a titan of a man wearing armoured shoulder pads and breastplates was hunched over, violently emptying his stomach onto the cobbled ground.

I swallowed my own stomach at the sight.

“I just assumed you wanted to spend the night somewhat differently,” she said, a sweet undertone of provocation twisting her words.

My brows furrowed, and I turned to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her lips twitched at the corners—never a good sign.

The thing was, I knew exactly what she meant. Her unspoken words had already been circling my mind for days, weeks, months even, increasingly accumulating with both heat and fervour.

As ironic as it was, I think it’s fitting to compare my situation to that of a star’s formation.

There I was, a delinquent sitting stagnant in a cold nebula of misery in the Sky Box, parted from my family and friends, sent hurtling to Earth to die, only then to have my cold, miserable cloud intruded upon by a fiery presence, a head of tousled brown waves and a pair of rich, dark chocolate eyes.

An awakener. An activator.

This intruder began filling my head with his words, his laughter, his brooding stare. The weight of his presence began to grow; thoughts of him consumed me. From the most surprisingly vulnerable conversations to even the tensest arguments, he had a heat inside me swirling and it was sweltering to unfathomable heights. It showed no signs of stopping.

Raven’s malevolent brown eyes were pointing plainly at something far behind me as if to answer my question. I knew what I would see even before turning around to look, but moronic as I was, I looked anyway.

Chin hovering over my shoulder, my eyes wandered through the scattered crowd of Grounders and Sky People alike that loitered the bonfire’s outskirts. There, sandwiched between Lincoln and an unoccupied trading stall, was a face that not only had my stomach contents lodged in my throat, but my heart as well.

Bellamy.

He was standing with his arms crossed, each one concealed beneath his distressed guard jacket. And although his stance screamed ‘Don’t talk to me,’ his face said otherwise. He and Lincoln were engaged in some high-spirited conversation, much unlike themselves (although the supply of drinks may have been to blame). Bellamy was speaking through one of his overconfident half-grins while alternating between gesturing to-and-fro with a single hand and tucking it back under his opposing bicep.

My chest was burning; the bonfire somehow must’ve seeped into my heart.

It should be stated here that when a nebula accumulates enough particles, it turns into a protostar—not a main sequence star like our sun, but something that holds the potential to be. At this point, the formation is at its most precarious. If a sufficient amount of mass is not acquired, the protostar will fail to stabilise and will cool into a brown dwarf, forever existing in the cold, lonely expansion of space as a reminder of what it could have been.

Bellamy’s head gravitated in my direction. Our eyes met through the asteroid belt of rugged figures between us. My breath caught in my throat, and I turned back around.

A reminder of what it could have been.

Sometimes I worry my insufficiency has damned me already.

“Oh, my god.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my god, Raven, why would you put me through that?”

“In the hopes that you’ll finally grow a pair and do something about it,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink to conceal her smirk.

“About what?” Now I was just being evasive.

She let out a frustrated huff and folded her arms over one another. Her countenance was a reflection of impatience: the raised eyebrows, the slight downward tilt of her head, the pursed lips. I almost laughed at her theatricality; then again, I almost cried because I didn’t want the reason behind it to be true.

I wanted Bellamy Blake.

The confession was boiling inside me; it was burning the tip of my tongue, and I knew I had to let it out to cool. And if the words were never spoken to him, then they at least had to be expressed to someone else, even if I never admitted them in the exactness I felt, for the exact words would be so heinous, so—hedonistic, that if anyone were to hear them, I’d be thrown into lock-up for the rest of my days.

“Fine, I guess I’m… attracted to Bellamy,” I spoke slowly, cringing at my own words. Raven’s face immediately lit up like an overzealous Christmas tree, her smugly curved lips parting to no doubt release an incongruous stew of condemnation and encouragement, which I stopped before it could even start. “Anattraction that I am not going to act on, Raven; our friendship is rocky enough as it is. I mean,” I scoffed, “have I even told how we first met? I held a pocketknife to his neck our second night on the ground because he threatened to pry off my wristband in my sleep. And he actually tried! You know that tiny scar he has on his cheek? That was from me!”

“Yeah, sometimes I forget how much of a self-righteous dick he was for a while there,” Raven mused. Her face then screwed with confusion. “Wait, how did you two even become friends? Because when I came down, you were at each other’s throats every single day over one thing or another, and then out of nowhere, it was as if the slate had been wiped clean.”

Ah.

The day the slate had been wiped clean.

A thick blurriness blanketed my vision as my mind withdrew from the present. You know when you get run down with some kind of sickness and your mind gets all scrambled and foggy? Like a fever dream? That’s what that day seemed like to me. Too many unimaginable things had happened, too many emotions and losses were felt, and I’d only shared them with one person before.

“You still there?”

My gaze flickered to Raven momentarily. She was staring at me, half with impatience, half with concern. “Just—” I raised my hand slightly in front of me “—give me a second.”

I inhaled. One, two, three. And I exhaled. Three, two, one.

A vulnerable creature of some sort nestled in my brain, softening the tone of my voice as I hesitantly began, “It was the, uh, the day the Exodus Ship crashed. My dad was on it,” I said, my last words barely audible. “Knowing that he was gone was one thing, but watching the ship crash? That messed me up for a good while.”

Raven, taken aback, muttered her apologies. I just shook my head in return. I sucked in a sharp breath, forcing the memory into the cobwebbed corners of my mind, and then continued, “Bellamy had found me in the woods that night. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. I think that seeing me in such a vulnerable state forced him to set aside his asshole-ry for a while because he actually managed to… comfort me.”

I remembered the tone of his voice, so shockingly gentle yet hardened in his trademarked sort of way as he reassured me endlessly that I would be okay. I remembered the warmth of his body as I lay crumpled and sobbing in his lap on the forest floor, clinging onto his arm as if it kept me from plummeting into a bottomless pit. I remembered his hands, swiping away the thousands of tears that streaked my face, the hair from my eyes.

I remembered our brief conversation as we walked back to camp: “I won’t tell anyone. I promise,” he had said, to which I whispered, “Thank you,” and after a short pause, he spoke again, “We all need someone sometimes. I know we don’t have the best history together but… I can be that someone if you ever need,” and then, once more, with an unwelcome flutter in my stomach, I whispered, “Thank you.”

A small, bittersweet smile lifted my lips. My voice sounded distant to my ears as I continued speaking. “We still nicked at each other here and there after that—that tension between us has never really disappeared—but there was also this new mutual understanding. And somewhere from mutual understanding came a rough-around-the-edges friendship, and then friendship turned into something else.” I paused to recollect my thoughts. “Well, for me, at least.”

Between the moment I started speaking to the moment I stopped, my gaze had wandered sheepishly to the toes of my boots. I felt so exposed, like the outer layers of my being had been cracked open to reveal a part of my soul to a girl I hadn’t even known existed until two months ago. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t drink often.

I stood awkwardly, waiting. The weight of my confession and vulnerability were looming above us.

Raven was quiet; she made no witty remark or tease. Her eyes had only softened with understanding, shifting back and forth as my words were mulled over in her brain. And it was only from her foreign silence that I realised what her next question could be: why don’t you just tell him?

I began, “I don’t want to ruin—"

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she finally interrupted, shaking her head as if to dismiss my unspoken sentiment. “The age-old ‘I don’t want to ruin what we have right now’. But what exactly is that?” Her eyes once again interrogated mine. “Because I’ll make it clear to you right now and say that what you two have is not just friendship. Come on. You and Bellamy?” She shifted her head to catch my drifting gaze. “Anyone with eyes can see something is there, but clearly, neither of you have a pair.”

Talk about tough love.

A harsh outflow of air exited my nose, and I pushed my hair back out of my face. Everything was much more complicated than I thought it was. Was I really as blind as Raven said? I would have already seen what she does if it were true, right? Did Bellamy really feel the same?

Am I drunk?

I glanced behind me once more, catching a glimpse of Bellamy tilting his head back to finish his drink, exposing the sculptured column of his neck. Heat flushed through my cheeks.

Christ. I couldn’t let this one go. There wasn’t a chance.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, still watching him.

An uproar of hoots and howls exploded throughout the square as the sound of drums and horns began to play, bringing my attention to the second-floor balcony of the Commander’s Tower where the noise floated down from. Drums pulsed with bawdy rhythm; horns bellowed with lewd backbone; a woman purred tribal vocalisations.

Bodies began swaying in disharmonious synchronisation around the bonfire, in pairs, in groups, individually. What tethered them was the raunchiness of their movements and the subtle carnality of their interactions with one another. I’d never seen anything like it; as I looked over at Raven and saw her similar intrigue, I knew she hadn’t either.

That was my mistake—to even acknowledge her in such a moment, especially after speaking about our previous topic. Her lips began stretching and stretching into a particularly wicked grin, and she turned to me. The devil was burning in her dark eyes.

Her answer to my question: “Give his eyes something to look at.”

part two

[biceratops7]

I’m gonna SCREAM-

We’ve already established as a fandom that Metatron could teach a masterclass on gas lighting, but I wanna talk about how he specifically validates the things Aziraphale cares for while simultaneously devaluing them under the surface.

First off, this moment?

Tells us everything we need to know. It sets the scene for exactly the games Metatron is playing. He makes Muriel feel important while openly insulting them (flat out calling them stupid), aka seamlessly reinforcing the idea that they’re less than to both them and anyone else in the room. He knows he can get away with this easily, he knows that Muriel, lonely, overlooked little Muriel, will be completely distracted by the fact that someone so important is taking an interest in them.

This is already horribly clever, but then later on you realize it’s doing even MORE heavy lifting when he appoints Muriel to run the bookshop. “See? What’s important to you is what’s important to me! I’ve graciously taken the time to ensure your beloved shop is looked after by Muriel. You know, the dim one!” …let’s suffice it to say he’s ensnared too birds with one net for this one, and that a pattern is already starting to arise.

So when Metatron says Gabriel came to Aziraphale because he’s a “natural leader” and “doesn’t just tell people what they wanna hear”? Yah he’s full of shit. Aziraphale struggles with his sense of purpose when he doesn’t have someone or something guiding him, and for thousands of years he’s been terrified of sharing his true feelings and opinions to 90% of people he’s known. Completely just trying to butter him up. Wanna know the real reason Gabriel seeks asylum with Aziraphale?

Exactly this. Gabriel just says so point blank. It’s not because Aziraphale is this person for him, it’s because despite knowing nothing, he has this instinct that Aziraphale is the only one who can possibly understand why Gabriel did what he did. He is, I mean as far as we know, the only other angel who has fallen in love. (In general, let alone with a demon.)

But nope, can’t have that. We can throw the promise of restoring Crowley in the mix to sweeten the pot, but we can’t acknowledge why he’d want that so badly in the first place. So now it’s cause they work so well together. We can praise the angel for the fallen archangel Gabriel himself coming to him protection and guidance, give him a gold star. But we couldn’t DARE imply that it was by virtue of Aziraphale’s courage to choose earthly love over heavenly. How Gabriel didn’t need a leader, but a friend who’s truly known the joys of adoring that “particular person” and the pain of needing to hide it.

Cause then Aziraphale would start getting crazy ideas, like that his silly little human feelings have a great deal of worth. That they have the power to inspire, form cracks in the institution, fundamentally weaken what has controlled and harmed him. We wouldn’t want him to know the true value of the cards he holds when he has the ace in a match against you, now would we? After all…

Metatron uses this ingeniously sinister tactic of taking away Aziraphale’s choice while giving the illusion that he’s actually opening up doors. Notice how he tells Aziraphale he would have the authority to do something as extraordinary as turn a demon into an angel, yet he never once puts the much simpler alternative of just working with a demon on the table? The sleight of hand here is that he’s being offered the opportunity to freely be with Crowley… but he’s already freely with him as is, no bargain to be made. In fact he fought to be. Metatron disappears this accomplishment right before our eyes, while seamlessly maintaining the illusion to Aziraphale that he (Zira) is in control.

He sets Aziraphale up for failure by only providing the option he knows Crowley will not only decline but be deeply hurt by. It’s all so cleverly planned. Once this plays out exactly how he wants, he delivers the finishing blow by diminishing Crowley and his “damned fool questions”. Suddenly doing a complete 180 and emphasizing how foolish and troublesome he is. Metatron was offering Crowley by Aziraphale’s side as The Carrot. Now he’s telling Aziraphale it was stupid of him to want The Carrot, un-heavenly.

Aziraphale’s life, love, happiness, it’s all not only a massive inconvenience for Metatron but a liability. He has successfully taken a weapon from Aziraphale’s hands he didn’t even know he had. Metatron sees the writing on the wall, and he wants it contained.

[eringobragh420]

➔ Pairing — Damian Priest ❤︎ f!Reader ➔ Summary — Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 2/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 ➔ Word Count — 3.9k ➔ Warnings — Head injury, hospital setting, mention of oral (f receiving) ➔ Notes — Spanish translations are at the end of the story provided by Google Translate. ➔ Taglist — If you’d like to be added, please click here!  ➔ Support — Buy me a coffee! ☕ ➔ MASTERLIST

DAY ONE

You awoke slowly, eyelids weighing at least a thousand pounds when you tried to lift them. Eventually they opened, though it took a few more blinks to clear your vision and realize you had no earthly idea where you were. The light above your head, the blood pressure cuff constricting around one arm and an IV in the other, it was fairly easy to deduce you were in a hospital. You sighed, remembering the night before—how much of it, you weren’t sure—but then you remembered that you couldn’t remember everything last night and it was still true today. You didn't know your name or what you had been doing to get injured in the first place. But you knew what a hospital was, and a BP cuff and an IV … why were your memories selective? Had you literally hit your head in such a spot to dislodge only certain memories and not others? Was that even possible? Would you ever know?

Turning your head, the man from the night before—Damian Priest, you remembered, though as your fiancé, you recalled nothing—was asleep beside you, still in the same chair. His head was slumped, chin resting against his shoulder, one of his hands covering yours on the bed, feet propped on another chair. He'd stayed, and he was bound to be incredibly sore when he woke up, and your heart swelled anyway. He must really love you, you thought, and your swollen heart deflated like one of Tom Brady’s footballs. This handsome—quit trying to downplay how sexy he is just because you can’t remember him—man was doing his absolute best to take care of you and be there for you, and you had not one single fucking recollection of him. And because of this reason, you couldn’t ignore the slight discomfort of having his hand over yours. Last night you’d craved contact, now all you seemed to want was distance. Unfortunately, as soon as you slipped your hand out from under his, the big man jumped awake, his now empty hand clenching around nothing.

“Sorry,” he rasped, scrubbing that hand over his face. “Are you okay?” Your eyes slid to his, and you didn’t have to tell him that there had been no change from the night before. It was fleeting, so fast you weren’t positive you saw it, but devastation swept across his features before he replaced it with a forced smile. “It’s alright,” he said, but the tears were already spilling onto your cheeks, and before you could tend to them, Damian was cupping your face, his thumbs wiping the tiny rivers from your skin. “It’s only been a day,” he reminded you, leaning forward so it was easier for you to meet his gaze comfortably. “You gotta give yourself some time. Okay?” You sniffed miserably, nodding in his grasp, and when he was sure you were finished crying, he severed your physical connection, however reluctant he was to do so. “I’m gonna go find your doctor,” he said, standing from the chair. “See if I can take you home today.” You swallowed, nodding, though a myriad of new fears squeezed around your heart.

After Damian closed the door behind him, your head fell back against the pillow, and you winced at the soreness. He wanted to take you home. Of course he did. Where else would you go but home? But you were scared to see more things or people you didn’t recognize. Would you be able to handle it, or would your brain simply melt under its burning efforts to remember the life you had forgotten? On the other hand, maybe seeing your home and your stuff, smelling the smells and touching the surfaces, sleeping in your own bed, would jog your memory. You had to at least try, you knew that, but the sheer terror of being more confused than ever still loomed heavily over you.

Outside your door, Damian leaned against the wall and rubbed his forehead, then his stiff neck, and his eyes squeezed shut. He hadn’t actually admitted it to himself, but somewhere deep inside, he’d expected you to be his same old fiancée when you woke up. You’d thank him for staying with you and you’d kiss and everything would be fine. But you still didn’t know him. There’d been no reason to ask—he could see it in your eyes. The devastation, the fear, the confusion—all still present and accounted for, like a perfect attendance record for students of Trauma. As much as he knew it pained you, he felt like he was dying. He’d seen love and adoration and joy in your beautiful eyes for so long, and the shock still hadn’t worn off from seeing the emptiness there last night. The light, your light, that he’d fallen in love with had been extinguished, and he didn’t know if it would ever be relit.

The doctor from the night prior was no longer on duty, so Damian spoke to someone else. The new doctor reviewed your chart, then Damian followed them into your room so they could perform a series of neurological tests, which you passed, aside from still not knowing the answer to the Big Three: your name, the year, or the President of the United States. Aside from the amnesia and concussion, you were healthy and granted permission to not only head home, but board a plane to get there. You hadn’t even considered that you weren’t in your hometown, and now you would have to navigate an airport with memory loss and a head injury?

As if reading your thoughts, Damian hooked his pinky around yours. You looked down at your fingers on the bed, assuming this should mean something to you, but your mind was blank, so you lifted your eyes to his. “Don’t worry,” he said, the intense timbre causing your thighs to unceremoniously clench. “I’ll be right there.” You smiled, feeling comforted, though not as much as you probably would have been if you actually knew who the fuck he was.

You were given a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, both your size, but you didn’t recognize them, as well as a pair of sneakers, also your size. Apparently some friends of yours had brought you these items the night before while you slept, the name’s Rhea and Jey filling you with just as much curiosity as the name Damian Priest. Once dressed, you were forced into a wheelchair despite your protestations that your head was injured and not your legs or feet, and Damian was the one to carry the bag which contained the costume you’d been wearing when you’d fallen, as well as the boots, while pushing you toward the exit. Your own personal Superman, and you couldn’t even remember how you’d met.

He helped you into the backseat of a sleek, black vehicle that had been sent by the WWE, tossed your stuff in the trunk, and somehow folded his humongous frame into the seat beside you. As the driver chauffeured you back to the hotel you were told you were staying at, every now and then, if the car hit a bump, Damian’s arm would lift like he would protect you from being jolted forward, much like the intended use of the seatbelt buckled around you, and it was the most endearing and annoying thing in the world.

“I’m okay,” you said, and he looked at you. “I mean, I can’t remember … anything, but … I’m okay otherwise. I can handle a few potholes.”

Damian’s smirk grew slowly. “Fair enough,” he said, glancing out the window. A moment later, he looked back at you. “But when I do it again—”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see it.” The smile you shared felt special, but it didn’t go much further than that.

Even though you’d arrived at a hotel instead of your home, the respite you felt was boundless. No beeping machines or BP cuffs or IV stands or intrusive nurses and doctors existed in this room. Just you, a stranger, and eventually your things—you and Damian had evidently taken all of your belongings to the arena where you’d had your accident, the idea being you would head straight for the airport after the show. And since you’d gone to the hospital instead, Damian had paid for the room last night and tonight to give you some time to rest and relax before having to deal with traveling.

“So listen,” Damian’s smoke-on-velvet voice permeated your thoughts, and you turned to him, “Rhea and Jey grabbed all our stuff from the arena, so I’m gonna go get it before they take off. Will you be okay alone for a few minutes? I can ask them to bring it here—” Which was something he actually did not want to do, considering a specific item he had to make sure was in its rightful spot amongst your things.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, attempting a smile, but you weren’t sure how it came across.

Damian nodded, waited a beat, and reached into the back pocket of his fitted blue jeans. And when you noticed his jeans were so tight and mostly left nothing to the imagination, you began noticing other things: his perfectly toned and tattooed arms, broad chest and shoulders, and those legs of his went on for days. If you really had landed this Adonis of a man, surely you deserved some sort of award or medal. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, the case protecting it obnoxiously colorful and glittery, and you instantly knew it was yours. Now what the fuck? you complained. I know that’s my phone, but I don’t know that’s my man? Or my own damn name? You wondered what you’d done so terribly in the life before this one to receive such cruel punishment. “This is yours,” Damian went on, closing the space between the two of you. “Uh … your whole life is on there. Our whole life, really. Pictures, videos, text messages, social media … but I have to warn you.” Your gaze lifted to his, and while he was deadly serious about what he was about to say, you still spotted a bit of devilry in those mahogany eyes. “You and I have a … very physical relationship.” He scratched at the back of his neck, cheeks tinging just a hint of pink, smiling awkwardly.

You blinked up at him. “You mean we fuck a lot?” you deadpanned. It was an honest question until you both realized the way you’d worded it, and you shared a few chuckles.

“Uh, exactly,” Damian confirmed. “So those pictures and videos and texts between us will probably be about 90% sexual.” Made sense—look at the man. “Same with the gallery, and … you know what? Just browse at your own risk.” Another collective giggle. “I’ll be right back. Do you need anything?”

You shook your head and shrugged. “I mean, if you find my memory out there …” It was a cheesy thing to say, and suddenly you were embarrassed because, also suddenly, you had a strong desire to impress Damian. What if your memory never came back and the two of you had to start all over? Would he even want that? Would you?

Great, the relaxation from before was now circling the drain. You took the phone from Damian, the screen coming to life. He’d warned you about everything but the wallpaper on the phone—Damian stood in the middle of a ring, and you were in his arms, shimmering boots wrapped around his waist, your lips pressed together, and the two of you were silhouetted against a spotlight trained directly on you. You stared at it a moment, taking in every detail, hoping something would trigger inside your brain. Nothing.

“The passcode—” Damian started, but your thumb swept across four numbers without even a thought, and the phone blinked to life, ready for use. You looked up at him, anxiety shooting through the roof, tears welling in your eyes. “It’s okay,” he said, placing his hands on your shoulders and gently squeezing. 

“I can remember my fucking passcode, but not my fiancé?” you wailed.

“Listen,” Damian hollered over you, and your mouth clamped closed. “That doesn’t mean you remember the code. It could just as easily have been muscle memory.”

“But—”

“Do the numbers mean anything to you?” Actually, thinking about it, you couldn’t recall the numbers you’d punched in not seconds beforehand. You shook your head, and Damian couldn’t hide the grief as it tugged at the corners of his mouth and eyes, though he tried to smile to camouflage the hurt. “It’s my birthday.” And now you wanted to die. “So you didn’t remember it, okay? It was all muscle memory.”

“Right,” you nodded, though it was difficult to believe it. And either way, you lost, so it didn’t matter—it was muscle memory and not real memory, or you remembered the numbers but not their significance. Your classic lose-lose.

Damian sighed. “I’ll be right back, mi vida.” He pushed down the handle on the door.

“Wait,” you called after him. He turned. “What does that mean?”

“Mi vida?” You nodded. Damian’s smile was small. “It means, uh … my life.” You gazed at him for a few seconds, hoping, wishing, praying, that you could remember him or the words. You nodded again, choosing not to speak in case you erupted into sobs.

Damian left the room, clicking the door softly closed behind him. He headed down the hall toward the elevator, but became dizzy and lightheaded, and he reached out for the nearest wall to steady his large body. He shook his head, trying to jostle the sudden ailments free from his brain, because this is the last thing he needed right now. He had to take care of you—he didn’t have the time or energy to tend to himself as well. After a few deep breaths, he boarded the elevator for Rhea and Jey’s floor, barely making it to their door without collapsing from fatigue.

“How is she?” Rhea greeted upon opening the door. Jey was sitting in the chair, holding his phone between his knees.

“Uh, no change,” Damian replied. “My fiancée has no idea who the hell I am.”

“Well, they said that was temporary, didn’t they?” Rhea asked, concerned, crossing her arms.

Damian nodded, not really wanting to have this conversation right now. They were going to ask things he didn’t have the answers to, and he didn’t want that either. He busied himself gathering your suitcase and his, followed by your respective duffel bags. He unzipped yours and rummaged around until he came to the item he’d been the most focused on—the teal Tiffany’s box that contained your engagement ring. You never wore it during matches, instead nestling it back in the box it had been presented to you in, which you then tucked safely into your bag. Watching it sparkle in even the dull light of the hotel room, Damian remembered every moment of proposing to you—the salt in the air, the crashing waves of the ocean, the sand beneath his feet, and your dress fluttering in the wind as you held a hand over your mouth, capable of only nodding when asked if you would marry him. He gazed down at the ring for a long moment before closing the box and packing it into his duffel bag instead of yours. He didn’t want you to see it and feel obligated to wear it if you weren’t comfortable doing so, so he decided to avoid the conversation altogether—provided you never asked where your engagement ring was.

At the same time, you crawled into bed with the messy covers, briefly wondering if you had a side and which one it might be, but then you smelled Damian on one of many pillows. Your body slid across the mattress of its own accord, your mind not even thinking about it, and you snuggled into the scent of the man you loved but didn’t know. You entered the passcode on your phone—muscle memory—looking for a moment at the wallpaper and the triple digit notifications for both missed calls and text messages, before tapping on the Gallery. Too many folders to count popped up, and you tapped the one that caught your eye first—Movies. You chose a random video and pressed play.

The video was dark to begin with, but the quality cleared, and you were able to see a pair of legs—your legs, you knew somehow—in stockings, the lacy tops of the stockings visible because of a short dress made even shorter by bunching it around your hips. The camera zoomed out to show your legs were stretched over the center console of some expensive vehicle, your feet in Damian’s lap. His hair was pulled back into a high bun, he was dressed in a suit, and one of his hands controlled the steering wheel while the other snuck under one of your heels to rub your foot. You moaned on screen, and Damian smirked. He removed the heel altogether and, not knowing what else to do with it, hooked it to the top of the steering wheel so he could better massage your foot.

“I love you, baby,” you said through the phone, and your voice sounded familiar, but the huskiness and sheer obsession in your tone surprised you.

“I love you, querida,” Damian rumbled, glancing at you to wink before returning his eyes to the road. Your heart shriveled within your chest and there was that feeling of wanting to die again.

“I’m gonna ride you when we get home,” you sing-songed from behind the camera.

You tapped the Back button on the phone to stop and minimize the video. You had an idea of where it was going, and you knew the stars of the show were yourself and Damian, but since you couldn’t remember anything about this night, it felt almost like you were invading someone else’s privacy. Scrolling down, a curious thumbnail caught your eye, and though you knew better, your thumb tapped on it regardless.

Whoever was behind the phone had the lens trained on a big screen TV, which was playing some movie you may have recognized but couldn’t think of the name of. The rest of the room appeared to be a cozy living area with dimmed lights and modern decor.

“My fiancé promised we were going to actually Netflix and chill after a travel day, but this motherfucker …” And the camera lowered until all you could see were a pair of thighs—your thighs—on either side of Damian’s head, his mouth buried in your pussy as he knelt in front of you on the couch. “Fuck, Papi,” you moaned through the phone’s speakers, your hand entering the frame as you wrapped your fingers around his ponytail.

You punched the Home button several times before tossing the phone face down on the bed. You buried your face in the pillow that smelled like Papi and you wanted to cry, had the urge to cry, your eyes and nose burned like you were going to cry, but no tears came. Had you already cried them all?

You heard the key card slip into place, followed by a click, and the hotel room door opened. You looked over your shoulder and watched as Damian struggled to bring in all the luggage. Lifting the blankets, you started out of bed to help, but Damian put his hand up, smiled, and told you to relax and that he had everything under control. Another forced smile from him, and it was getting easier for you to tell.

“Thank you,” you whispered. Damian placed the luggage and bags in the closet area before crossing the room and taking a seat on the opposite side of the bed. “For everything.” The smile from him this time was more genuine. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

“Mi amor, nothing about you has been easy since the day we met,” Damian grinned. You smirked, looking away. “You turned me down at least … a hundred times.”

“That seems like an exaggeration,” you said, brows rising.

Damian shrugged, scooting back against the headboard as he kicked his shoes off before crossing one ankle over the other on the bed. It wasn’t lost on you how close to the edge he was seated. “Maybe just a few times,” he admitted fondly, gazing up at the ceiling as he remembered each interaction.

“Why did I say no? Looking through my phone, you and I are … pretty compatible.” You could easily see the burning desire in his eyes to ask what exactly you’d looked at.

“You didn't wanna date someone you worked with,” he shrugged. 

You nodded. “So what made me say yes?”

Damian’s grin this time could have lit up the room. “You didn't,” he said. “At the time, on NXT, we were running a few mixed tag matches. That's where—”

“I know what it means,” you interrupted, trying to train yourself not to wonder why you were remembering some things, unimportant things, and not the things that mattered most. You would also have to start paying attention to your attitude toward Damian when you were frustrated with your own brain.

Damian looked at you a moment, eyes narrowed, but he let it go and continued. “Anyway, after we won our first match, you just kinda … jumped into my arms.” He gestured with his big hands. “And then you kissed me.” Your brows rose. “The wallpaper on your phone? That’s that kiss.”

You smirked, rubbing your lips together. “We’re so cute, it almost makes me sick,” you joked.

Damian guffawed, hand over his chest. “Yeah, we hear that a lot.” A yawn overtook you, and your eyes watered from the effort. “You should sleep,” he offered, now yawning himself.

You nodded. “You’re not … leaving, though, are you?” you asked.

Damian shook his head. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“I mean—” You looked at the bed.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he repeated.

The distance you’d wanted before? Well, you still wanted it, but you couldn’t have him too far away, either, so on the other side of the bed was perfect, and you started to crawl back under the blankets.

“Wait,” you said, sitting up. “This is your side, isn’t it?”

Your fiancé smiled. “Yeah, but—”

“Let’s switch sides,” you interjected. “I want everything as normal as … I can handle.” You hoped Damian was picking up what you were putting down as he stood up. You crawled to the other side, your side, tucking your legs under the covers again. Damian rounded the bed, crossing his arms before grabbing the bottom of his shirt, lifting it over his head, and he shook his ponytail out from a bun as he tossed the shirt onto a nearby chair. It was completely out of habit, it was easy to tell, but you hadn’t been prepared for it. Your eyes grew as they searched every tattoo and each chiseled muscle, and you were too focused on him to even notice when you licked your lips and sucked the bottom one into your mouth. You had to be the luckiest woman on the face of the planet to have such a delectable man climbing into bed with you.

“Sorry,” Damian said. “I can put it back on …”

“No!” you exclaimed, and your cheeks were set ablaze, and you placed a hand over your eyes like it would magically make you invisible. 

“Man, it’s been a minute since I made you blush like that,” Damian chuckled, falling into bed. And he had known your meaning from before—he stayed on his side, maybe closer to the edge than he needed to be—respecting your need for space and his presence at the same time.

જ⁀➴°⋆ Querida — Dearest/Beloved, term of endearment જ⁀➴°⋆ Papi — Daddy જ⁀➴°⋆ Mi amor — My love

[embodiedsexualitytarot]

(18+) Pick an image: allow your intuition to guide you.

💀| JACK &SALLY

Your relationship with this person is very healing and team-based. They think of your relationship as a partnership where each of you do your part and things come together beautifully and naturally. They are your strength in areas where you feel weak and vise versa.

Things that they cannot see, you see for them. You both share a vision and put the puzzle of your life together gracefully, not forcing anything.

When you are sad, they lift you up and they allow you to be yourself authentically. They don’t think your intuition is weird, they don’t think your culture or practices are strange, they simply recognize those things as apart of who you are.

They find you to be graceful and sweet, they love that about you. They can see growing with you. Your relationship with them brings many blessings and they have no trouble showing their affections. They want the best for you and strive to never hurt you.

Aftercare for your reading:

If your life was a movie, what would you title it? Be as creative. Use that title to guide your visions for the future.

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👻| MORTICIA &GOMEZ

In this relationship I see mind games at play especially, regarding sex and intimacy. There is a power dynamic here where one or both involved, enjoys toying with the other for amusement. An example behavior could be intentionally making them jealous. Someone in the relationship likes to have power over the other, they enjoy more of a “yes person” that does what they say, serves them, puts them on a pedestal.

The relationship is hot and cold, it’s hard to see a clear outcome of how long it will last. I don’t currently see a serious commitment. It feels like something fun for the moment. Although it feels fun, there is great risk for emotional damage from the tactics used.

Ultimately, this relationship can teach the people involved about empathy, how much to give to someone else before needing to give back to oneself, and different ways to fulfill needs without causing emotional damage.

Note: Learning more about proper BDSM ethics could be helpful in fulfilling needs with less potential for emotional scarring. Consent is key.

Aftercare for your reading:

Bird’s-eye view—

Imagine you are a bird flying and observing your situation from above. What is happening? How are the people involved behaving? Perceiving the situation from a distance can help you gain new insights and ideas in seeing a bigger picture.

—————————————————————

😎| TRINITY &NEO

In this relationship, both parties are equally determined. They have a seriousness about them where they aren’t into wasting their time and energy. They also maintain their autonomy while being in this relationship so, they are a couple that doesn’t sacrifice their personal goals and hobbies to become absorbed in the relationship. They respect each other’s life paths and don’t hold each other back.

You both are ambitious and certain of your highest calling. It wouldn’t be surprising if you knew what your career choice would be when you were a child. Some professions I’m picking up on are teacher, office personnel, management, and military— doesn’t have to be.

Your relationship is like petting a cat. You come together for connection but maintain a little bit of distance to focus on other things. Some zodiac signs that I’m picking up on are of earth, fire, and air— doesn’t have to be.

You have an earthly connection with this person meaning, they are not just your lover, they are your friend.

Aftercare for your reading:

We Time & Me Time—

Find the balance in spending time with others and with yourself. Having quality time in your own company nurtures you and allows you to enjoy moments with the people you care about. Set aside time this week for both “We time” & “Me time”. Be intentional on how you’d like to spend this time with others and with yourself.

—————————————————————

If you’d like to book me, click here. ❤️

*Readings are for entertainment purposes only.

—————————————————————

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

vaggette toxic one-sided idea purge

how carmilla inducts vaggie into the overlords only partly for fun and velvette is so pissed off about it she plots to fake romance vaggie in revenge

and Velvette maybe might have been slightly more into her and Vaggie's rap battle then she realizes oh whoops, oh no

@barblaz-arts this is your fault not mine. Point the blame inward.

the set up

Carmilla satisfied with her investment in the hotel and Vaggie, gets her to come along to the next overlord meeting purely just to increase her new ally’s power and her own, completely with no ulterior or petty motives

Alastor horrified static twitching smile, politely raises the point that he considers the hotel to already be HIS turf

Zestial amused, tickled, and delighted Carmilla has made a friend and is finally having some fun, politely pulls out a chair for Vaggie at the table

Other overlords scared of Zestial, respectful of Carmilla, fresh from rewatching footage of Vaggie gleefully impaling exorcists with the spear she brought along to the meeting. Say nothing

Velvette arrives late on purpose bc she doesn't give a shit WHY THE FUCK IS /SHE/ HERE??

Carmilla maybe smiling just a little

The battle over letting Vaggie sit in as an honorary overlord, as rapped very intensely at each other by Velvette and Vaggie:

Velvette: Hear ye, hear ye! Look what the Carmine dragged in~

(cue music number)

Here’s a chirpy little birdy, the harpy of hell’s daughter, come demanding things left and right like her words hold any water. No souls no turf, sorry girl, nope, no seat at the table, and with one eye gone she sure doesn’t even look so able. Appearances are everything- if that’s something you can see, your optics next to ours would get hashtag embarrassment from me.

Overlords, over all you know hells a hard-ass place. Charity and mercy? Ha! Weakness and disgrace! Carmilla says she’s worthy, Carmilla made a deal, the more fights they pick with heaven the more sales for Carmine’s steel.

Don’t buy the crap they’re pushing, say fuck that and resist! We’re the power of earthly Sinners, and she’s a-

(Velvette just barely remembers her plan to keep the Exorcist intel she's dug up as a secret from everyone, fellow hothead Vees included, until exactly the right moment shows up- and being sat in the same room as Carmilla, Alastor, and Vaggie, within easy spear range, is /not/ that moment)

-she’s just some lacky with a list! We’ve got our own cred to keep up, to keep hells Sinners all in check. She’d be the collar on the leash of a royal rope tied round our neck.

Vaggie: Are you done?

Velvette: Sure thing, sweetness.

Vaggie: Great.

My name’s Vaggie and I’m busy, I’ve got bigger fucks to fry, so sorry if I’m blunt but I’ve got no time to lie- Your cred’s a bunch of bullshit. You think this is where I wanna sit? I’ve got our hotel to go home to, with heaven hellbent to destroy it.

We all saw you sit back, cowards, and watch the Radio Demon run, so whose turf really is it? Who faced Extermination and won? Who’s been there for Sinners while you’ve used them like a knife? Charlie’s the real Sinner’s power, she protects them with her life.

She’s got better stuff to do than listen to you whine, someone’s gotta hear it though, and if it’s me then fine. You’re not the worst assholes I’ve seen play with others souls, and you’re all Sinners scared of dying, so we even share some goals.

Unlike all of you though, me and Charlie we don’t have to pay and trade. Instead of buying a Sinner’s soul and time we can trust the friends we’ve made. I didn’t make them stay and fight, they gave their all for free. Who looks weaker in that light? You overlords, or me?

Vaggie: Also, you really think poking fun at the half blind woman is a win for you? Ask the corpses of the Exorcists who thought they could get the drop on me. My girlfriend says the eyepatch looks hot and hers is the only opinion I care about. So fuck off.

.....

Velvette can't think of a good clap back, weirdly having trouble thinking at all while Vaggie's glaring at her, but also kinda doesn't want the battle to end just yet

Velvette Warns her to sit quietly during the meeting and let the REAL overlords talk, then gets up close and personal with Vaggie and excuses it by whisper-threatening that it’d just take one text to make her friend Angel Dust’s work hours a living hell

Vaggie, irritably pushing her back at spearpoint, clearly resisting the urge to Stab reminds Velvette that Angel’s work hours with Velvette’s pathetic manchild of a friend are already a living hell for him, and he STILL talks back to Val anyway, and that’s WHY Vaggie is taking a seat at the overlord’s table, to try helping the other sinners that people like Velvette have left behind because they're too scared and spineless to help anything except themselves

(Ding! Bullseye)

Velvette looks actually pissed and not at all smirky anymore, leans in while ignoring the spear-

Carmilla smoothly starts the meeting right then before anyone other than Vaggie ends up losing an one eye

Velvette ends up being the one who spends the whole meeting unusually quiet, staring thoughtfully at Vaggie between making furious vent texts. She's somehow less upset about Charlie's pet murder angel sitting with the overlords than she is over losing her cool and almost skewering herself on Vaggie's spear like an idiot

That's a Vox and Val thing to do, that's why they need her, the only one of the Vees to NOT screw herself over some random looser who doesn't even like her

... but what if she could MAKE Vaggie like her?

If she could steal Carmilla's new tamed Exorcist- Charlie's right hand woman, part of why Val's toy still had a bolt hole in hell to hide in, and the only reason Alastor had met a hell princess with enough hope for her dreams she'd throw in with an overlord to finally get the ball rolling on them-

And Vaggie's switched sides before, miss ex Exorcist living in hell and picking fights with heaven. Why not help her do it again?

Poor overworked glorified secretary. Velvette knows for a FACT that her and the princess haven't been seen out on a single date since the hotel opened. With nothing else in hell for her but her girlfriend, that has to be getting to Vaggie, right? She could do with some appreciation.

If nothing else, the hell princess will probably be very sensitive to anyone else openly and personally appreciating her girlfriend. She might even do something rash, something to show the overlords and all of hell just how far they could trust in hellborn royalty.

Vaggie or no Vaggie, Velvette could work with that too.

She might even be able to blackmail Vaggie into working for the Vees, in exchange for NOT letting all of hell know that the hotel of supposed love and hope had a Exorcist stalking it's halls.

The beauty of that is Velvette wouldn't even have to sic any of her own souls on them. Just tell the Sinners the truth and watch the angry, vengeful, terrified mob tear Vaggie and everything she'd ever touched to shreds. All win, no loss. Vox would have already done it if he knew. She wouldn't mind sitting back with some popcorn and liveblogging the carnage with him and Val, if it came to it.

Ohhh but the satisfaction if she COULD take the Exorcist right out from under all of them...

And having an angel on their side would give the Vees one hell of leg up in whatever shit heaven thinks up next. They could really use a manager too, at this point in their business expansion- Velvette's got too much of her own shit these days to deal with Vox and Val's on top of it. A fourth Vee, in a coordination role, not interested in farming any souls or turf of her own, would be perfect- especially one that can cut through both bodies and bullshit.

Her name even fits with their theming. Velvette and Vaggie, the flipside to Valentino and Vox...

Hmm.

Velvette: Realizes she's been staring at Vaggie again, and Vaggie's noticed, and spares her exactly one second to give her a quick Glower before going back to arguing with someone.

Velvette: smiles and snaps a picture

The princess of hell is right about one thing. The eyepatch really is quite a Look.

-

Velvette some unspecified time later: It’s just for the bit okay

Vox: You seem to be wearing one of her feathers as a necklace

Velvette: Duh I'm wearing it- almost got hellfire crisped by the princess while snagging it off her

Vox: And the uh, stroking of it?

Velvette: Alllll part of the plan

Vox: You've made a whole private website of her

Velvette: You think faking being in love is some bullshit commercial you can just half-ass your way through with a pretty face and the right outfit? Especially when she used to be an Exorcist? I need intel! Research! The woman dresses as sharp as she is, Vox, and her fav accessory is a soul killing spear

Vox: You and your fixation on women with weapons...

Velvette: Ew. Shut up. This blog is about going down on h- getting my roleplay down right, damn it! This is WORK!

Vox: It looks like a fanpage-

Velvette: BLOCKED

[sylvestris123]

What does the pre-Fall scene actually mean?

I’ve been thinking about that first scene, with pre-Fall Crowley. We are all swooning over how sweet and innocent Angel!Crowley is, and how smitten Aziraphale is, but on reflection there is something odd about this scene.

The action takes place before the rebellion, before the Fall, when bad things hadn’t even been invented yet. So why is Aziraphale already worried about Angel!Crowley getting into trouble for asking questions? Shouldn’t he also be a cute innocent bundle of fluff without a care in the world?

There is a meta that examines this (sorry, I can’t find it, I’m useless at this), which comes to the conclusion that Aziraphale later on is suffering from guilt (that he might have unwittingly prompted Crowley to seek answers and hence fall), but this still doesn’t explain why Aziraphale knows that asking questions might be a Bad Idea, and Angel!Crowley doesn’t. After all, Angel!Crowley has apparently been working “very closely with Upstairs”.  Shouldn’t he be a bit more clued up?

This leads me to think that there are 2 possible explanations for this.

1. Angel!Crowley has been so far out of things playing with stars that he really is clueless about everything (possible but doesn’t really match up to the Crowley that we know today).

2. This is not a true record of events.

Either: it is one of Aziraphale’s memories, but coloured by what he knows today, so the conversation that actually occurred might have been quite different. Maybe it is because of Aziraphale’s less than perfect recall, or maybe the memory was tweaked (e.g. by the Metatron) to emphasize the innocence of Angel!Crowley and the injustice of his later fall.

Or: IT NEVER EVEN HAPPENED AT ALL. Their true first meeting was as S1, on the walls of Eden, and it is all a false memory planted by the Metatron. (This could also explain why we don’t get to hear Angel!Crowley’s name. It’s not actually known, so can’t be added to the ‘memory’). Why would he do this? It could be to make Aziraphale think that Angel!Crowley was so full of joy that he should be reinstated to recapture that innocence.

There are plenty of theories about the other flashback episodes in the series, all of which could be interpreted as showing off Crowley’s 'good' side, to make the thought of his reinstatement as an angel more plausible or even necessary to right an ancient wrong.

If any or all of this is the Metatron’s doing, what is the motive? He clearly loathes Crowley. Maybe reinstatement as an angel would automatically wipe out his memories of being Crowley and all of his Earthly experience, so you would end up with a cute innocent (and ultimately useless) angel with no memories of his friendship with Aziraphale. Or perhaps it was a way to get him to come up to Heaven where he could be ambushed and imprisoned.

Or maybe the Metatron always knew that the very concept would go down like a lead balloon and that its aim was to make Aziraphale and Crowley part in such a way that they would be less likely to try to contact each other later.

There are so many pieces to this puzzle. Just when I think that a couple might go together I find others that don’t fit with the patterns already made, and which sometimes seem to belong to a different puzzle altogether. I’m sure that I already have 5 corner pieces.

[halemerry]

On the Bookshop, the Concept of Home, and Going Too Fast

So, weirdly enough, I want to start with a scene that has very little to do with the actual Bookshop: 1967. We get Crowley planning a heist and being interrupted by an angel clutching a thermos full of holy water and promising that someday, maybe, they could let themselves have the life they want together. And we get that line. You know the one. You go too fast for me.

This one line of dialogue went a very long way to cementing the fanon perception of their roles in the relationship as we've largely been shown them - Crowley gently pushes and gives Aziraphale space to slowly feel comfortable setting his own boundaries or adjusting his worldview. And I’m not saying this is wrong - it’s definitely what we're primed to expect in their pattern - but I do think it ignores a fairly common variation of their pattern. See, sometimes, Aziraphale is actually the faster of the two of them - he's just not quite as flashy about it.

Crowley very rarely actually does any pushing without getting some kind of signal from Aziraphale first. Aziraphale, whether consciously or otherwise, quite frequently is the player making the first move on their metaphorical chess board. We see that he's the first to push for them to work together in the story of Job. We see that he's the first to invite Crowley to socialize together in Rome. We see as early as the Globe that Aziraphale has discovered and weaponized how to ask Crowley for things with a simple look and that Crowley has gotten very good at reading those asks. We actually see this dynamic in real time as Aziraphale drops signals to Crowley on how he should form his deception of the angels in the Book of Job. Even the Arrangement itself is something Crowley doesn't push for until he knows explicitly that Aziraphale isn't happy with the terms of his work. In other words, Aziraphale sets a cue, Crowley picks up on it and adapts.

So what does this have to do with the Bookshop?

Well. The Bookshop is a prime example of Aziraphale getting there faster. Because the bookshop, whether he knows it at the time or not, is absolutely a nest.

Nesting is behavior typically associated with birds, but is actually something lots of animals do. Even humans exhibit this behavior to some degree. It’s functionally gathering a bunch of stuff to create a safe, comfortable place, typically constructed for the purpose of raising children or attracting a mate. In other words: the creation of a home.

Because the Bookshop is their home. It is their safe space and sanctuary. It is a space for them to meet and just Exist without worrying about being seen. A home base where they can just Be themselves. It’s a constant in a world ever shifting around them. It’s a place for them to come back to. A place that will always be waiting for them both. And a place that they both have to be able to check in on each other. This is why the Bookshop burning hit as hard as it did. Their home was destroyed in fire and flame. And they both know it. Every expression and shift in tone when they talk about it speaks to the gravity of that loss - even if it was only temporary. And I think it was always intended to be just that on some level from the very start.

So timeline wise the closest scene we know about to Aziraphale starting his plans for the shop is the scene at the Globe. This takes place in 1601 and features the two of them being very conscious of being seen and the potential consequences thereof. They pick going to the Globe expecting it to be busy enough to blend into the crowd and Aziraphale's objection re the Arrangement has shifted onto the idea of Hell destroying Crowley.

It is less than a century later that Aziraphale buys the land that will eventually become the bookshop. In 1630 he purchases the land with his own money. That’s his money. Money that he made mostly the human way. Although this space would eventually become an embassy to Heaven it was made via earthly means. It’s his, not Heaven’s. Less than 30 years after we first see them express concern for how dangerous it would be to be seen Aziraphale starts making a space for them to retreat to.

And he does it slowly. He spends decades slowly buying up the land in the area. In fact, it’s nearly 200 years before the Bookshop will be ready to open. By the time we hit the Bastille, he’s clearly decided on a bookshop and has clearly told Crowley all about it. They’re comfortable with each other and already trust each other to a frankly absurd degree. Aziraphale risks discorporation on the sure thing that Crowley will know he’s in danger and come save him just because he wants to see him. In other words, by the time they’re at the point where they’re making elaborate excuses to see each other, Aziraphale is less than a decade away from naming the home he has been carefully making for himself A.Z. Fell and Co.

The and Co is important here for obvious reasons. We all know there’s only one person that it could be referring to. Even as Aziraphale is still denying that they are friends, he is plastering the idea that they are a unit all over the front door of his home long before even he realizes that what he is feeling for Crowley is love.

This is part of why the conversation about ‘our car, our bookshop’ comes much easier to Aziraphale. And it is an easier jump for him to make. He's the one that brings it up and he does it quite casually. He's testing the waters a bit, but is confident the conversation will go his way. Of course we have a car. Just as we have a bookshop.

The thing is I don't think Crowley ever really got that memo on a conscious level. We can see his relationship to the shop shift in the way he moves around the shop shifts over time. The earliest we see him in the shop itself is 1941. It's night time which gives the whole thing a bit of clandestine air, which is fitting for where they're at on the timeline. He stays mostly in one spot in his shots here, sort of hovering about the shop not getting too close to Aziraphale but not drifting out on his own either. He also stays as close to sitting normally as we tend to see Crowley ever sit and his glasses stay on. Which that's not to say he doesn't relax at all. He takes off his hat and make himself comfortable and, most telling, doesn't bother with fixing his glasses when they slip off his nose. He's comfortable and familiar here but it's in a strained sort of distant way. There's trust there, for sure, but he is clearly a visitor in this space.

The next we see of Crowley in the shop is the mid 2000s. It's still night time. His glasses stay on until he's drunk and the he takes them off of his own accord. He moves about the shop, touching various objects and leaning against various pillars and shelves and furniture. He's more comfortable here, but he still he needs a bit of alcohol in his system to get there.

We then see him briefly in the daytime after they realize they have lost the Anti-Christ. The glasses stay on here and alcohol is notably present. And then we do not see him in the shop again until it is burning. All and all most our shots of the bookshop from season one are Aziraphale alone moving about his space. We know Crowley's there enough that his smell lingers in the place, but we don't actually see that much of it beyond those first tom scenes.

Season 2 couldn't be more different in this regard.

Crowley moves in and out of the bookshop as it suits him. At one point he wanders off in the middle of Aziraphale zoning out in a memory without bothering to shake Aziraphale out of it. We even get him doing what is functionally a bird courtship dance right here in the middle of the shop. Aziraphale in turn takes active steps to get Crowley into the shop whether it's leaving him to watch it while he's gone or suggesting that Crowley likes waiting in the shop for him - a thing Crowley does not outright deny beyond objecting to Gabriel's presence there.

And we get a lot of Crowley in the shop this season- both with and without Aziraphale. And regardless of Aziraphale's presence, Crowley's behavior doesn't really shift too much. He's moving around the shop far more that we've ever seen him historically and he spends half that time sprawling on the furniture like it's his.

And, of course, nearly every time we see him enter the Bookshop to engage with Aziraphale, the glasses come off.

He lets his face stay exposed in the shop, even eventually in front of Gabriel. The only other place we've ever seen him take his sunglasses off by his own choice are in his own flat or when he's trying to make a point about his own nature. Even when he's engaging with Hell, so long as he's not grabbed unexpectedly, he has them on. Crowley wears them around people well before sunglasses had technically even been invented. But not here. Not anymore. Not in this story that is framing the bookshop as a literal safe haven.

Even the palette for the Bookshop this season speaks volumes. Now Season 1 in general is a little grayer than Season 2 (this is in part because of the general aesthetics of when they were made and in part because of the difference in tone between the two seasons) and it's very very noticeable in the shop itself. Here's some side by sides of similar areas of the shops between two seasons, I bet you could guess which was which based on the colors themselves.

The palette season 1 suits Aziraphale just fine. It's more neutral tones like he tends to favor on himself. It's still cozy but in a dusty sort of way. The palette of season 2 is warmer. Less white and more orange to the point where even the pillars holding up the bookshop are more vibrant. There's more natural light and we see it more often during the day. It's a warm, shared, space now. They both get plenty of use out of it.

And Crowley now looks like he fits there too. The shift in his palette makes him feel in conversation with the bookshop in a way his season 1 red can't quite mesh with the more washed out palette. I won't repost all these images I was going feral over last night but you can find a lot of shots of him in the shop windows here that really show the ways he works with the colors of the shop.

So why hasn't Crowley moved in officially if he's practically done so already?

Because this is their whole problem in a nutshell. It's a prime example of the way their pattern doesn't work anymore. It's not built for a world like this. Its built for a world where they have to hide and make excuses. And while being free of that is objectively good it also means they have none of that to hide behind anymore. Subtext doesn't have to be subtext anymore and that can be as scary as it can be exciting. Freedom from things like Heaven and Hell can be hard when that's all you've ever known. This is all new territory for them. The meaning of what home can be to them shifts a lot in a space where they can more or less do as they like.

Aziraphale doesn't need to be indirect about what he wants anymore but can't quite figure out how to be more direct in the asking. He's ready but can't quite parse how to say that out loud. Or why he would even need to when he's been saying it quietly for more than a century. He built a shop full of human knowledge into a safe haven for the demon that fell for asking questions. He invited Crowley into the shop on day one, just like everything else he loves. He's already left the door open for Crowley to come and go as he pleases and as far as he's concerned Crowley has already half moved in anyway. From his perspective he's already set a large blinking neon sign up that says 'this is your home too'.

Crowley, for his part, can't read this cue. Not without thinking about going to fast or starting a battle with his own sense of self worth. He's been in keep them alive mode for so long I'm not even sure he really knows how to let himself have needs outside of that on any conscious sort of level. There's nowhere to push if you don't have an endgame. And even if he did have one the last explicit boundary he had established by Aziraphale was telling him to slow down.

But I do think they both realize this. Crowley grumbles about what's the point from the start of his first scene and of course eventually does take a shot at expressing his wants. Aziraphale's fixation on the Ball comes into play here too. He says they allow humans to realize they have misunderstood each other and that they're actually in love. Which is just flat out their whole problem summarized for us nice and neatly.

They're not understanding each other. They haven't had the conversations they need to have. But they are trying. They still trying, even if they don't understand the ways each other is doing so. And at the end of this season even as they are separated again, the nest still stands. And, maybe the next time we get to see them, they'll decide it's in good hands right now and start building another nest together in in South Downs, but, no matter what, the shop is still home. And even if it is a place they have lost each other twice, there is no doubt in my mind that it is a place they will find each other again.

[ashcroft-writes]

Thoughts on Cad Bane in Tales of the Underworld

I almost never post analyses of my fave fandom things! But I've been thinking about nothing but this show for a solid 24 hours, haha. Honestly, I've been pretty light on sharing my thoughts on the beloved blorbos previously because I don't often care for engaging in the hot take trading in Star Wars fandom... and I also know things tend to grow on me over time, even if something bothers me at first. I’m also in times when people like me worry for their lives and futures, so the me that shows up for Star Wars anymore honestly just wants to have a little fun with it and appreciate what these creative teams manage to do, especially today, when I get Cad Bane content so enchantingly rarely!

BUT, these episodes definitely had a big effect on me. So I've sat with them a little, let ‘em roll around in my head, and though there’s parts of the narrative I think I would have also liked to see… what was done with this story, I ultimately really enjoyed.

But let's dig in deeper, because it IS fun.

THE RELATIONSHIP

Alright, to get it outta the way, anything that involves showing a past relationship for a character seems to set off a bomb inside fan heads. And as a queer writer with an MLM Bane series, some folks have seemed to kind of want to feel me out on this one!

Honestly, the Bane and Arin relationship intrigued me, and I like her.

But first, before I dig into why, I have seen some folks uncomfortable with the idea of a character that's had a blank slate backstory past now being given a "love interest," so I'm going to speak to that first. What is presented here doesn’t change all that much about what we know of Bane as a character—this was a relationship that was definitely physical and involved SOME sort of emotional attachment, but that's about all that was said, and I don't see how it really threatens most interpretations of Bane. Yes, even and especially the queer ones. One can write Bane and/or Arin with any earth-equivalent sexuality, gender, or romantic preferences (or lack thereof) that you choose and these interpretations would still work within this canon information (if you even want to keep canon information in your works!) I've been looking at this relationship from the angles of queerplatonism, aromanticism, bisexuality, pansexuality, heterosexuality, gay with a confusing puberty, etc. etc. etc.. And that’s just if Arin is in fact a woman in the sense that many earth humans mean it.

There’s a lot of wide narrative holes for creatives to nest in here, and I'm really happy I can say that, because I'm already building a nest. And, besides all THAT, Bane’s a cowboy alien?? Like. I think we should all keep getting weird with it, because he SURELY would be up to things outside of our earthly human day-to-day perspective.

So yeehaw. Do Whatever You Want Forever!

Moving on.

THOUGHTS ABOUT ARIN HERSELF

I really like her. I love the idea of this young person who was kind, who was trying to pull Cad back from the worst parts of his nature, who was wiser than he was about the possibilities of a future past the violence of their world. That is part of what my own OC Nuni was when I wrote him. And now in canon, there were at least two people—Arin and Niro—both trying to pull Cad back from his fixation on gold and blood, and I like that theme!

Was I curious how Cad and Arin came together…? Yeah. Of COURSE. But I know this was limited time we had, and decisions were made about how to convey the most telling details in shorthand and the story in broad brushstrokes—so here, I settle for the subtle body language, which honestly was very deliberately rendered. It’s clear Cad is attached on some level to Arin; the way he works easily alongside her and doesn’t leave her behind when the going gets tough isn't without meaning at all. For him, it seems as close a relationship as he's able to have. But a lot of their interaction regardless comes across as a very Cad way of handling someone, especially while younger, rasher, his anger hotter. He doesn’t confide in her, he snips, he barely listens. He hardly looks at her or even touches her, though her own gaze is often on him, analyzing, hoping, bidding for him to let go of what doesn’t matter. But he doesn’t consider her needs for a single second as more important than him coming out on top. And this… this was a relationship I’ve seen before in life, in which one side is too focused on what they’re chasing to properly, truly notice the other person, even if some facet of having the other person around comforts them. I couldn't help but wonder if Arin was indeed startled by how easily Cad hugged Niro, when Cad just doesn’t seem to be like that with anyone else that we see, not even her. So yes, his and Arin’s relationship was strange, one-sided, with so much unspoken… but it was a lot we can glean from very little.

I wish in some ways that Arin had still been alive in the final episode, but I am sensing perhaps why it was decided that she wouldn’t be. There’s a narrative hole here I’m going to have to speculate inside, but—when Bane returns an unspecified amount of time after he was arrested, he’s grown up a fair amount. Got new scars. He has crew coming to meet him as if they want to give loyalty, when he didn't exactly come across as Lazlo's second in command previously. And now, the community council seems like they’re wetting their pants about him showing up, and they ALL know and seem to fear his name, whereas when he was arrested, they absolutely didn’t.

Frankly, the writing seems to imply that there was some serious stuff that happened in the interim between when they arrested him and he made his way back to his old stomping grounds. I don't know if it was a situation in which Bane still managed to make trouble from inside his cell, pulling strings, or if there were periods in which he was free, then arrested again.

But either way, Arin was left behind for a long while, just like Niro was once. Enough for Cad to get up to his own mischief, forge at least some part of his intimidating legacy. But again, he’s been so sucked into his own workings that the world he left behind moved on without him. I don't think he ever says that he was coming back for Arin when he does arrive; that’s a guess everyone ELSE is throwing around. He’s seemingly just there to settle accounts in general, and the mention of Arin having married Niro just seems to stick him in the pride. Either way, he's come back far too late to have done anything about it. They've both long moved on, and he wrote her off as a traitor long ago. Arin's had a life alongside a kinder person, and now is gone, and perhaps Cad could have tried to learn anything at all about what had happened before now, found a way for someone to bring him intel, wrote a letter, etc. But he didn’t.

He only returns to old places in this story when it’s time for revenge.

I think it fits his character fairly well, so unwilling to deal with these emotional difficulties that any question of Arin he still held in his heart was answered by a life fully lived without him, one he stayed ignorant of until it came back to needle his ego. The fact that Arin is dead isn't the point. It was that he didn't know she was dead, years gone. If that isn't a character statement, I don't know what is.

So yes, despite the missing parts, Arin is a character I like. I see some folks mentioning the concept of her being “fridged,” but I personally don’t think that entirely fits. Fridging is… specific. She wasn't there in the story only to die of violent or sad means, all to inspire the protagonist into having character development. Conversely, Arin doesn’t pass the Bechdel test, no, and I wish she did! Regardless, the tragedy is that Arin DOES have agency and uses it to live, not die—and her sacrifice doesn't inspire or change Cad, because he was hurtling down into the dark all on his own. She chose to end the violence, defy Cad and steal his gun because she’s kinder and wiser than he is, and knows how to let go and move on. She only died after having lived a life she chose, even an offscreen one, Cad’s choices be damned. I can’t call it a fridging. I do still wish she had more time to tell us more about who she was, but I suppose fic is here, and I’m just going to have to write something about it sometime.

CAD BANE’S SON

I yelled when he appeared. Jfc what a cute kid. This story also told us Cad was a cute kid too. And the narrative spares neither of them. :(

I’m going to get it out of the way: the only thing, literally the only thing, I am having difficulty accepting about this story is the kid’s name. Isaac. What? What?? EXCUSE ME. IS THE BOOK OF GENESIS IN STAR WARS?? I’m going to need ten linguistics and history enthusiasts in my replies immediately so we can figure out what the hell happened culturally with the Duros and Judaism in a galaxy far far away.

BUT I DIGRESS. This kid Isaac looked into my soul with those big eyes and I opened a door in my heart for him and now I’m in hell, so whatever I guess.

I AM IN HELL AHHHHH.

But. The moment when Cad looks in that kid’s eyes and knows EXACTLY who the father is was almost startling. Like, he even reaches out for a second. Just a split second. It’s this razor-sharp shard surprise-cutting him inside his moment where he thought he was just wrapping up all the loose ends. All that gloating to Niro about “I’ll take care of him like you did Arin” had so little real caring behind it that I doubt it was any kind of real promise.

But it’s then that Cad sees. For one of the few times in this story, Cad looks into someone else’s eyes outside of himself, and he properly sees them.

And he reaches out.

But that’s shut down fast. The interfering mayor clearly knows who Isaac comes from, just like Cad knows now. And neither of them say anything about it, but their understanding is clear, and Cad walks away, quietly agreeing, perhaps, that it’s the right move to do so. What he’s become can’t help this kid in any meaningful way. He’s just made another abandoned orphan like he was, and who knows what kind of life is in store for that child now?

Obviously, later in canon, Cad will have a go at helping another kid’s journey, mentoring Boba Fett. I wonder if, perhaps, he did it to try and prove to himself he could, gnawing inwardly over what happened on this day with the son he’ll now never know.

After all, he's not very good at letting things go.

THE STORY IN GENERAL

I’m kind of working backwards with my thoughts, from this very specific musing regarding the important relationships to the larger story... I haven't even gotten into Niro! Did you see that moment where Cad was the one to hug him, and he couldn't quite manage to do it back? When the last time they saw each other, he was the one being abandoned? How he faced Cad in person, and so is NEVER the person running away to save himself? I am gently patting this Duros' face. Excellent. But. I am going to have to wrap this up eventually and save any other thoughts for later.

At the end of the day, there was a lot inside this short little visit into Bane’s life that really delighted me. The scores of different Duros characters (shoutout to the guy in that giant hat, hahaha. LOVE A DUROS IN A GIANT HAT <3) The love given to the modeling, texturing, and overall craft of this production... all my love to the Star Wars animation team. The small look at the culture in the area Bane lived in as a child. The way he discourages his friend from buying a little toy their hearts clearly want, in favor of that which is practical. That moment when child Bane gets a taste of what money can do, hungry, licking the box clean that held his first real, good meal in a long time. The moment when Niro tries to get him to walk away from Lazlo’s scheme, and he immediately spins around and agrees it’s not worth it unless they’re paid twice as much—the budding negotiator!

Being fast, agile, sliding over the hood of a car as he runs from the cops.

Choosing to save himself, then the instant regret, lack of surety, fear—drowned in his first handful of gold.

The visual of him as an adult seeing his childhood self in the glass before shooting that thought right through the heart… the foreshadowing. Goddamn.

Like, I do have mixed feelings on some level. It was too big a story in too small a space. The first episode was plain excellent, but the latter two suffered from the broad brushstrokes preventing us from being able to get to know some of the new faces introduced, and raised a lot of questions about other things—truly, we never get to see what Lazlo comes to mean to young Colby, why he inspired a boy to become so like him. We never see when Colby decides to leave behind his old name and why. We never see where Todo comes from, or why Cad chose Arin to spend his time with. It also doesn’t show the why’s and how’s that made Cad Bane the Legend exceptional at what he is.

But it did give us tantalizing tidbits, the smallest pieces of the before-times we can explore more on our own. It showcased that Cad Bane's greatest strength as a bounty hunter, why he's so feared, is the precise fatal flaw that made his life the way it is: the fact that once he has the scent of his goals, he’ll never let go, not ever—he'll chase them from one end of the galaxy to the other to settle accounts, inexorable, deadly.

And it hasn't brought him happiness.

[witchthewriter]

𝐆𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!   

a/n: I watched the new season of The Witcher and somehow Geralt got even hotter??? Anyway, he has dilf energy and I'm in love

Warnings: family abuse, curse previously put on reader

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ        

・He had saved you, and yet, your family still did not want you.

・Geralt found out that it was your own father who cursed you

・A noble family that saw you as less than. And they banished you from their land, not wanting you anywhere near them.

・And when Geralt spoke on your behalf, asking what you were supposed to do, your father shrugged his shoulders and ignored the Witcher.

"You won't even keep y/n on as ... as anything?" The Witcher was disgusted when your father kept on ignoring him. It got to the point where Geralt threw a golden plate just above your father's head and his attention snapped to the white-haired man.

"I could have your head for that." Your father's voice was cold, it was always cold.

"And I could have yours," snarled Geralt, whose eyes were ablaze. But he knew he couldn't do anything about your family. Only about you.

・So, Geralt couldn't leave you to fend for yourself. And he didn't.

・Besides, you had no idea how to look after yourself. You had been a monster, trapped inside a form that was not yours for 7 years

・You were filthy, tired, and utterly defenseless.

・And even though Witcher's weren't known for their grace nor kindness, Geralt was different.

・He took you with him, damning your family for casting you out. Promising that you would rise above what they had done to you.

・But for now, he had to clean you up and ... catch you up on life.

- ✦ -

・Geralt sat you in front of him, Roach slightly grumpy with the extra weight. But once you reached Geralt's destination, he rewarded the steed with extra food

"Thank you, old friend," he whispered into the horses' ear.

・Helping you inside, he had arranged a room that had a bathing chamber

・The water ran hot as Geralt added in oils and different kinds of herbs

・It was an odd situation, yes, helping a stranger clean themselves.

・But Geralt couldn't live with the knowledge of you being left on your own. The possibility of so much danger. Of being taken advantage of.

・Helping you undress was slightly embarrassing, for the both of you. Your body was still getting used to its original form. Your balance was off, and your posture wasn’t very good. Geralt had to keep on correcting it.

・Easing you into the bath, he grabbed a cloth and started gently rubbing the grime from your body. The dirt, sweat and mud that caked your body

・Even when you transformed back into your normal form, the dirt still remained, as did the torn clothes that you had worn before being cursed into a great beast

・Speaking was difficult as well, but it was becoming easier with time. Even though not much had passed.

・The bath was the best thing you had felt in 7 whole goddamn years.

・Hot; like it was ridding you of all the hurt that built over time

・You swished your fingers through the water, delighting in the ripples they made. Such a small happiness. Yet you found glee in small things now. Grateful for a second chance.

・Geralt kept on scrubbing at your skin, using a bristled brush on some areas, careful not to be too rough or stay in one spot for too long

・Next he used this delicious smelling soap. Your knowledge of herbs was next to nothing, due to a lack in education, but you thought it smelt homely, earthly and calming. Lathering it in his hands and massaging it onto your own, you both worked the soap into different areas of your skin

“I’m going to wash your hair now,” he said. Voice soft yet still rough, like he wasn’t used to being kind to others. If that were true, you wondered why he was doing this for you.

“But first we need to brush it,” his eyes squinted at the tangled mess but started on it nonetheless.

・It hurt at first, but you knew Geralt was being as gentle as he could be, but there were so many knots.

“What do you think about cutting it?” You shook your head. Your hair was one of the only things that made you feel … beautiful.

“Ugh, fine. But this is going to take a while.”

・You shrugged your shoulders and happily kept on sitting in the tub, taking over some of the scrubbing, especially your feet, which felt so sensitive.

・Once they were large and clawed, now … they were human

・Your eyes stilled as the water reflected the glow of the candles around the room

・And you sighed. Not in sadness, or pain, or grief. But with the knowledge that you no longer had to be someone that you were not. Whether that was a beast or playing a role in your family that you didn’t want to have to play.

“You alright?” Geralt had made significant process, practically finished with your hair. And he grabbed a bucket and told you to lean back as he poured the water onto your hair.

・Geralt grabbed a different kind of soap and placed it in your hair, massaging and rubbing it, making sure there wasn’t a spot unwashed.

・You weren’t used to the sensation and let out a laugh. It tickled a tiny bit, especially when he rubbed behind your ears

・Unbeknownst to you, Geralt was slightly smiling. He enjoyed seeing you experience some happiness.

・After he had washed your hair a total of three times, he stood back satisfied with your appearance and held out a towel for you to wrap yourself in.

・Helping you out of the bath, he set down a pair of clean clothes on your bed and said he would be back in a few minutes.

・He wanted to give your privacy, while also wanting to check on Roach.

・The clothes were a big pair of brown pants and a long white shirt. They were a fresh pair from the Innkeeper's husband, who had recently passed away. Geralt had paid extra for them.

・After twenty minutes, Geralt came back into the room to find you asleep on the floor. The usual place you slept.

・A place you had slept for 7 years.

・7 years without a bed. Without a blanket or pillows. Nor were you given any sort of comfort.

・A rage so hot spread through Geralt that it practically radiated off of him.

・In that moment he swore you would have a better life, the best he could find … or give you.