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anotherhumaninthisworld · 2 days ago

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The Committee of Public Safety being a totally healthy work environment with no issues whatsoever compilation

First, some statistics:

Leaving in the middle of a session due to fighting: Collot (1 time), Robespierre (3 times), Saint-Just (4 times), Lindet (1 time)

Starting to cry during a session: Carnot (1 time), Robespierre (1 time)

Threatening your co-workers: Robespierre (2 times), Saint-Just (2 times, one of them a death threat), Couthon (1 time)

Calling your co-workers traitors/scroundrels/ counter-revolutionaries/aristocrats/conspirators/foreign agents: Billaud (1 time), Saint-Just (3 times), Robespierre (5 times), Collot (2 times), Barère (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of aspiring towards dictatorship: Carnot, Billaud, Barère, Collot, Lindet (1 time)

Accusing your co-workers of wishing to destroy patriots: Robespierre, Collot (1 time)

Using physical violence against your co-workers: Collot (2 times?)

Defending your co-worker against another co-worker in a way that doesn’t at all make it seem like you’re into him: Saint-Just (3 times) Barère (1 time)

Saint-Just had such indifference that, about this time (return from Fleurus), he came one evening to propose to the committee a strange means of promptly ending the struggle of the revolution against the suspected and imprisoned nobles. These were his words: ”For a thousand years the nobility have been oppressing the French nation with exactions and feudal vexations of every kind, feudalism and nobihty exist no longer, if you want to repair all the frontier roads for the passage of the artillery, convoys, and transports of our army, order the imprisoned nobles to go to work daily and mend the highways.” […] When Saint-Just had finished there was a movement of silent indignation amongst us all, succeeded by a unanimous demand for the order of the day. I thought I ought to stipulate for the national character by saying to Samt-Just and the committee that we should be opposed to such a kind of punishment for prisoners even if the law pronounced it, that the nobility could be abolished by wise laws, but that the nobles always preserved in the mass of the people a rank, a distinction due to education, which prevented us from acting at Paris as Manus did at Rome. ”Ah,” exclaimed Samt-Just, “Marius was more politic and a greater statesman than you will ever be. I wished to try the strength, the temperament, and the opinion of the Committee of Pubhc Safety. You are not fit to combat nobility, since you cannot destroy it, it will devour the Revolution and the revolutionists. I retire from the committee.” He quickly withdrew, and set out for the army, until the moment when he thought himself capable of executing vaster projects with Robespierre, Couthon, and Lebas, his associates. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 139-140.

It is the inherent vice of bad laws, and, above all, of penal laws devoid of motive, which attack a great number of innocent people, to nullify themselves. Saint-Just did not understand that. He attacked me, and accused me of having put under requisition the relatives of several emigrants whilst the law punished them in their property. The committee appeared struck by this accusation, and asked him to explain himself and name some of the relations. He named several, but they were all unknown to us. He afterwards named Mademoiselle d’Avisard, of Toulouse, whose father was abroad. Here I replied that the fate of this innocent girl, who was but sixteen years of age, and obliged by the terrible laws against emigrants to subsist at Paris by manual labour, for she was then engaged in making gaiters for our soldiers, was in the highest degree worthy of compassion and interest. […] The Committee of Public Safety thought this explanation sufficient. It saw that it was only a wicked recrimination by Saint-Just, supported by the presence of Robespierre. Memoirs Of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 147-148.

Robespierre murmured a lot about the forms that we had established in Lyon for the execution of decrees: he constantly repeated that there was no reason to judge the guilty when they are outlawed. He exclaimed that we had let the families of the condemned go free; and when the commission sent the Convention and the committee the list of its judgments, he was not in control of his anger as he cast his eyes on the column where the names of the citizens who had been acquitted were written. Unable to change anything in the forms of judgment, regulated according to the decrees and approved by the committee, he imagined another system; he questioned whether the patriots of Commune-Affranchie were not vexed and under oppression. They were, he said, because the property of the condemned being specially intended, by article IV of the decree of July 12, to become their patrimony, we had greatly reduced their claims, not only by not judging only a quarter of the number of conspirators identified by Dubois-Crancé on 23 Vendémiare, or designated by previous decrees, but also by establishing a commission which appeared willing to acquit two thirds, as it happened. Through these declamations Robespierre wanted to entertain the patriots of whom he spoke, with the most violent ideas, to throw into their minds a framework of extraordinary measures, and to put them in opposition with the representatives of the people and their closest cooperators: he made them understand that they could count on him, he emboldened them to form all kinds of obstacles, to only follow his indications which he presented as being the intentions of the Committee of Public Safety. Défense de J-M. Collot, répresentant du peuple. Éclaircissemens nécessaires sur ce qui s’est passé à Lyon (alors Commune-Affranchie), l’année dernière; pour faire suite aux rapports des Répresentants du peuple, envoyés vers cette commune, avant, pendant et après le siège (1794)

Billaud Varennes: […] The first time I denounced Danton to the committee, Robespierre rose like a madman and declared that he saw my intentions, that I wanted to lose the best patriots. Billaud-Varennes accuses Robespierre during the session of 9 Thermidor

Why should I not say that [the dantonist purge] was a meditated assassination, prepared for a long time, when two days after this session where the crime was taking place (March 30 1794), the representative Vadier told me that Saint-Just, through his stubbornness, had almost caused the downfall of the members of the two committees, because he had wanted the accused be present when he read the report at the National Convention; and such was his obstinacy that, seeing our formal opposition, he threw his hat into the fire in rage, and left us there. Robespierre was also of this opinion; he believed that by having these deputies arrested beforehand, this approach would sooner or later be reprehensible; but, as fear was an irresistible argument with him, I used this weapon to fight him: You can take the chance of being guillotined, if that is what you want; For my part, I want to avoid this danger by having them arrested immediately, because we must not have any illusions about the course we must take; everything is reduced to these bits: If we do not have them guillotined, we will be that ourselves. À Maximilien Robespierre aux enfers (1794) by Taschereau de Fargues and Paul-Auguste-Jacques.

In the beginning of floréal (somewhere between April 20 and 30) during an evening session (at the Committee of Public Safety), a brusque fight erupted between Saint-Just and Carnot, on the subject of the administration of portable weapons, of which it wasn’t Carnot, but Prieur de la Côte-d’Or, who was in charge. Saint-Just put big interest in the brother-in-law of Sijas, Luxembourg workshop accounting officer, that one thought had been oppressed and threatened with arbitrary arrest, because he had experienced some difficulties for the purpose of his service with the weapon administration. In this quarrel caused unexpectedly by Saint-Just, one saw clearly his goal, which was to attack the members of the committee who occupied themselves with arms, and to lose their cooperators. He also tried to include our colleague Prieur in the inculpation, by accusing him of wanting to lose and imprison this agent. But Prieur denied these malicious claims so well, that Saint-Just didn’t dare to insist on it more. Instead, he turned again towards Carnot, whom he attacked with cruelty; several members of the Committee of General Security assisted. Niou was present for this scandalous scene: dismayed, he retired and feared to accept a pouder mission, a mission that could become, he said, a subject of accusation, since the patriots were busy destroying themselves in this way. We undoubtedly complained about this indecent attack, but was it necessary, at a time when there was not a grain of powder manufactured in Paris, to proclaim a division within the Committee of Public Safety, rather than to make known this fatal secret? In the midst of the most vague indictments and the most atrocious expressions uttered by Saint-Just, Carnot was obliged to repel them by treating him and his friends as aspiring to dictatorship and successively attacking all patriots to remain alone and gain supreme power with his supporters. It was then that Saint-Just showed an excessive fury; he cried out that the Republic was lost if the men in charge of defending it were treated like dictators; that yesterday he saw the project to attack him but that he defended himself.

”It’s you,” he added, ”who is allied with the enemies of the patriots. And understand that I only need a few lines to write for an act of accusation and have you guillotined in two days.” ”I invite you, said Carnot with the firmness that only appartient to virtue: I provoke all your severity against me, I do not fear you, you are ridiculous dictators.” The other members of the Committee insisted in vain several times to extinguish this ferment of disorder in the committee, to remind Saint-Just of the fairer ideas of his colleague and of more decency in the committee; they wanted to call people back to public affairs, but everything was useless: Saint-Just went out as if enraged, flying into a rage and threatening his colleagues. Saint-Just probably had nothing more urgent than to go and warn Robespierre the next day of the scene that had just happened, because we saw them return together the next day to the committee, around one o'clock: barely had they entered when Saint-Just, taking Robespierre by the hand, addressed Carnot saying:

”Well, here you have my friends, here are the ones you attacked yesterday!”

Robespierre tried to speak of the respective wrongs with a very hypocritical tone: Saint-Just wanted to speak again and excite his colleagues to take his side. The coldness which reigned in this session, disheartened them, and they left the committee very early and in a good mood. It was at this time that the division became pronounced in a very noticeable manner, and soon after we saw it claimed in the English papers that the Committee of Public Safety was divided. For some time now we had been distrusting each other, we were observing each other, we were no longer deliberating with them with this abandonment of trust. Until then Robespierre had done little; he constantly brought us his concerns, his suspicions, his shady expressions and his political bile; he only concerned himself with personal measures; he only drafted arrest warrants, he only dealt with factions, newspapers, the revolutionary tribunal. Nothing about the Government, nothing about the war, never having either views to propose or a report to make, he spent his time destroying our courage, despairing of the salvation of the country and speaking of its slanderers and its assassins; his favorite expressions were, everything is lost, there are no more resources. I no longer see anyone to save it, he always cried. When news of victory were brought by a courier, he spoke of upcoming betrayals, he tarnished our joy or attacked the representatives of the people near the victorious army. The more triumphant the Northern army was, the more strongly he denounced Richard and Choudieu; when the troops besieged Ypres, a stronghold and the key to West Flanders, a capture which, according to the decrees of the committee, was to open and ensure the campaign; Robespierre shouted against the representatives of the People near this army and had complaints written that the troops had not taken Ostend sooner. He seemed to us to be pursued by victories as well as by furies, and he often reproached the committee's rapporteur for the length and exaltation of his reports on the triumphs of the armies. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûreté générale (Barère, Collot, Billaud, Vadier), aux imputations renouvellées contre eux, par Laurent Lecointre et declarées calomnieuses par décret du 13 fructidor dernier; à la Convention Nationale (1795), page 103-105.

Robespierre, supported by the Jacobins, was the most influential member of the Committees without being the most wicked. His supporters were, however, in the minority; the plan to adjourn the sessions of the Convention had not obtained theor approval. One thought it necessary to oppose Robespierre with the masculine structure of Collot d’Herbois. A quarrel caused by the proposal of a proscription list to which Robespierre was precisely opposed (it involved the arrest of 14 deputies and citizens); this list, put up for discussion by the majority, passed to each member who added names to it, when it reached Robespierre, it had 32 deputies on it. Robespierre said: “I see five or six deputies unworthy of the character with which they are invested: it will be easy to induce them to resign: but I will lend neither my vote nor my signature to the revenge that you want to exercise.” Two friends of Robespierre were of his opinion: heads became heated, quarrels ensued: Robespierre was reminded of the fact he had voted against the Danton faction. The three opponents were treated as moderates. Robespierre, getting up angrily, said to them: “You are killing the Republic, you are the faithful agents of the foreigner who fears the system of moderation that we should adopt.” The session became so stormy that Collot used acts of violence against Robespierre. He threw himself at him and seized him by the flanks. He was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends rescued him. Robespierre then declared that he was leaving the committee, that he could not honorably sit with executioners, that he would report this to the Convention. One saw the danger of publicizing this scene, blamed Collot's patriotic anger, and begged Robespierre, after having torn up the disastrous list, not to give the enemies of the Republic new means of attacking it. Robespierre seemed to calm down, but when Collot approached him to embrace him he refused and despite being urged not to he left. Mémoires de Barras, membre du Directoire (1895) page 349-350. In a footnote, there is to read: This argument between Robespierre and Collot is recounted in more detail in another autobiographic note by Barras: Robespierre having opposed a new measure of proscription, saying: “You are decimating the National Convention, you are arresting citizens whose republican energy you fear,” the boor Collot d'Herbois threw himself at him and, having seized him by the flanks, he was about to throw Robespierre through the window when the latter's friends freed him. This scene was followed by explanations. Robespierre observed that he could no longer sit with executioners, that he was withdrawing and that he would report to the Convention. The Committee which predicted his fall then opposed Robespierre's exit. The proscription list was torn up in his presence. The hypocrite Carnot and the honeyed Couthon told him that Collot's angry outburst was disavowed by the Committee, that the publicity of what had just happened would ruin the Government Committees and the Republic. He was implored to make the sacrifice of all resentment, and that this proof of patriotism was expected of him. Collot furiously addressed the two mediators, complained about the weakness of his colleagues and left the session. Robespierre, very affected, alternately observed his adversaries. He said to them as he left: “You would have made me look crazy if the abortive plan to throw me through the window had taken place. I see here beings more atrocious than the one who tried to execute that plan. He left ashamed of having accepted this assassination.” Robespierre withdrew and did not appear again for two months at the Committee.

At a time when the Convention was already in a high state of alarm [Robespierre] had circulated a list of five or six deputies. It was rumored that Robespierre intended to have them arrested as a little treat to himself, alleging their immortality as the motive of this proposed act of severity. Robespierre, informed of what was being imputed to him, asserted that such an idea was foreign to him, and, desirous of hurling it back at its authors, he maintained that it had originated with the majority of the committee, which, he alleged, had pushed its cruelty so far as to seek to include 32 deputies in its latest proscription-list. In vain did those who spoke in defence of Robespierre’s innocence of the idea and his humanity protest that it was he who had opposed this more than rigorous measure, that he had torn up the list with his own hands, and apostrophizing the Committee, had said: ”You are seeking to still further decimate the Convention; I will not give my support to such action.” Robespierre had indeed spoken these words just as, making an attempt to leave the committee, he had opened the door with the intention of being heard by the deputies and a large number of citizens who, attracted by the noise of a quarrel in the bosom of the committee, were waiting in the antechamber for the purpose of gratifying their curiosity thus aroused. Collot d’Herbois, furious at such hypocrisy, had sprung after Robespierre, seized him by his coat, and, dragging him towards him in order to bring him back into the room, exclaimed in his resounding voice, which, the door remaining ajar, was heard by all, both the committee and the people outside: ”Robespierre is an infamous scroundrel, a hypocrite; he seeks to impute us that of which he alone is capable. We love all our colleagues; we carry all patriots in our hearts. There stands the man who seeks to butcher them one and all!” Thus vociferating, Collot d’Herbois still remained his hold on Robespierre’s coat-collar. As I had at that very moment left the Convention on my way to the committee, I became a chance spectator of this fearful scene, whose violence was still not the greatest crime in my eyes. Behind it stood revealed the plot of premeditated vengeance, far worse than a mere outburst of anger. I was among those who compelled Collot d’Herbois to release his hold on Robespierre, who thereupon declared that he could no longer sit with his enemies, styling them a party of septemvirs, whom he would unmask and fight in the body of the Convention. He then took his departure, in spite of the entreaties of the entreaties of the committee, which, having been unable to conquer, sought to retain him in its midst. ”Let him go his way,” I said to those surrounding him. All my interest in him lay in the fact that I did not wish to see him strangled on the spot by a stronger man, and one perhaps as wicked as himself. I followed him for a short distance in order to see him safely home; he was trembling as he walked alone. Memoirs of Barras, Member of the Directorate (1895), volume 1, page 196-198. A variation of the anecdote found in the French memoirs?

Lindet has recounted that Collot d'Herbois had thrown himself on Robespierre and that he, helped by Carnot and Prieur de la Côte-d'Or, had to separate them. Councilor Carnot affirms that one day his brother threw a writing case at Robespierre’s head. Le Grand Carnot (1952) by Marcel Reinhard, volume 2, page 145. Reinhard cites ”family archives” as the source for this anecdote. Thank you for sharing @aedesluminis !

On 19 Prairial (June 7 1794), I was in the council chamber with Dumas and several jurors. I heard the president speak of a new law which was being prepared and which was to reduce the number of jurors to seven and nine per sitting. That evening I went to the Committee of Public Safety. There I found Robespierre, Billaud, Collot, Barère and Carnot. I told them that the Tribunal having hitherto enjoyed public confidence, this reduction, if it took place, would infallibly cause it to lose it. Robespierre, who was standing in front of the fireplace, answered me with sudden rage, and ended by saying that only aristocrats could talk like that. None of the other members present said a word. So I withdrew. Réponse d'Antoine-Quentin Fouquier, ex-accusateur-public près le Tribunal révolutionnaire de Paris (1795) page 52-53.

The day after the one on which the [law of 22 prairial] was issued, (June 11 1794) […] there was such a stormy scene at the Committee of Public Safety that Robespierre cried out of rage, since that time he only came two times to the Committee of Public Safety, and it was agreed that the Committee of Public Safety would hold its sessions one floor higher so that the people would not witness the storms that were agitating us. Billaud-Varennes at the Convention, August 30 1794. In fact, Robespierre is proven to have continuously signed CPS decrees up until June 30 1794.

At the morning session of 22 floréal [sic, prairial] (June 10 1794), Billaud-Varennes openly accused Robespierre, as soon as he entered the committee, and reproached him and Couthon for alone having brought to the Convention the abominable decree which frightened the patriots. It is contrary, he said, to all the principles and to the constant progress of the committee to present a draft of a decree without first communicating it to the committee. Robespierre replied coldly that, having trusted each other up to this point in the committee, he had thought he could act alone with Couthon. The members of the committee replied that we have never acted in isolation, especially for serious matters, and that this decree was too important to be passed in this way without the will of the committee. ”The day when a member of the committee,” added Billaud, ”allows himself to present a decree to the Convention alone, there is no longer any liberty, but the will of a single person to propose legislation.” ”I see well that I am alone and that no one supports me,” said Robespierre, and immediately he flies into a rage, he declaims violently against the members of the committee who have conspired, he says, against him. His cries were so loud that on the terraces of the Tuileries several citizens gathered, the window was closed and the discussion continued with the same passion. ”I know,” said Robespierre, ”that there exists within the Convention a faction that wants to lose me, and you’re defending Ruamps here.” ”It must be said,” Billaud rebutted, ”that with this decree you wish to guillotine the National Convention.” Robespierre responds with agitation, ”you are all witnesses that I am not saying that I want to have the National Convention guillotined.” He added, “I know you now,” addressing Billaud. ”And I too, know you as a counter-revolutionary,” responded the latter. Robespierre became agitated as he paced around the committee; and then speaking again with more calm, he carried his hypocrisy to the point of shedding tears. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 108-109. This very much sounds like the same session Billaud is describing above, that here got wrongly dated twice.

When Robespierre, dissatisfied with his colleagues, left the Committee – four décades before 9 Thermidor – he exclaimed while leaving: “Save the homeland without me!” ”The homeland is not a man!” R. Lindet would have replied. R. Lindet would also have energetically opposed the proposal of Saint-Just and Le Bas trying to have dictatorship given to Robespierre. He would have replied: “We did not make the Revolution for the benefit of just one person. Tell your master that I oppose this decree,” and he would have left. (Papers of R. Lindet kept in his family). Robert Lindet, député à l'Assemblée législative et à la Convention, membre du Comité de salut public, ministre des finances : notice biographique (1899). Thank you for sharing @saintjustitude !

It was agreed that the reform of the law of 22 Floréal [sic, prairial] was to be proposed in consultation with the Committee of General Security and that the internal divisions would be kept a secret as they were seen as capable of serving the enemies of the Convention and the revolutionary government. Robespierre became more of an enemy of his colleagues, isolated himself from the committee and took refuge with the Jacobins where he prepared to sharpen public opinion against what he called the known conspirators and against the operations of the committee. Only a few days he was seen reappearing at the committee, one evening it was to accuse Richard and Choudieu of the slow and uneven march of the Northern army, and of allowing Ostend to be evacuated during the siege of Ypres. He was told that Choudieu was very ill, that Richard’s conduct had always been good, that they had the confidence of the committee and that the general was carrying out the orders of the committee by securing Ypres. Robespierre affected great concerns about the operations of the armies of the North, he announced to us upcoming betrayals or even double inertia, he proposed to Billaud-Varennes to go to the North, to excite the energy and activity of the operations, but the members of the committee, being few in number and feeling the need to be reunited, opposed this dangerous measure, and Billaud remained. He had done the same thing some time earlier after a big fight (une alteration très-vive) with Collot d'Herbois, who reproached him with the fact he seemed to want to destroy the patriots, in his way of constantly denouncing them. The next day, Robespierre suggested that he go to Commune-Affranchie where royalism was regaining, he said, a frightening consistency. But this tactic of Robespierre was foiled both these two times by the very strong wish of the Committee of General Security which saw itself just as threatened as us by the maneuvers and denunciations of Robespierre. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 109-110. Note that on July 3 1794 we also find a CPS decree signed by Collot, Carnot, Saint-Just, Barère, Billaud and C-A Prieur ordering Couthon to go to the army of the Midi, an order that he never followed through with, indicating Robespierre might not have been the only one to try this tactic…

How many nights have not been fruitfully devoted to preparing everything that could strengthen the brilliant destiny of the Republic? How many battles have not been fought against the despotism of Robespierre? He had come to reject, either out of jealousy or malice, the most obviously salutary ideas. He once wanted to declare me a traitor and conspirator, because I had strongly supported the useful and wise proposal that Lindet made, to require horses and carriages in each section of Paris, in order to provide for the supplies of the armies. Défense particulière de J-M. Collot, représentant du peuple (March 1 1795)

At several times, we had seen from afar the plan to attack the National Representation, intending to resect it; sometimes Couthon, and more often Robespierre, denounced deputies to the Jacobins. One day, we read letters and information sent to the Committee of General Security: Robespierre demanded immediate arrest for the two deputies denounced in these letters: the arrest of Dubois-Crancé was discussed and rejected: that of Alquier was strongly advocated by Robespierre who accused us of softening against the culprits and thus losing the public sake; but that he would denounce these facts to the Jacobins. An arrest warrent was drafted against this Representative; but by a unanimous wish of the two Committees, without hearing Robespierre, the execution was postponed indefinitely and was never carried out. Robespierre returned to the Committee a few days later to denounce new conspiracies in the Convention, saying that, within a short time, these conspirators who had lined up and frequently dined together would succeed in destroying public liberty, if their maneuvers were allowed to continue unpunished. The committee refused to take any further measures, citing the necessity of not weakening and attacking the Convention, which was the target of all the enemies of the Republic. Robespierre did not lose sight of his project: he only saw conspiracies and plots: he asked that Saint-Just returned from the Army of the North and that one write to him so that he may come and strengthen the committee. Having arrived, Saint-Just asked Robespierre one day the purpose of his return in the presence of the other members of the Committee; Robespierre told him that he was to make a report on the new factions which threatened to destroy the National Convention; Robespierre was the only speaker during this session. He was met by the deepest silence from the Committee, and he left with horrible anger. Soon after, Saint-Just returned to the Army of the North, since called Sambre-et-Mouse. Some time passes; Robespierre calls for Saint-Just to return in vain: finally, he returns, no doubt after his instigations; he returned at the moment when he was most needed by the army and when he was least expected: he returned the day after the battle of Fleurus. From that moment, it was no longer possible to get him to leave, although Gillet, representative of the people to the army, continued to ask for him. Saint-Just awaited in Paris the determination that matters would take. In the morning he took care of the police bureau, and decided on arrests or correspondence to be signed; in the evening, he dealt with the detained persons to be judged, together with the public prosecutor, or made violent motions to the committee; he would often speak twenty times in an evening session, and would only speak out of sentence or out of anger when he was not subjecting himself to an affected and painful silence, or rather he would spy on the committee. Most often, he spoke to us about the conspiracies that were being formed in the prisons, he insinuated ideas on this point to the committee's rapporteur, and above all wanted us to refuse the help requested in the prisons. One day he wanted to reduce it to 15 sousand called us defenders of counter-revolutionaries, because we were arguing for the rights of humanity. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 101-103.

Finally one day during the meeting of the Convention [sic, Committee?], Robespierre asked if one wanted to decide to attack the new factions or to perish by their maneuvers; he attacks and indicts several deputies in turn. An impatient member of the committee, oppressed by this ever-reviving project, stood up and said to him with violent severity: “Robespierre, for a long time you have been trying to lure us with terror into the project of striking our colleagues. You keep complaining about them, attacking them, gathering grievances and denouncing them. This is what the Hébertists and other punished counter-revolutionaries did. There are six of us here who profess the dogma of the integrity of national representation: if you want more, I declare to you, in my own name and in that of my colleagues who work with me and whose feelings I know, that you will only achieve national representation through our bloody corpses. These are the obstacles that we oppose to every ambitious person.” The same member of the committee has since repeated these words to the National Convention while speaking to Robespierre himself on 8 Thermidor. (Billaud) Robespierre felt the force of this unanimous response, bit his brakes, accused us of being defenders of the factions and threatened us with denunciation to the People and to the Convention, he moved away from the committee for some time and never stopped accusing us at the Jacobins, while he was preparing the speech he read on 8 thermidor. Réponse de Barère, Billaud-Varennes, Collot d’Herbois et Vadier aux imputations de Laurent Lecointre (1795) page 103

On 10 messidor (June 28) I was at the Committee of Public Safety. There, I witnessed those who one accuses today (Billaud-Varenne, Barère, Collot-d'Herbois, Vadier, Vouland, Amar and David) treat Robespierre like a dictator. Robespierre flew into an incredible fury. The other members of the Committee looked on with contempt. Saint-Just went out with him. Levasseur at the Convention, August 30 1794. If this scene actually took place, it must have done so one day later, 11 messidor (June 29), considering Saint-Just was still away on a mission on the tenth.

In several evening sittings the two committees united to devise a means of revoking the law of 22 Prairial. After several conferences during the month of Messidor, they called Robespierre and Saint-Just into their midst to force them to revoke this law, which was the result of a combination unknown to all the members of the government. The meeting was very stormy. Vadier and Moise Bayle were the members of the Committee of General Surety who attacked the law and its authors with the greatest force and indignation. As to the Committee of Public Safety, it declared that it had no part in it, and plainly disowned it. All were agreed to repeal it next day. After this decision Robespierre and Saint-Just declared that they would appeal to public opinion, that they saw that a party was formed to assure immunity to the enemies of the people, and thus to destroy the most ardent friends of liberty , but they could warn good citizens against the united manoeuvres of the governing committees. They retired uttering threats against the members of the committees. Saint-Just called Carnot, amongst others, an aristocrat, and threatened to denounce him to the Assembly. This was like a declaration of war between the two committees and the triumvirate. Seeing Carnot, the most indispensable worker in the committee, thus attacked on account of his courageous honesty and great military talent, I rose up against Saint-Just. Carnot seemed astonished at these threats of denunciation — terrible indeed from a man who two months before had denounced and destroyed Danton. On behalf of my attacked colleague, I said to this little dictator: ”I do not fear you, I have always defended our country openly and without personal interest I will answer you in the tribune if you lay the blame on Carnot. You know that I make reports that are favourably heard by the Assembly, I will make one of those reports in favour of Carnot and against you.” From this moment Robespierre and his friends acted with hostility against us, and especially against me. One day they even sent Robespierre the younger to me, whom they had recalled from the Basses Alpes. This lunatic entered the committee under pretext of giving an account of his mission to Nice; but instead of fulfilling this duty, he addressed me in a furious tone: ”You have maltreated my brother. We missed you on the 31st of May, 1793, but we shall not miss you on the 31st of May, 1794.” He left still threatening us. Memoirs of Bertrand Barère, volume 2, page 167-169.

I obtained from Barère the following fact: During a session of the Committee of Public Safety, Saint-Just and Robespierre reproached Carnot for being an aristocrat (the latter was frightened and shed tears, Barère said) and threatened to denounce him as such at the Convention. Then Barère said: In that case I will make public that you are angry with the man who organized the victory. Testimony of Filippo Buonarroti, cited in Études robespierristes; La corruption parlementaire sous la Terreur (1917) by Albert Mathiez. This sounds very much like the same incident Barère is describing above.

Having come to the Committee of General Security three or four days before 9 Thermidor (July 23), I was told that the two committees of public safety and general security would meet between noon and one o'clock in the place where the first held its sessions, and that I had to go there. Having asked what the reason for this meeting was, I was further told that it was to mutually explain the division which, according to what Robespierre had claimed on different occasions to the Jacobins, existed between the government committees. As I did not have the slightest knowledge of this alleged division, and as I was completely ignorant of what Robespierre had said to the Jacobins, I went to the Committee of Public Safety where I found several of my colleagues who had preceded me, and above all Robespierre, walking with long strides, glasses on his nose and throwing at everyone, from the height of his grandeur, looks which marked the deepest contempt. After a few minutes of silence, Saint-Just spoke and said in his exordium that although the youngest among us, he spoke first since we had often seen young people open opinions which enlightened those who were older; he then spoke on the necessity of organizing a constitution and ended up making a pompous eulogy of Robespierre, calling him the martyr of the liberty of his country and assuring him of all his esteem. This praise having been applauded and confirmed by Le Bas, Robespierre believed that it was time to burst out and first complained in general about his numerous enemies, whom he said were too cowardly to ever allow themselves to persecute him; he then indicted Amar, Vadier, Jagot, Carnot, Collot and Billaud, reproaching them for the fierceness with which they tore each other apart, which, having given rise to explanations, was the cause of Carnot telling him to his face that he did not like him, and Billaud and Collot repulsed his attacks with so much vehemence, energy and noise, that I more than once invited Collot to speak more quietly. Now, in the heat of this explanation, I heard for the first time that Robespierre was also criticized for having intended to put on trial the 72 of our colleagues who were still incarcerated; I also heard him being told that he had complained that one had not yet made use of this infinity of denunciations which were in the Committee of General Security against others of our colleagues, that nothing had been done so as not to provoke new troubles and to maintain concord and peace between us. This storm having passed and Robespierre having seemed to calm down, one agreed on ending the session, and that Saint-Just would make a report on behalf of the two Committees to inform the National Convention that they were not divided. Philippe Rühl in a speech held March 23 1795

Robespierre bitterly reproached us, at the committee, on 5 Thermidor (July 23), for having had the statue of superstition, erected on the Tuileries basin, brought down during the night. Réponse des membres des deux anciens comités de salut public et de sûreté générale… (1795), page 96.

You (Dubois-Crancé) say that Robespierre being absent the other members of the committee therefore agreed to lose you. It was rather to save you. Twice at the end of Messidor and on 7 Thermidor (July 25 1794) Couthon wanted to have the committee adopt the draft of the act of accusation against you; twice he was rejected. The last time especially, seeing himself rejected by us with a sort of cold and firm indignation, he went so far as to request from the committee the refusal that we made to deliberate on these serious denunciations which he brought against Dubois-Crancé. We opposed him in political principle the integrity of the legislative body and the danger of supporting the liberticidal projects of the aristocrats and tyrants in coalition; in public consideration, his reconciliation with you at the Jacobins, and in principle of justice the lack of legitimate evidence. Couthon left the committee furious, and threatened to denounce or silence our refusal to the people and the Convention. B. Barère à Dubois Crancé: Réponse (1795), page 29

This decisive scene, to unmask the conspirators, happened at half past midnight, from the 8th to the 9th of Thermidor (July 26 to 27). Several members of the two committees were gathered. We worked on the ordinary operations of the committees, but we worked with that sad impatience accompanies a terrible outcome, which all circumstances told us would be imminent. Saint-Just kept a profound silence, observed from time to time the members of the committees, and showed neither concern nor rest. He had just sent to Tuilier, his creature, the first 18 pages of the report he was to make the next day; and he then told us that he could not read the report to the committee, of which he only had the last pages. Collot d'Herbois come over from the Jacobins, where he had just been insulted, threatened, proscribed, so to speak, he seemed very agitated. Collot-d'Herbois had barely entered when his colleagues ask him why people left the Jacobins so late? Saint-Just asks him coldly, ”what's new at the Jacobins?”

”You’re asking me what's new? Are you the one who ignores it? You, who are in league with the main author of all these political quarrels, and who only wants to lead us to civil war: you are a coward and a traitor: it is you who deceives us, with your hypocritical air; you're just a box of apothegms, and you're spying on us in the committee. I have just convinced myself of this by everything I have heard; you are three scoundrels, who believe you are blindly leading us to the loss of our homeland, but liberty will survive your horrible plots.”

Here Elie Lacoste rose in fury and said: “there is a triumvirate of knaves, it is Robespierre, Couthon and Saint-Just, who are plotting against the homeland.”

Barère adds: ”who are you then? Insolent Pygines? Who wants to see the spoils of the homeland split between a cripple, a child and a scoundrel; I wouldn’t give you a barnyard to govern.”

Collot-d’Herbois continues: “I know that perhaps you will have us assassinated this night, perhaps we will be hit, by your plots, tomorrow morning, but we are determined to perish at our posts; and before then, perhaps, we will be able to unmask you. Among us, you are making plans against the committees. You have, I am sure, in your pockets calumnies leveled against us; you are a domestic enemy and a conspirator.”

Saint-Just was struck by this speech; he turned pale, and he did not know what to answer. He opened one of his pockets, stammering, and placed some papers on the table; no one came to read them.

Collot-d’Herbois continues and says to him: “You are preparing a report; but from the way I know you, you have undoubtedly written our act of accusation? So what hope do you have? What lasting success can you expect from these horrible betrayals? You can, perhaps take our lives, have us murdered, but you will not deceive the virtue of the people. Do you believe that when it sees itself deprived of its defenders, of men who sacrificed themselves for it, it will not tear you to pieces? Do you believe that it will sit tight tomorrow, a quiet spectator of your crimes? No, there will be no unpunished usurpation when it comes to the rights of the people.”

Saint-Just then fell back on his report, and said that he would join the committee the next day and that if it did not approve it, he would not read it. Collot continued to unmask Saint-Just; but as he focused more on depicting the dangers praying on the fatherland than on attacking the perfesy of Saint-Just and his accomplices, he gradually reassured himself of his confusion; he listened with composure, returning to his honeyed and hypocritical tone. Some time later, he told Collot d'Herbois that he could be reproached for having made some remarks against Robespierre in a café, and establishing this assertion as a positive fact, he admitted that he had made it the basis of an indictment against Collot, in the speech he had prepared. Saint-Just, during that night, prolonged his allegations and his remarks so much, that it was quite obvious that he only dragged on in this way, in order to prevent us from taking measures against their conspiracy. Several members of the committees, impatient to so much falsehood, went into the next room and deliberated whether they would have him arrested immediately, but they thought it was wiser to refer it the next day to the National Convention, after having known the intentions of Saint-Just, in the report he was to make. It is even worth noting that when we drew up a picture of the unfortunate circumstances in which public affairs found itself, each of us looked for measures and proposed means; Saint-Just stopped us, acting astonished, as if not being in the confidence of these dangers, and complained that all hearts were closed, that he knew nothing, that he could not conceive this quick way of improvising lightning at every moment, and he conjured us, in the name of the republic, to return to fairer ideas, to wiser measures. This was how the traitor kept us in check, paralyzed all our measures and cooled our zeal. At five o'clock in the morning, Saint-Just fled and the members of the committee sought means to paralyze the armed force of Paris, which the scoundrels had in their hands. Réponse des membres des deux anciens Comités de salut public et de sûrété générale… (1795) page 105-107.

#Carnot: I DON’T LIKE YOU!!!#Collot: let’s get PHYSICAL PHYSICAL #SJ: within 48 hours I can have your head seperated from your shoulders #robespierre: why won’t you guys just let me DO WHAT I WANT!?! 😭#Billaud: bc you’re a COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY #Couthon: no u also i’m reporting you guys to the convention #Barère: don’t worry carnot i will save you from this little dictator saint-just! 🤓#prieur prieur lindet saint-andré: just chilling in the corner hoping to survive another session #or if anyone knows any drama with them too please share!#robespierre #saint-just #collot d’herbois #barère #carnot #billaud-varennes #frev #frev compilation #toxicmeter *explodes*#french revolution

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emistoast · 3 days ago

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20/11 tattoo @rosekillermicrofic — word count: 728 — first time participating in any microfic thing and i wrote this on the bus to my tattoo appointment !! aimed for 500 words, got a bit carried away but hopefully it’s not horrible — warnings: implied nsfw

— — —

Evan had one rule for himself: don’t sleep with clients. It was a pretty straightforward rule, easy to follow, but this particular client was making it extremely difficult.

As soon as he walked through the door Evan knew he’d be trouble. Dark brown eyes with even darker hair, covered in tattoos and piercings (possibly more than Evan himself), and sporting a wicked grin that just screamed fuckboy.

Yeah he was Evan’s type.

He’d come in for a flash tattoo, choosing the small skull option they had and requesting it on his upper arm. Nothing difficult.

What was difficult was trying to keep a straight face while the man’s—Barty, he’d learned—warm skin was right there in front of Evan’s face and under his hands. Setting up was easy, Evan going through the movements with a precision that only comes from familiarity. He could feel Barty’s eyes on him as he worked, causing Evan’s heart to speed up. Get it together, Rosier.

“How long have you been doing this?” Barty asked curiously.

“Almost 4 years.” Evan replied, turning back to face Barty. He moved closer, flicking on the overhead light. “Lean back.”

Barty complied, leaning back against the chair and holding out his arm. Evan took a second to admire the array of tattoos covering his arm before cleaning the area for the new one.

“Here?” He asked and Barty nodded in response. After the stencil was done, Evan got to work on the tattoo. He worked quietly, only mildly distracted by the feeling of Barty’s skin under his and eyes watching him.

It didn’t take long—the tattoo was only small—and soon he was placing the second skin over top of the finished piece.

“Looks great!” Barty said, turning his arm to get a better view of the skull now resting on his upper arm.

“Fits in perfectly with the rest.” Evan commented. “Now I’m sure you know the healing process but I’ll go over it with you anyways.”

Barty nodded along with Evan’s words as he described how to properly care for and heal the new tattoo. His eyes lingered on Evan’s neck for what was certainly too long to be just admiring the tattoos visible above his collar. And he licked his lips as his eyes roamed over Evan’s piercings.

Evan suddenly felt too hot in the small room, the lights combined with Barty’s gaze making his heart race. He cleared his throat as Barty’s eyes flicked back to meet his own, watching as the dark haired man smirked slightly.

“Well as long as you feel alright, you’re free to go.” Evan said, turning away from him to take of his gloves and distract himself from the way his heart fluttered at the smirk.

“Actually I think I feel a bit dizzy.” Barty said. “Mind if I stay a little longer?”

“Oh, yeah that’s fine.” He grabbed a granola bar and tossed it to the other man. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

They fell into silence as Barty chewed on the granola bar and Evan started cleaning up. A small part of him wished this would never end, there was something comfortable about simply being near Barty.

“Your tattoos are pretty cool.” Barty began, tossing the empty wrapper in the garbage bin. “What’s the one near your neck?”

“This one?” Evan asked, gesturing to the flower partly visible above his shirt collar. It was the one Barty had been staring at before.

“Yeah. Looks like a rose.”

“It is.” Evan confirmed.

“Can I see the rest of it?”

Evan hesitated.

“I’m not asking you to take your shirt off.” Barty said in a light teasing tone. “Wouldn’t complain if you did though.”

“Oh?” Suddenly he was feeling a bit more bold, despite how unprofessional it was to flirt with a client.

Barty’s grin widened. “Considering it?”

“Maybe.”

Barty leaned closer. “You got any other clients today?”

“No.” He really hoped Barty couldn’t hear his heart beating.

A hand came up to brush across the rose tattoo, pushing his shirt collar to the side a bit before moving away to brush through his hair.

“This is a horrible idea.” Evan said, shivering when Barry’s fingers lightly brushed his ear.

“Are you saying you don’t want to?”

“I should.” Barty’s hand stilled in his hair. “I’m not though.”

Their lips crashed together before he could blink. Yeah, Evan was definitely breaking his rule.

#marauders era #rosekiller #rosekiller microfic #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #evan rosier x barty crouch jr #marauders #rosekiller fanfiction #rosekiller fic

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a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan · 2 days ago

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This is one of those moments where Twilight Princess feels like a modern (for the time) successor to Ocarina of Time. Not in the superficial ways that everyone cites, but by using the camera to flesh the subtext of Link's emotions.

I wish I had screenshots of it, but I'm thinking of the scene in OoT where Link returns to the Sacred Forest Meadow as adult and the camera lingers on the stump where Saria used to be. The camerawork serves an obvious purpose: make sure the player knows Saria is missing. But it also serves to give a glimpse into what Link is thinking. He is dwelling on the fact that his friend is not where he expected her to be. He feels the passage of time, that things which used to be certain no longer are. This is something that would be lost if the camera didn't behave the way it did.

Twilight Princess is a lot more generous than OoT generally when it comes to showing Link's emotions. It may be due to the limit on his facial expressions as a wolf, but it is difficult to parse what he is feeling here at first. But the camera could have focused on Colin the whole time. Instead, after he says his bit, it switches to Link. It reminds the player that Link is there, but it is also telling the player to think about what Link is feeling while he witnesses this.

(actually, my screenshots don't do justice to the scene because after Colin says the first bit, the other characters silently react in their own ways before he finishes and the camera switches to Link)

Midna says something afterward to the effect of "wow, sure sucks that your friends don't even know you're there and won't remember that you saved them." And yeah, maybe that is exactly what Link is thinking. But Midna is also an unreliable narrator, at least in the beginning. She's selfish and looks down on Link for being as kind and selfless as he is. She might be projecting onto him. What if that's what she would feel if she were in Link's position?

I think there's truth in what she says, but I think Link has more going on up there here. He reflecting on how he is watching his timid young friend hold onto hope and comfort a girl who is normally not particularly kind to him. He's proud of Colin, but is upset that he can't show it. Plenty of other times in the game, Link shows his affection for Colin through just a simple smile, which the younger Ordon kids hardly afford him. Link wants to smile at Colin, but even if he could be seen, he would be a terrifying beast to him. But hey, maybe I'm projecting.

#zelda #the legend of zelda #my own #zelda analysis #twilight princess #hero of twilight #twilight princess hd #cooper's captures #zelda colin #zelda beth #wolf link

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letmerideitchris · 2 days ago

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𐬺𝐕𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐𐬺

summary: Chris matt and nick get a new videographer, she is funny, smart and pretty, basically everything Chris could ever want in a girl. Chris finds it impossible to not fall for her…

Warnings: angst, yelling, cursing, mentions of killing (in a joking way)

Wc: 1009

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏

“Chris would you like to tell us what the fuck we just walked in on?” matt says sternly

Y/n had previously left the house out of embarrassment to what nick and matt had walked into.

“does anyone know where some bleach is? My eyes need some” nick says looking around

“guys you're being dramatic, I'm sorry i couldn’t resist, she’s everything i have ever wanted” chris says as he looks down at the floor

“that is the least of our problems right now, shes meant to be coming over tomorrow to film a vlog for us, that is going to be so awkward thanks to you dick face” nick says hitting chris’ shoulder

“yeah chris, you need to sort it out and apologize because you are runing it for us”

“but I'm not sorry and i am quite looking forward to seeing her tomorrow even though it will be awkward…” Chris says slightly smiling at the thought of her

“im not sure if shes looking forward to seeing you, she just ran away” matt says looking at the open front door y/n previously left through.

“chris you make me want to kill you, is it hard being this dumb?”

“guys can you show some sort of sympathy? Like imagine the girl of your dreams is actually interested in you and then your brothers walk in on you fucking and she runs out of embarrassment?” chris says

“No i actually cannot imagine that i am gay if you forgot dumb shit” nick says in a duh tone

“you guys are ridiculous” chris mumbles annoyed as he makes his way downstairs to his bedroom.

The next morning chris is laying in bed half asleep, wishing she was beside him. But hes quickly taken out of his trance when he hears the doorbell, the sound he was dreading yesterday but wishing upon now.

“i’ll get it!” matt yells from upstairs

But when he turns to the door chris is already unlocking it

Nick is sitting on the couch with an unamused face, when matt looks over at him “look at this desperate dickhead”

“hes never gonna learn, fuck sake” nick eyerolls

When chris opens the door, y/n is taken aback by his face. y/n looks down at the floor and says quietly “oh… hi chris”

chris’ smile quickly fades as he hears her tone and realizes his excitement isn't mutual.

“hi y/n, come upstairs, can I get you a water or?-”

“uh no i should be good..thanks..”

Chris takes a seat on the couch wondering why y/n is acting so weird towards him. What did he do wrong? Did he say something bad?

The boys all give y/n a hug greeting her, besides chris.

“matt would you mind getting me some water? I’m really thirsty?” y/n says looking at matt

Chris looks over at her with a confused look across his face

“yeah of course, nick can you come with me, i think these two need to talk it out..” matt lowers his tone at the end so only nick can hear his last comment

Chris and y/n are both sitting on opposite sides of the couch looking at each other waiting for one to speak up.

“y/n, whats wrong?” chris speaks up

“have a think chris, have a think.”

Chris is using all of his brain and is trying to peice together what could be wrong. And then something clicks in his mind and realizes what has happened. He looks up with a concerned look on his face

“is this about yesterday, y/n? If it is im really sor-”

y/n cuts him off “chris do you not realize what we did and how this will affect our relationship and my job”

Chris is shocked by what she said “wait so your saying you regret what we did? I-I really thought we had something, something that would last, something you would care about” he says as he raises his voice and stands up angrily from the couch.

“no i don't regret it, that's not what I'm saying. I just think we should've been more careful or waited a bit longer” y/n says avoiding eye contact

“so you do regret it huh?” he starts to walk off then she grabs him by the arm

“no, chris just calm down i am not done-”

“well i sure am, get out of my house please”

y/n opens her purse quxckly, chris is standing there waiting for something that could save this relationship but instead it is something that will change their lives forever.

y/n slides a positive pregnancy test along the coffee table.

“as i was saying, we should've been more careful, should've waited longer, not saying i regret it.” she says shaking with tears forming on her waterline

She closes her purse, gets up, looks into the kitchen to see matt and nick both staring in such a state of shock. Tears start rolling down her face as she looks back at chris’ guilty and worried face. She wipes her tears and continues to leave.

The door slams

“i could choke you to death right now chris, not much is stopping me” nick says furiously as he follows y/n out of the house

Chris is still standing there in disbelief staring at that positive test.

“chris, ill get you some water, all you can do right now is sit down and try and relax yourself. Don't text anyone and don't listen to what nick is saying even though he is right, i know you would be really stressed right now and nothing he has to say will help.” matt says patting chris on the back gently

chris sits down on the couch shaking with tears falling down his face onto his pants, he can't seem to look away from the test. Regret and guilt clouds his mind and all he is thinking about is y/n.

“m-matt” chris stutters, matt turns back around to face chris, you can tell even matt is stressed out

“i, i am going to be a d - dad”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @riggysworld @chrissturnsss @sophand4n4

@chrispycremedonut

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo fandom #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo fluff #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo edit #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #sturniolos #the sturniolo triplets

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diamonddaze01 · 16 hours ago

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love you the mostest

pairing: ljh x reader genre: fluffy fluffy fluffy | wc: 2.2k warnings: none | rating: pg a/n: my love letter to lee jihoon - happy birthday <3 // also big thanks to @chanranghaeys for convincing me to write this all as one big fic i love u muah

summary: happy birthday, jihoon.

The room was still dark, save for the faintest sliver of light peeking through the edges of the curtains, hinting at the dawn breaking outside. The soft hum of the early morning and the rhythmic rise and fall of Jihoon’s breath were the only sounds, a quiet lullaby of intimacy.

You had woken up long before your alarm, the quiet stirrings of the city pulling you from sleep. Jihoon’s schedule was packed today, like it always was, and you wanted to steal this moment—when the world was still asleep and his mind hadn't yet been claimed by the chaos. He was so calm in the mornings, his body relaxed and at peace, the stillness of sleep wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

You shifted slightly under the covers, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, inviting you to stay close. His hand found yours, fingers threading together almost instinctively, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. His exhale tickled your skin as he pulled you in, his face burrowing into the crook of your neck. The familiar weight of him settled against you, grounding you in the moment.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering there for just a beat longer than usual. Pulling back, you brushed a strand of hair away from his face, his eyes barely open, still clouded with sleep. He blinked up at you, his hand tightening around yours as though to ensure you were real, his lips curving into a soft smile.

"Mm... so early," he mumbled, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep, his breath warm against your skin.

"Sorry, Hoonie," you whispered, squeezing his hand gently. "I couldn’t wait to tell you."

He stirred just a little, his arms pulling you closer, his lips grazing your jawline, a barely audible sound escaping his lips. "Tell me what?"

You grinned at how endearing he looked, his sleepy smile making your heart flutter. "Happy birthday," you whispered, your words soft but full of warmth, just for him, in the quiet stillness of the room.

His eyes fluttered open fully now, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him, and for a moment, it seemed like he didn’t quite understand. Then, a soft, surprised smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and his voice, still rough from sleep, was filled with warmth. "It’s too early for that, you know?"

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his messy hair. "I know. But I wanted to be the first to wish you."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you in closer, his lips brushing against your neck once more as he sighed. "You’re always the first," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "And the best part of my day, too."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you could feel the sincerity in his words, even through the haze of sleep. The morning light, gentle now, cast a soft glow on his face, making him look even more angelic than usual.

"I’m glad," you murmured, your voice full of affection as you tightened your embrace. "You deserve everything, Jihoon. I hope this year brings you all the happiness you deserve."

He sighed contentedly, his eyes slipping shut, the exhaustion of his day lingering in the way he held you close. But then, his lips brushed your cheek, a soft kiss that lingered just long enough to make your heart beat a little faster. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—just gentle, an invitation to stay in this moment with him.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned into the kiss, closing your eyes as his lips hovered near your skin, warm and tender. A moment passed, and his mouth brushed the corner of your lips, so faint it almost felt like a dream. The kiss was lazy and slow, drawn out, as though he was savoring the sensation of being close to you.

His hand found its way to your arm, his fingers tracing up your skin with a light touch, sending a shiver down your spine. He tugged you in closer, his body pressing against yours, and the weight of him was both heavy and comforting. The space between you disappeared, leaving only the soft press of his lips and the gentle rhythm of your breath.

"Too far away," he murmured, his voice low and still thick with sleep, as if waking to the reality of the moment. His lips found yours again, this time with more intention, the kiss deepening as if he couldn’t quite pull away. It was slow, not desperate, but full of the kind of closeness that only two people who had shared so many quiet mornings could understand.

You melted into him, your heart fluttering with the familiarity of it all. His lips moved against yours in a rhythm only the two of you knew, a rhythm that spoke of years of being in sync with each other, of a bond forged in the most ordinary yet profound moments.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, both of you breathing softly, trying to slow the quickening beat of your hearts. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and you brushed your fingers through his hair, your heart full with the quiet intimacy of the moment.

"You need to get some rest, Hoonie," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. "You’ve got a long day ahead."

He groaned, a playful pout forming on his lips. "Just a little longer..."

You shook your head gently, kissing his forehead, lingering there for a moment before you tucked yourself closer to him. "No, you’ve got schedules today. You need to sleep."

Jihoon’s arms tightened around you for a second, and he sighed, his face nuzzling into your neck once more. "Fine," he muttered, though you could hear the smile in his voice. "But just a few more minutes."

You grinned, letting yourself relax into him, the warmth of his body and the steady sound of his breathing lulling you both back into the quiet comfort of the morning. The world outside could wait just a little longer.

It’s nearly 2 AM when Jihoon comes home, the faint jingle of his keys breaking the stillness of the apartment. The door creaks open, and the soft shuffle of his sneakers against the hardwood announces his presence. He stands in the entryway, shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion. His eyes are heavy, his body aching from the endless hours spent in the studio.

But then he notices it—the living room.

The space is bathed in a soft, golden glow from the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Balloons in every color scatter across the floor like a rainbow had exploded inside. In the center of the coffee table, a small cake sits proudly, its frosting delicately swirled and an unlit candle standing tall in the middle. The sight alone eases the tight coil of tension in his chest, but it’s the figure on the couch that truly stops him.

It’s you.

You’re curled up, cheek pressed to a throw pillow, legs tucked underneath you. The faint rise and fall of your chest in sleep makes his heart twist. You look so peaceful, your hair slightly mussed and your face soft with dreams. Jihoon stands there for a moment, drinking you in, before a quiet laugh escapes him. How is it that even now, you manage to make him feel like the luckiest person alive?

“Baby?” he calls softly, his voice low and careful, barely above a whisper.

You stir at the sound, a groan escaping your lips as your eyes flutter open. Blinking blearily, you meet his gaze, your expression drowsy but warm.

“Jihoon?” you murmur, your voice laced with sleep.

He steps closer, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “Yeah, love,” he says, moving to the couch and gently lifting your legs to settle them on his lap. His hands are warm and careful as they touch you, and you sigh at the familiarity. Leaning down, he presses a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as if to reassure himself that you’re really here. “What’s all this?”

“Birthday surprise,” you mumble, your voice thick with sleep as you rub your eyes.

Jihoon chuckles, a low sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “It’s 2 AM. My birthday’s over, love.”

That wakes you a little more. You sit up abruptly, your mock-serious expression drawing a playful scoff from him. “I’d celebrate with you any day, any time, forever, love of my life,” you declare dramatically, throwing a hand over your heart.

He rolls his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze betrays him. “Alright then, troublemaker,” he teases, “let’s celebrate.”

Sliding off the couch, Jihoon pulls you with him, settling himself on the floor in front of the coffee table. He tugs at your hands until you’re seated sideways in his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist like they were made to anchor you there.

His gaze flickers to the candle. “Well?” he prompts, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Aren’t you going to light it?”

You reach for the lighter, flicking it until a tiny flame dances atop the wick. The room glows warmly, the light catching on Jihoon’s features—his sharp jawline, the soft curve of his lips, and the faint tiredness that lingers in his eyes. Your breath hitches. He’s always been beautiful, but in this moment, with his gaze fixed only on you, he’s breathtaking.

You hum a quiet, off-key rendition of Happy Birthday, and Jihoon sways you gently as you sing, his hands rubbing slow circles into your back. When you finish, he leans forward to blow out the candle, the flame flickering briefly before disappearing.

“Make a wish?” you ask softly.

His lips curve into a faint smile. “Don’t need to,” he murmurs, his voice like a secret meant only for you. “I already have everything I want.”

The words make your heart stutter. He leans back against the couch, and you press a kiss to his cheek, then another to his jawline, your lips brushing against his skin as softly as the light in the room.

Jihoon reaches for the cake with his fingers, tearing off a small piece and holding it out to you. “Forgot the plates, huh?” he teases, his lips twitching with amusement.

You laugh, taking the offered bite. The frosting melts on your tongue, sugary and sweet, but nothing compares to the warmth that blooms in your chest at the sound of his laughter.

“You know,” he muses, brushing a thumb over the corner of your lips to catch a stray crumb, “in Brazil, people give the first slice of their birthday cake to the person they love most.”

The simple, tender confession undoes you. Without thinking, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. It’s soft and deep, and he sighs against your lips, his hands tightening around your waist. He tastes like frosting and everything good in the world, and you think you could drown in him forever.

“Happy birthday, Jihoon,” you whisper when you finally pull back, your foreheads resting together. “I love you the most, too.”

His lips brush against your temple as he replies, “Thank you, my love.”

The two of you sit there for a while in comfortable silence, the hum of the city outside a faint backdrop to Jihoon’s voice as he softly hums a melody into your hair.

“Baby?”

“Yeah, love?” he answers, his tone low and warm.

“It’s not your birthday anymore.”

A faint smirk curves his lips. “Well done, troublemaker. Very astute observation.”

A mischievous grin spreads across your face as you dip your finger into the frosting. “So that means I can do this!”

Before he can react, you swipe your frosting-covered hand across his cheek, leaving a trail of sprinkles and sugary chaos behind.

For a moment, he just stares at you, mouth agape in mock horror. Then his eyes narrow, and a grin overtakes his features.

“Why, you little—”

You’re on your feet in an instant, laughter spilling from your lips as you dart toward the bedroom. Jihoon’s laughter rings out as he chases you, catching you with ease and tackling you onto the bed.

“Got you now,” he declares, pinning your wrists to the mattress, his fingers digging mercilessly into your sides as you shriek with laughter.

“Jihoon, stop!” you gasp between giggles. “The sheets—they’re new!”

He pauses, his expression mock-serious. “Fine,” he relents, releasing your wrists. “Only because the sheets are white.”

“And because you love me?” you tease, still catching your breath.

“And because I love you,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom. “I love you the mostest. Thank you for the best birthday.”

Lying back on the bed, you let out a contented sigh, your heart full. There’s no one else you’d rather celebrate with—2 AM or not.

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rewiringtoheal · 2 days ago

Text

This Pain Is Temporary

Anna x Fem!Reader

He's Just Not That Into You AU

Summary: I was watching this movie and had a lot of what if questions. What if the main cast actually all communicated with each other? What if Anna actually had some character development? What if Reader was a variation of a female Conor Barry who got a clue? And how would these differences lead to Anna genuinely falling in love with Reader.

warnings: very slowburn, angst, worse before better, eventual fluff.

You feel used. This person that you love…loved?? You aren’t really sure anymore of your feelings toward Anna. It was never simple with her. And truthfully, you wish you could go back to your blissful ignorance.

You had been so thrilled when she told you she was finally ready to take the next step with you. A real relationship with the girl of your dreams. Having your heartfelt love confession be returned and then making love for hours was more than you ever could have hoped for.

You now knew it was all a lie. And that Anna was a very skilled actor. In your excitement you had raced home the next morning to tell your best buddy Alex and his new girlfriend GiGi the news. After showing them a picture of Anna and you. The night of bliss quickly turned sour; GiGi hesitantly told you that Anna was the same woman that had a very recent affair with her best friend's husband. And everything the past few months had started to make sense. How Anna would constantly ignore your calls but somehow always be available when she needed her emotional needs met. And finding out that the only reason she wanted a relationship with you was because the man of her dreams wouldn’t leave his wife was heartbreaking. How could you be so stupid? And how could you be so blind to the type of person Anna really was.

You felt a hand squeezing your knee bringing you back to the world around you. You see GiGi’s hand retreating and her eyes filled with sorrow. You muster up a strained smile.

“Well, at least I had my dream girl for a moment even if it wasn’t real. Looking back, I kinda see now that she treated me like shit but I was so lost in her. I can’t believe I was so blind to her selfishness. And now this…I don’t think I ever really knew her at all,” you say somberly.

Alex let out a deep sigh, “Dude I don’t really know what to say. She did really shitty things but maybe she's not a shitty person. The moments you had together weren’t all fake. The parts of herself she showed you are probably real. And you can love those parts and still be hurt that she lied about her feelings for you.”

You give a weak chuckle, “You’re right..but I don’t know how to deal with this. I do still love her even if she used me. I see it so clearly now. I’m the back up plan. The person she really wanted hurt her so she chose the safe option.”

Gigi looked at you, her eyes filling with sorrow, “Sometimes people don’t know what they have until it's gone. She is making awful decisions and it’s hurting everyone around her. Deal with this by loving yourself first. I know it's hard but she doesn’t appreciate you. And only wants you when she has no one else.”

That was hard to hear but Gigi was right. You need to take care of yourself. For months you have been putting all of your energy into Anna. Being there for her emotionally, picking up her dry cleaning, giving her rides, and loving her to the best of your ability. All to realize that she never really cared about you, not even as a friend. A friend wouldn’t play with your feelings like this.

You continue to chat with your friends for a little while longer. Eventually you grow too sad and too tired to keep up the conversation. You excuse yourself for the night and head up to your bedroom. Not in the mood to do your night time routine you just chuck off your clothes, put your cellphone on your night stand and cuddle under the covers.

Your mind keeps turning in circles as you lay there. The happiness you had felt earlier today has turned into a deep sadness. And for the first time since Gigi told you about Anna you allow yourself to cry. As silent tears move down the contours of your face you burrow into your pillow; just praying to yourself that you can fall asleep. Anything to stop the pain.

You briefly wonder if Gigi’s friend Janine is in the same state you are right now. You know more than likely she is worse off than you. Janine's entire life is in shambles. Her husband is awful no doubt about it but you just can’t wrap your head around Anna getting involved with a married man. Nothing makes sense anymore but maybe you never had a clue to begin with.

#Scarlett johansson x reader #natasha romanoff #scarlett johansson #natasha romanoff x reader #he's just not that into you

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millieisawriter · 1 day ago

Text

Workin' girl

arthur morgan x reader

summary: the one where arthur pulls a john — falling in love with a working girl. it was never supposed to happen, yet it did, and now arthur is left with two choices. either he, again, walks away from a woman that loves him, or tries to fight for her.

wc: 2k

all pics taken from pinterest

♡this wasn't requested, but if you wish to request something you're more than welcome♡

a/n: i see this happening in blackwater in case i decide to write a 2nd part, but when i started writing i imagined saint denis, didn't see any town/city names mentioned as i was proof-reading, lmk if you see something i missed <3

Life has never treated you kindly so eventually, as soon as you could leave your family home, you turned to the oldest profession in the world. Even if that kind of life was better, it still wasn't ideal, but it was the best you could do. Eventually, you started to like it because even with its issues and dark sides it wasn't that terrible. Some would even dare saying it was 'easy money', which you actually knew wasn't true.

Luckily for you, you ended up in one of the more expensive brothels. Maybe it was the 'splendor' of the place, the luxorious interior, that made you feel somewhat safe. Safer than you would feel in some cheap saloon where the patrons consisted of drifters with a questionable past.

You had your regular patrons, ones that you got along with well — one of the reasons why they were your regulars. These were the men that could stay a bit longer after the service itself was done without making it awkward. Ones that you could have a conversation with, ones that saw you as another human being, not just an item to relieve their frustration.

It was a normal evening, the building was neither empty nor full. You didn't have that much on your hands, you and a fellow working girl were entertaining a group of men. They sat by a table, a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and two of these men had a companion in their lap — you and your friend. Ending the evening in the bedroom wasn't certain, for now you were just trying to make them spend as much money as possible on the drinks.

Then, Arthur walked in. One of your regulars, one you were particularly fond of. The chemistry between the two of you was so strong sometimes you wanted to tell him he didn't have to pay.

His eyes immediately found you, and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel jealous seeing you in the man's lap. But you, as if on command, turned to look at Arthur and as you noticed your favorite patron, you excused yourself from the table.

"Mister Callahan," you beamed, approaching the man, "so good to see you again."

He tipped his hat to you, his lips curling into a soft smile. "Evenin' darlin', thought I'd stop by again. You been keepin' busy?"

The way he always called you darling, every time, made you feel so warm and bubbly. Of course, he wasn't the first man to do that, but when it came from him, it felt almost sincere.

"Busy enough," you replied, glancing over your shoulder at the table of men you just left, "but I'll always make time for you, mister."

"Well, reckon I'll take you up on that. How bout we find a quiet spot?"

"Your wish is my command." Giggling, you took Arthur by the hand to lead him upstairs where your room was. Even if he already knew the way well enough.

Your room was just like any other room in that brothel — furnished with the most luxorious-looking furniture, tastefully decorated with expensive ornaments, every little detail taken care of.

As the door to your room clicked shut behind you, the world outside seemed to fade miles away. In that moment right there it were just the two of us, bathed in the dim light by the fireplace's glow.

Arthur's hat found its usual place on the small table by the door and he turned to face you, "I can never stay away for too long." Shortly, his hands landed on your waist, resting on the corset of your dress.

"Then maybe you should visit more often..." You suggested, your own hands finding their way to the man's shoulders.

"I'm afraid it ain't a good idea, darlin'. I always look forward to seein' you. But sayin' goodbye..."

"I get what you mean," you chuckled, "so what's it gonna be today? Just the regular service, or you want something extra? It'll be on the house."

Every time Arthur visited you, it was both blissfull and painful for him. You were so good at what you were doing it felt like a religious experience, but the attachment he held for you left a hole in his heart each time he had to say goodbye.

He had always wished he could just ask you to leave this life, and join the gang, but which woman would agree for this? Your current life, your current job, as oppressing as it was, couldn't be worse than living on the run. In Arthur's eyes at least.

In the brothel you had your own room, a wardrobe with many dresses. You had a somehow stable income, it didn't seem as if money were any issue to you. All this, compared to what you could have in the camp, was much worse. And you didn't even know his real last name, there was no reason for you to leave this life you had for a criminal.

Why did Arthur even fall for a working girl? The exact same thing happened to John, which Arthur would often make fun of him for. Maybe life just decided to pull a joke on Arthur now. But he just couldn't control himself, from the first time he saw you, you were different. With other women it didn't take long to notice they're just playing a role, but you... from the first time you even smiled at Arthur, he was drawn to how genuine it looked. And now, you had become not just a pretty face to entertain him, but someone he felt at ease with.

This time, as many times before, Arthur didn't hurry to get dressed and leave the room, return back to camp after getting what he wanted. Instead, he stayed under the covers in your bed, smoking a cigarette as you kept going on about something that happened a few days ago.

He didn't mind, he could let you yap his ears off, your voice was such a calming sound. It was almost hard to believe you weren't just a hallucination he made up. How could such an ethereal being just lay there, next to him, head propped propped on your palm as you lay on your stomach, talking about whatever nonsense? How could this happen to a man like Arthur Morgan?

"...so then," you paused to take the cigarette from Arthur, take one puff and hand it right back, "you'd think a man like him would have some sense, right? Well, no, he was so damn thick in the head, she just told the guard to throw him out!"

Arthur chuckled, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Bet he didn't see that comin'. I'm glad I ain't made it onto your list of thick-headed fools yet."

"Yet!" You playfully reminded him. "You seem to have more sense than others, although I can't say I'm some weak little girl. I don't even need a guard, but the madam insists it's for safety."

A thought lingered in the back of Arthur's mind. It was weird, in a sense, to know there's a guard right outside your door whenever you had a man up there. Even right then.

"I don't doubt you could handle yourself, darlin'," Arthur smirked, taking one last drag from his cigarette, "but it don't hurt havin' someone lookin' out for you."

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "Guess you're right, mister."

Arthur stubbed out the ciragette into the ashtray that stood on the bedside table, knowing what it meant. His time was up, he extended the time of his visit as long as he could. Now that his usual cigarette was finished, it was the time for him to go.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up. You watched as he reached for his clothes that had been thrown onto the floor, and for the first time a single tear started to burn the corner of your eye.

With his jeans already on, and his shirt for now unbuttoned, he reached to the pocket, retrieving the usual payment. You wiped the tear away as it escaped your eye. It was always the same routine, but it didn't make it any easier to watch him go.

"Here it is." He said almost robotically, placing the money next to the ashtray, throwing in a little tip.

You looked at the money with sadness in your gaze, then your eyes shifted to look at the man. "You know, you shouldn't have to pay, because you don't make it feel like work."

There they were, the words Arthur was so afraid to hear. Him having a more romantic kind of attachment to you was one thing. However, knowing that you reciprocated the feeling, made it more difficult.

"Good," he nodded, "cause you don't make me feel like the bastard I am," as he buttoned up his shirt.

You sat up on the bed, pulling the sheets harder around you, since you were still naked. "Arthur..." You sighed, the rest of the sentence dying in your throat.

The fact that for the first time you had used his actual name instead of calling him mister as always, made it only more difficult.

"No, darlin', don't."

"You know you don't have to leave, right?"

Oh, he had to leave. If he overstayed his welcome too much, the guard at your door would become highly suspicious. And that would only cause issues for you.

"I have to, don't wanna make it harder." Arthur replied.

"Harder for who? I know a man's nature well enough, and I can tell there's something more in the— the way you fuck me, Arthur."

He thought maybe playing dumb would help him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you were to ask me to... to abandon this life for you... I would."

Arthur gulped. It was just what he wished for, but what he couldn't allow to happen. "I've got nothin' to give you. I live on the run, it ain't somethin' you wanna be a part of, trust me."

"You think I'd rather keep fucking strangers to survive, than travel the world with a man I lo—"

"You don't." Arthur interrupted you. "You don't know what you're talkin' bout." Love was a word of huge weight, there was no way it was what you felt for him.

You insisted. "I know what I feel, and I know what you feel, I see it in your eyes, I feel it when you're in my bed, Arthur. I wanna leave this life for you."

"It ain't gonna be no escape, though, just another kind of trap. You deserve better than fuckin' strangers to get by, but you also deserve better than runnin' and not knowin' which day will be your last."

"I don't want better!" At that point you didn't care if the guard outside will hear. "I want you, Arthur!"

"I want you too, darlin'," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly, "but... you're safer here. I can't sentence you to a life of an eternal wanderin'."

His words had a final tone, but as well as you could read his eyes, you could tell he regrets saying what he had just said. You could have had a roof over your head, and locks in your door, but it wasn't safety. It was survival.

You stepped closer, reaching out to grab Arthur's hand. You knew he didn't want to leave, you were sure he wants you just like you wanted him. "Arthur..."

His heart ached when he saw the way your beautiful eyes looked at him, but still he decided to kiss you. It only made it worse, making another cut in Arthur's already damaged heart.

"I gotta go." He stated, freeing his hand from yours.

"No." You refused as if you had any say in that matter. You could demand he takes you with him now, wherever he's headed, but what would it do?

"I can't make promises," he continued, putting his boots and jacket on, then his hat, "but I'll figure somethin' out."

You stayed silent, watching him leave the room, not knowing if he's going to keep his word. All you had now was the money, that you didn't even want from him, and the promise that could have been empty.

#rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 community #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2

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pascaloverx · 3 days ago

Text

CARELESS

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Laena Velaryon. Recently, you’ve found yourself tempted by someone you never considered before—your cousin, Aegon Targaryen II. After a glass or two of wine, he seems like an enticing distraction. How could you resist the temptation to indulge in something no one would approve of?

Author's Note: This is the second House of the Dragon universe fanfic I’m writing, but I’m not sure if it will continue. This work is set in the world created by George R.R. Martin, as depicted in his book Fire & Blood, and none of the characters belong to me. The story will follow some events from the series House of the Dragon (2022), but with changes to fit the fanfiction narrative. Therefore, it will not adhere strictly to the series' storyline. The fanfic may include inappropriate language, adult content, and violence. Please engage with the story if you’d like it to continue!

AO3LINK

PREVIEW

A most tedious dinner. You were seated alongside your brothers, your father, and your stepmother, accompanied by her children. All gathered at this meal, not for comfort, but to maintain appearances. Your younger sisters, Baela and Rhaena, sat closely beside their betrothed, Jacaerys and Lucerys. Your father would never explain why you had not been promised to anyone. The most he had ever mentioned was that King Viserys I had requested you remain unbetrothed, with the intent that, when the time was right, you would wed one of his sons.

It would not be such a bad idea, were the son of Viserys whom you desire available for marriage. After all, Prince Aegon II is wed to Princess Helaena, leaving you to wait for a union with one of the remaining sons: Prince Aemond or Prince Daeron. Aemond always appears so stern and determined. Surely, he is a man of courage. Yet, you cannot say whether he is the type to offer you devotion, passion, and amusement. As for Daeron, he seems almost nonexistent.

"If you are thinking of using that knife for some wicked deed, I would suggest pointing the sharp end towards your intended target, not towards yourself." You remark, your gaze fixed on Aegon II as he idly plays with the knife in his hands. Your voice is not raised, for you do not wish for anyone to notice you speaking with Aegon just yet.

"Are you so bored that gazing at me is your only amusement, cousin?" Aegon speaks, as though in desperate need of someone to alleviate his ennui. Not long ago, he had attempted to engage Jace in conversation, broaching inappropriate topics of a sexual nature. Clearly, he sought nothing more than to provoke Rhaenyra's son.

"It must be customary here to have nothing to do. Despite the abundant quantity of wine served, it seems there is no amount of wine that could make it pleasant to spend hours gazing at you," you reply, your words seemingly sparking something in Prince Aegon II. He gives a half-smile, his blue eyes almost gleaming, despite his melancholic expression.

He moves his chair closer to you. "I can't imagine there is anything more interesting happening in Dragonstone than here. Especially for someone like you—unbetrothed, not a rider of any dragon. Tell me, how does it feel to be the only defective daughter of Daemon Targaryen?" Aegon truly seeks to provoke you. Yet, you harden your expression, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes.

"A bold remark from the man who can't speak High Valyrian well enough to properly command his dragon, or do you think I haven’t noticed that your skin is so pale it seems you haven’t stepped outside in months?" you retort, trying to wound him as deeply as he has wounded you. "And for your information, I recently claimed Seasmoke, so I am no longer a dragonless rider." As you speak the last words, it almost seems as though you are seeking his approval in some way.

"I dare you to say that closer to my face," Aegon II Targaryen retorts provocatively, as though, despite your barbs striking a nerve, he finds satisfaction in the exchange. "And you only speak of my skills in High Valyrian out of envy. I highly doubt that Seasmoke compares in any way to Sunfyre, who, might I add, understands me completely."

You rise from your seat, stepping closer to Aegon, who now sits far nearer than he had before, having crossed the table’s divide with unsettling ease. "I shall say it plainly, Your Highness, face to face," you declare, your tone calm yet laced with venom. "You reek of wine and failure." Each word leaves your lips slowly, deliberate and cutting, as you lean perilously close to him. Most at the table remain absorbed in their own affairs, indifferent to the charged exchange between you and Aegon. Helaena’s gaze lingers briefly, yet her inscrutable expression betrays neither concern nor objection. Then, with calculated precision, Aemond rises. His sudden movement is commanding, his imposing presence drawing all attention to him and breaking the taut tension between you and his elder brother.

"Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise... strong. Let us drain our cups to these three strong boys," Aemond declares with biting sarcasm. It is clear he seeks to unsettle Rhaenyra’s sons, who are the subject of whispered rumors—that they are not Velaryons by blood, but bastards sired by Harwin Strong. The outcome is predictable. Within moments, Jacaerys’s fist connects with Aemond’s face, the clash erupting without pause. Aegon quickly moves to block Lucerys from joining the fray between his elder brother and Aemond. Boys, men, masculine creatures—all so easily bored, all with tempers as short as their patience.

Your father, Daemon Targaryen, rises, his presence commanding enough to silence the room after both Alicent and Rhaenyra have already stood. With his intervention, the conflict swiftly dissipates—a pity, for you would have relished watching them tear into one another. It would have been the most entertainment you’d had since arriving at the Red Keep.

"Sister, we should retire to our chambers," Baela says, pulling you from your thoughts as you watch your relatives begin to file out from the table, the tension lingering like a ghost in their wake.

"Go on ahead, sister. I shall check on Viserys II and Aegon III to ensure they are sleeping peacefully—if it pleases you, Princess Rhaenyra," you reply to your sister, turning your attention to your stepmother, who still bears an air of frustration over the earlier chaos.

"Of course, Y/N. If you could give them a goodnight kiss on my behalf, I would be grateful. I will see to the boys’ return to their chambers before retiring to my own. Should you or Baela need anything…" Rhaenyra speaks, her weariness evident as though the mere act of quelling her sons' quarrel has drained her.

Your father, Daemon, approaches from behind, wrapping his arms around her in a gesture of unspoken solidarity. "If you need anything, do try to manage on your own—you are my daughters, after all," he says with a sly smile, pressing a kiss to Rhaenyra’s cheek before casting a confident glance toward you and Baela. With that, farewells are exchanged, and you each retreat to your respective quarters.

You make your way toward the quarters of your younger brothers—well, half-brothers, children of Rhaenyra and Daemon. You recall the day the maids brought them in, and so you attempt to follow the path that you remember. Yet, for some reason, it feels as though you’ve lost your way.

"Are you looking for me?" Aegon’s voice comes softly from behind you, and you jump, nearly crying out in surprise.

"Damn you, Aegon! Do you want me to wake the entire keep with my screams?" you exclaim, spinning around to face him. He stands there, a goblet of wine in hand, taking a slow sip as his gaze sweeps over you, appraising you from head to toe with a certain unsettling amusement.

"Never would I dream of allowing others to interrupt our little exchange, my dear Y/N," Aegon murmurs, closing the distance between you both.

You smile slyly, taking a step closer to him in return. "As for your question," you reply with a teasing edge, "I’m looking for an Aegon, but not you. My younger brother, to be precise. Do you happen to know where I can find the quarters of my younger siblings?"

You snatch the goblet of wine from his hand, taking a sip, and he watches you with a mixture of surprise and amusement. After a moment, he gestures toward the far end of the corridor, where a door stands slightly ajar. "That way," he says simply.

"Thank you for your assistance, Aegon," you say, returning the goblet to his hands, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the air between you feel charged. You begin to turn, heading toward the direction of your younger brothers' quarters, but then you feel Aegon’s hands grasp you, clumsily yet with undeniable strength. He likely still holds the effects of the wine, but his grip is firm, almost possessive.

"There is certainly a more fitting way for you to show your gratitude," Aegon murmurs, drawing closer to your face, the sharp scent of wine swirling around you both as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin.

"I don't think it would be appropriate for the gratitude you have in mind to take place so near to your quarters, Your Highness. Surely your wife would not approve," you say, your words rejecting him, though your body betrays your true feelings as you move closer to his lips.

Aegon’s response comes with a quiet, almost amused tone, "Helaena is more understanding than you might think. She prefers to stay in her chambers most of the time." His hands, with the subtle grace of someone accustomed to both charm and conquest, roam over your waist, as if testing the boundaries of your composure, seeking to draw you in further.

"Very well, then, close your eyes," you respond quickly. Aegon, likely expecting a kiss, closes his eyes gently, waiting. You draw your mouth near his, feeling the intoxicating scent of wine almost envelop you. It’s so close that any movement forward would result in a deep kiss. But where is the thrill in giving in so easily?

"Let us save that gratitude for another time, dear cousin," you finish with a soft kiss to his cheek. You pull away from him, gently removing his arms from around your waist. The frustration in Aegon's gaze is evident as he watches you retreat, and for a moment, you savor the power you hold over the situation. Turning, you walk away, heading toward the quarters of your younger brothers.

The following morning, you are abruptly awakened by the sound of your father entering your room. Daemon’s expression is anything but calm—he looks tense, almost impatient. "Get up, Y/N! King Viserys demands your presence in the throne room," he commands, his voice sharp and authoritarian. For a moment, you wonder if you’re caught in a nightmare. Your head throbs painfully from the effects of the wine you drank the night before, and it takes a few seconds for your mind to catch up with his words.

"What happened, Father?" you ask, still trying to compose yourself, too confused to fully understand. Daemon turns, his agitation palpable, running a hand through his hair as though processing what he’s about to say.

"After last night’s altercation, my beloved brother has decided to betroth you to his son. He believes it will help mend the relationships among the younger members of the family," Daemon says, his words laced with frustration. "Prepare yourself, Y/N. You are soon to be promised to the remaining son—the one-eyed prince." Daemon’s tone is nearly explosive as he paces around your room. After he speaks, he storms out, leaving you to grapple with the shocking news.

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5-puthyyy · 2 days ago

Text

River of Life (Agatha x Rio)

AO3 LINK

Word Count: 10k

Summary:

“A gift?” She repeated, stepping forward. The dead witch’s protests were easily ignored now; Death’s only focus was Agatha. Agatha, smiling at her brightly, eyes as bright and wild as her hair.

“A gift. For you,” Agatha revealed, taking her own step forward. Her lips trembled slightly, maybe from the cold or maybe from her nerves, Death does not know. But what she does know is Agatha just killed someone for her.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

Agatha attempted to step even closer but realised this was as close as she could get. The tip of her nose was just inches away from Death’s, the proximity immediately causing a shiver to run up her spine. “For you…my love,” she breathed out in confession, eager for Death’s reaction.

━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━

Death is a simp and Agatha kills witches to court her.

(So also a simp)

WARNINGS! -- (18+ ONLY) SEXUAL CONTENT, ABUSIVE MOTHER (physical and emotional), KILLING AND DEATH

River of Life

The first time Agatha encountered Death was as a mere babe, her eyes piercing swirls of blue, reflecting the dark forest and bright skies in which she was birthed. Her mother knew not of what she was, of what her future held, of the raw, addictive power that would always be within her grasp. But she knew something. Whether it was a feeling, a thought, or a sinister energy, she knew there would be something tragic about her babe as she looked down at her with sweaty hair clinging to rosy cheeks.

“What have I done?” Evanora Harkness whispers, her breath ragged and dull eyes tired yet impossibly wide with a feeling she was far too familiar with. Fear.

Agatha did not know it yet; did not know Magick, the world she was about to be thrown in without guidance, with a mother hellbent on making her suffer for simply existing. An abomination is what Evanora would say to her, over and over again, a twisted lullaby Agatha vowed to never inherit to her own babe, if she wished to have one.

Agatha Harkness does not recall her encounter with Death, but Death could never forget the feeling, the beat, thrum and rhythm of Agatha’s soul surfacing. Death felt the tug and pull but the feeling was new; it was not another soul awaiting collection, not one near the brink refusing to let go. Agatha’s call, to Death, was the complete opposite of the usual despair and dread. And Death made it their mission to figure out why.

Agatha had been on this plane for just a year, perhaps a few weeks more, when she took her first life. Still, centuries later, she remembers nothing of it, just the story her mother used as she degraded her, berated her, villainised her throughout her youth.

The story is a simple one, but oh-so-tragic. Whatever hatred her mother harboured for her grew into something even deeper, darker. There was no going back after that, no saving grace; each time she held her baby in her arms, Evanora struggled to feel an ounce of affection.

How could she for the person that killed her mother?

“Heed my words, Mother. There is something sinister about this child. Please, for my sake, for your babe, keep your distance,” Evanora pleaded, giving her Mother all the warnings she could possibly give.

Her Mother simply smiled at her, warm and understanding. “This child is your child, as you are mine. What you are experiencing is common, my dear. Every mother holds a little contempt for their child. After all, your body has been altered, shared, used for creation. Your identity shifted. You are no longer just Evanora Harkness, no longer just a witch, a member of this coven. You are a mother, first and foremost. And that duty is both a curse, and the highest blessing that the Divine Mother can give.”

It happened the next moon. Agatha wailed in her grandmother’s arms throughout the entire morning, ignoring the Sun’s demand for smiles. Milk? She’d spit it out and wail louder. Sleep? She’d shake the tiredness out of her eyes and wail louder yet. A kiss, a laugh, a smile so desperate for a little quiet; all mere distractions that Agatha was far too clever to fall for. She wanted one thing, and one thing only.

Her grandmother forgot Evanora’s warning. No Magick, she had said. The power may be too much, we are yet to know what she is capable of, yet to understand the effect Magick may have on her.

But the babe was so loud, so demanding, so…so wicked it drove the sanest witch to madness. She had no choice but to attempt to soothe her with Magick, just a quick lulling spell to put her to sleep, the same spell she had used on Evanora as a child. It was the tiniest drop, barely that, not wanting to harm her granddaughter. But all it took was a drop. That’s all it ever took to corrupt.

The wailing stopped, and so did the forest, their little village. The birds seized their squeaking; cows their mooing; horses their whining. At last, she felt as if she could finally breathe. But she would have treasured it more if she knew it would be her last. She began to choke as she sucked the crisp air in, eye snapping open at the swaying trees above. Was there danger nearby? Is this a spell from a witch of her past hellbent on revenge? What could she do to protect the babe in her arms?

She slowly lowered her head in between gasps, dread filling the remainder of her soul the moment she locked eyes with her granddaughter. They were no longer the river blues she had grown to love, but a purple. A shade so vivid it appeared angry and hungry. Hungry for more, and it took–No, she took, took as much as she could get all while sucking on her tiny thumb. The orange power force trailed from fingertip to cheek, the stream turning purple, and she could do nothing to stop it, could do nothing but watch as the flesh of her hand slowly sucked tight until it was nothing but bone.

At the drop of her body, the wailing began again, but it was not from the babe. She remained silent, her need finally fulfilled. Until her eyes landed on green. The colour was bright, welcoming, beautiful on the dress that caught her attention. She was but a child, flapping her hands with wide eyes at the new colour, and she then let out a squeal as another appeared. A purple azalea, sprouting out from inside the green person’s palm.

Agatha made not a single sound as she slept through the night, the flower crushed in her hard grip.

Death was typically impeccable with timing. They could sense it all; when people were ready, what they needed to be ready, when to show up for them. It was always for them. It was never something Death had to think about because it was duty and that was all. That was their…well, not really life, as to have a life means having an end to it and Death has no end.

It is a burden weighed on their mind at times, on the rare occasion that the world was quiet. A burden, they thought, to not simply have a job but be a job, full of heavy purpose but just one, one thing to do for eternity. Yet be cursed with a mind. A mind capable of boredom, of deeper thought, thoughts that question that very purpose. This cannot be it. There has to be more, there has to be an end, though Death has been here so long they don’t remember the beginning.

Back to time; time is duty. That is all it has ever been. But it has been a decade since…since that night, and all Death could think about was time. Why does it move slower than a chewing cow?

“By God’s bones…” Death swore, grunting as they strolled through the mist into yet another old man’s bedroom. “What is holding you back, Sir?” They asked in a monotone voice, wanting to move to the next as soon as possible.

The grey man coughed, somehow sounding dry and wet at once, and croaked. “My wife…I cannot leave my wife,” That made it the eighth time Death had heard this one in a night, the twentieth of the day, and the hundredth of the week.

With a deep sigh, Death waved their hand. “Edith will live a happy, safe, and full life. She will be at peace, so you may be.”

He coughed again, lips quivering before he revealed the real reason he could not let go. “She cannot wed another,” Of course. That made it the thirtieth out of the hundred.

Death clenched their jaw in frustration, contemplating what would cross the line of professionalism. Anger took over in the end. “Fine. Watch over her while another man beds her. Weap and suffer for all I care. The door is open for you, good sir, when you realise your wife is not a possession but her very own being! I know, sir, that thought must be entirely shocking to you, but Edith did live a life before you, and she will live another, and another, so long as she weds wilting old men thrice her age like you!”

With that, Death cut through the threshold and lept into the clouds, falling, falling, falling until there was nothing. They landed in a pile of leaves but felt nothing of the impact. They felt nothing, always, destined to serve and nobody can truly serve if they feel.

The calls never stop, not really, but throughout the aeons, Death had learnt which ones to ignore. Time, again, is an all-powerful source. It can heal anything and everything. It had been a couple of minutes at the most and Death could feel old Jack passing through already having had the time to think about Edith’s happiness and his own need for peace.

But this next call, Death could not ignore, because they had only ever felt that twice. Once, eleven years ago, and another the following year. It hadn’t felt like a soul calling for Death, but a soul calling to Death, with a curiosity, an intrigue so strong it could not be ignored. Their knife ripped through time as they made their way to their destination.

Death chooses to watch. They are an observer, after all, existing only to guide when needed. They choose when to appear, and who to appear to. Being able to play with their form comes with its benefits, the biggest one being the chance to be unseen but still felt.

Step by step, Death moved closer and closer to that curious soul calling to her, until they saw her. Unmistakably, it was her. It was that babe in the forest that took her first kill at the age of one. One turn around the Sun was all it took for this power-hungry witch to yield to her higher calling. Her hair flowed down her back, wavy but not curly, dark but not black.

Death crushed a stick as they stepped closer to see what the girl was tilting her head at on the ground, but before they could get there, the girl’s head swooshed to the side. Their eyes locked. Time had never existed for Death, but if it did, they were sure it would be frozen at this moment.

“Who are you?” The girl demanded an answer, her voice youthful yet holding so much power, authority, the type that can only come with confidence in one’s abilities.

Death remained frozen; their eyes had never been this wide before. “Impossible,” they whispered, for the first time truly surprised. Death was meant to be hidden, they were sure of it. They were so sure, so sure they did not want to be seen by this girl, not yet, not before understanding what made her so different. This only added more questions to Death’s mind; how could she see their form?

Purple flares began to spark at the girl’s fingertips, enough to shake Death out of their daze and fade into a cloud of black-green smoke, but not before catching a glimpse of a bright purple azalea, the stem tucked behind the girl’s ear.

“You have always been a wicked girl,” The words slashing through Agatha’s heart hurt more than the hand slapping her across the face. Her cheek stung, and it would stay bright red at the very least until the Sun drew itself back into hiding. But the sting in her heart, her soul – whatever was left of it anyway with the absence of motherly love in her life – is what made Agatha cower and shrink within herself, turning away from her Mother.

“I did not mean to, Mother. Please…if you could only teach me how to control it,” she pleaded for forgiveness, for her Mother to show her an ounce of mercy and not punish her for something she cannot be blamed for.

But Evanora simply scowled and struck her daughter down again, and again, until she was lying on the ground curled up like a powerless infant. “You must learn to behave the way a witch is expected to! But what else can I expect from you? You are no witch, you have no power of your own. All you have is greed.”

Agatha snapped her head up, revealing her tear-stained cheeks as she yelled. “And all you have is hate! I am your daughter, Mother! Am I–Am I not your flesh and–and your blood?” Her voice cracked as vulnerability broke through, her eyes shining with a desperation to be loved.

Evanora shushed her with a simple look, a dark one that hid any affection she may be holding, any sympathy left in her heart. Crouching down like a predator intimidating its prey, she gripped Agatha’s chin in her hand, fingers digging into sensitive skin, and hissed. “You…are an abomination.”

A gust of wind rushed through the woods powerful enough to push Evanora back a step or two, forcing her hand away from her daughter’s trembling face. The toxic mix of emotions running through Agatha’s body had her too distracted to notice what had just happened; she ignored Evanora’s confusion and curious eyes cautiously analysing the trees around them.

Standing on shaky feet with soil digging under her nails, Agatha screeched. “I hate you!” The forest shook with her, a few branches ripping off as her purple blasted towards her Mother. The elder is pushed back again, harder this time, her feet dragging the soil and disrupting the flow of grass.

“Enough!” Evanora yelled with weakened authority, her voice trembling with fear, eyebrow twitching at the shiver she could feel running down her spine. This was not just Agatha; there was someone else here, something else, powerful and just as angry if not angrier.

Agatha growled, her blue eyes turning darker as swirls of purple threatened to overtake them. She was close to letting them, so very close to blasting her Mother over and over again until she truly understood the meaning of power, real, raw power. Maybe then she would understand why Agatha was the way she was and why it was an impossible task to control what she had.

Her fingers expertly twirled, playing with her food as she swirled her Magick around, forming a ball. But before she could throw it, a flicker of green caught her attention. Just a gleam, small but so bright in the corner of her vision. She turned nonetheless, distracted as her mind attempted to pinpoint where she remembered that shade from. It only took her a moment to remember and she trailed off into the forest to follow, her trembling Mother’s gasps and protests falling onto deaf ears.

She had walked this forest her entire life, all thirty-five years, and knew it better than most. This was her comfort. The trees could never reject her, abandon her, disregard her like she was nothing. As far as she was concerned, her flesh was hardened wood and blood the sweet maple that runs through these trunks. And, oh, how sweet they were, always sparing a drop for her as she pleased. They did not reject her but please her, bend to her will, sway and rustle her to sleep on the nights she had nowhere to go, no bed to sleep on but the bed of fallen leaves that soaked her tears in. The fourth time, she returned to a bed of azaleas, believing she had grown them with her tears, that her pain held the strongest Magick. So she began to embrace the hurt and let it fuel her.

“Do you know what they signify?”

Agatha spun around towards the husky yet feminine voice but found nothing but an endless forest. She squinted as she scouted the area, eyes swivelling between branches and logs, leaves and bright flowers. She knows this forest and therefore knows all its hiding spots; no one could hide from her here.

It seemed she had found her match. She decided the best way to get them to come out and play was to join the game. “That depends on the colour, dear,” She replies lightly, hands open by her sides, making sure purple swirls were bright enough for her new friend – or enemy – to see. She may be playful, may be a young witch still, but she has power, more than any singular witch could hold.

“Purple?” The voice asked, echoed, lingering while their body disappeared yet again. But before they could, Agatha caught that green again.

Focus, she told herself, her eyes fluttering shut as she honed in her senses. The forest went silent in her ears, hearing nothing but the pounding of her heart. She searched for another, tilting her head as her teeth ground together in frustration.

“I do not have one,” The voice spoke again, this time sounding less playful – just a smidge, but enough for a woman like Agatha to figure out, “A heart, that is. If that is what you are searching for,” They sounded closer this time, just behind her. So close, that Agatha could feel the heat of a body behind her own. Or, rather, energy would be the better word as all she could feel was ice. So incredibly cold it forced a shiver to attack her body.

“Every living being has one,” Agatha replied, taking in a deep breath as she leaned back towards the danger.

A gulp, audible. “And if I dare to tell you the truth, that…that I am not? Living?”

It took a couple of seconds until Agatha let her eyes fall open, this time finding herself staring into wide eyes. Not just eyes, no, there was nothing ordinary about those eyes, so dark yet bright, deep yet empty, brown, so beautifully brown like the very trunks of those sweet maple trees Agatha loves so dearly. Agatha’s lips stretched into the widest smile she had ever given.

“Death comes for us all.”

Beautiful is all that echoed in Death’s head, over and over again, so loud it cannot be an echo but a scream, a constant reminder to ensure she never forgets how precious she is. ‘She’, being the witch that haunts Death’s silent hours. It used to be quiet in their head on the rare occasion that souls pass through on their own without the need for a guide. Those moments they cherished, being able to think clearly, or not think at all, just…exist. Now Death exists with Agatha, and cannot imagine existing without her.

After revealing themself to the witch, the two became inseparable. Where Agatha walked, Death followed, hiding from everyone else but remaining visible and oh-so beautifully green to Agatha.

“Do you have a name?” Agatha once asked them, building up the courage to ask after a few weeks spent in tension, the two navigating their blossoming…friendship?

Death waited a moment, leaning back against the tree trunk before shrugging. “Death.”

Agatha rolled those blue eyes and Death cursed her for hiding them away. “No, a real name,” Agatha teased with no harm in her words, just a curiosity glinting in her eyes as she turned to scan Death’s expressionless face.

“That is all I have been known as. All I have known myself as.”

Agatha promptly dropped the topic after that, never mentioning it again. She simply observed. She was always observing, always analysing, measuring, plotting. Her mother called her wicked for it. Death was there for every insult, jaw tight and fists white. They’d step in on occasion, of course without Evanora knowing what was truly happening, but Agatha would cackle a sound so joyful if Death had a heart it would sure flutter in their chest, hard enough to fly out straight into Agatha’s open arms.

“What are you exactly?” Agatha asked, looking down at Death’s soft face in her lap. It took all her self-control to not brush her thumb over Death’s pink lips.

Death huffed and shrugged again. “Death.”

“Lady Death?” Agatha teased, her nails gently scratching underneath Death’s cold jaw.

Death contemplated for a moment. Their form was always changing, their true form not confined to a gender. But the form they had chosen with Agatha was a female one, soft yet dangerously sharp. And she seemed to like it. “Well. If I were to remain a Lady, would you like me more?” They tried to keep desperation leaking from their tone but it was impossible around Agatha given the smirk she gave them.

“Perhaps.”

Death sunk their head deeper into Agatha’s soft thighs and thought about being called her. Keeping this form, perhaps choosing to walk this plane and blend in with its people, getting to know them before taking their souls. It could be fun. “Then I will use this form for as long as I live. Which is eternity, I suppose. What a thought.” Death let her thoughts drift as her eyes fluttered shut; no, she cannot ever sleep, but she can rest. It’s only Agatha’s presence that can make her feel this serene.

Her sweet Agatha let her fingers trail from her cheek to her hair, gently running her fingers through it, hiding it behind her ears to keep her sharp features exposed. “I like you as you are,” She whispered before leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses across Death’s brow.

She froze, expecting to feel tension, fear, discomfort at being touched this way. It had been many centuries since Death had let someone touch her like this, having found little pleasure in exposing her true vulnerability to others, uncomfortable with the thought of loving and wanting just for mortal bodies to inevitably rot. But there is no fear here. She had never been dealt with in such a gentle way, an almost motherly way. It made her feel cared for like never before. When her eyes fluttered back open, they met with the sky and she saw no storm in them.

That day wasn’t any different to another. Death collected body after body – though she was calmer in nature than usual – her mind flickering back to her love. Well, Agatha was not her love. Not yet, anyway, not until Death grew enough courage to ask, to take that step forward as they both gazed into each other’s eyes for hours on end. It was a game, Agatha said, to see who blinks first. The loser gets a flick on the nose. Agatha’s nose always ended up red as a tomato by the time the Sun falls; Death would never blink and risk missing the shift of a swirl of blue, or a cloud forming behind those eyes she has come to crave.

There is so much life in them, she thinks. And as Death, life was never something that fascinated her. It was something she only took. It was duty. A life ended every second so she never really stopped to think about just how long that life was, what they achieved, what they did during their time. That is what makes it precious; that there is a time, time for it to end. She wonders what Agatha will do with hers.

“I am not ready, please, do not take me away, God, please–”

Death shook her head. “Not God,” she corrected, leaning against the ledge of the open doorway to the Other Side, “Death. It comes for us all, and you must be ready to let go.”

The woman shrieked, wailed, refused to budge from her spot on the soil next to her son. He lay there, dreaming, unaware of his Mother’s passing. The flu took her, was strong enough to take her as it had been the fourth time it attacked her in the month. But she could not afford the help, could not conjure up a spell, knew little of the herb mixtures. She did not eat, did not drink the water other travellers were kind enough to lend; everything must be for her son. She told herself if she were to pass it would be fine as long as he survived, but now that the time has come, she refused to believe it to be true.

Death leaned down behind her, her touch gentle against the woman’s trembling back. “You do not want to see what becomes of the soul that lingers. He would not want to see you as that,” she whispered soothingly, convincingly, “Peace is on the Other Side. And you will reunite soon.”

The woman’s sobs slowly ceased until she was simply stroking his head with a shaking hand, tucking his curled hair behind his ears. The gesture reminded Death of her Agatha. She wanted nothing more than to return to her at that moment, for that hand on her cheek again, the tips of those fingers tracing every bone, structure, curve on her face and she feigned sleep.

“Will he…will he be okay?” She asked, standing up and turning to look Death in the eyes.

Death nodded. “He will. The world does not stop moving, and neither will he.”

Death will always show up when Agatha calls for her. Always. She made a promise to be there, be present, be watching, and she intends to live up to that promise. This call felt different though, there was a twinge of anxiety in her call, a hint of fear, and it immediately terrified her. What if something terrible has happened? What if Agatha was attacked? Was it her Mother again, or worse, the entire coven? It wouldn’t take much for them to turn on her, not with Evanora’s influence.

What started as a bad mother-daughter relationship had turned into something darker, something wicked, rooted in evil. Death had seen a lot in her lifetime; she is no stranger to cruelty, and that is all she saw in Evanora’s treatment of her flesh and blood. So when she hurried back, revealing herself in Agatha’s forest in a cloud of green smoke, she was surprised to see the witch with a grin on her face. Wide, excited, but also hesitant.

“Agatha? Is everything alright?” Death asked, stepping forward over the broken branches on the ground. With a flick of her hand, they curled together into the soil, new roots twisting and digging in to grow strong in a couple of weeks.

The witch was dressed in a purple gown, a darker shade than usual, with a white one underneath to preserve modesty – though she was thinking nothing but immodest thoughts at the sight of Death with that green cloak she never takes off. Before Agatha could utter a word, Death spun her head to the side, hearing another call.

“She–She did this to me!” The soul yelled at her, emerging from behind a tree. An older woman, hair silky and grey twisted into a braid. She pointed a finger, bony and the tips black at Agatha.

Death followed the finger’s aim, seeing Agatha’s eyes directly on her, not being able to see the soul of the other witch. “Did you do this?” She asked Agatha who could only grin wider, teeth pearly white. “Why?” There was no judgement in her tone. No anger, disappointment, nothing that a small part of Agatha feared there would be. No, there was only intrigue, a dark look in her brown eyes.

Show me Death, Agatha thought. “A gift,” she whispered, her voice travelling through to Death’s confused ears.

“Me?” Death breathed out, eyes wide and completely hypnotised by the beautiful gesture done for her.

My love. Her love. Agatha’s love. Love, love, love…

“Yours…” Death whispered back, brushing her nose to Agatha’s, the touch making them both jolt inside. It took everything in her, all the power she could hold in her lifeless body to pull away, “But you cannot,” but she did.

Agatha’s hands immediately reached for Death, holding her close before she could flee from this. “I can. I do, my love,” my love, “I want you. Only you, since the moment I gazed into your eyes,” Agatha continued, unable to stop now that she had finally said the words, “Your eyes, my, I simply knew it when they reminded me of my forests, of these trees, those sweet maple trees…I knew that no sweetness would ever match you, my love, my sweet, my life.”

Agatha’s hand, up her neck, both tight yet soft against Death’s jaw. It would take a step, just one, an inch to close the gap, to give in to Agatha’s hot breath and sweet, plump lips. But she cannot. Not when Agatha has her entire life ahead of her, great things to do, power to steal, witches to kill…the things she could do, and all Death was planning to do was watch and admire from afar. She will not hold Agatha Harkness back from greatness.

“I–Agatha, you charm me, warm me so, but I cannot be life, not what I am Death. I am a plague, I cannot be with you for all my time–”

Her witch shook her head fast, holding Death’s face in her hands. “You do not have to be. I will carry you, like so,” she held Death’s gentle hand to her heart, beating loud and proud for Death to hear.

But she thinks of what it would feel like to have to leave Agatha. To have to step away when another soul calls for her, if another war was to break out and she’d spend weeks away from the one person she wanted to be near. “But I want to. I have never wanted in my existence, Agatha…until you.”

“Then show me,” Agatha breathed, demanded, “Then take me,” Death’s hand curled against Agatha’s chest, crawling up to her pale neck, slowly losing all control over herself at the husky change in Agatha’s voice, “Claim me.”

The last loosened string of her rope of self-control broke by those words, the love and lust in her darkened eyes, the desperate desire dripping out of her tone. Death could no longer hold back, silencing the screaming dead witch with a single swipe of her hand that pushed her through the gateway to the Other Side, leaving Agatha’s hot pants as the only sound in her ears.

First, she didn’t know where to put her hands because she wanted them everywhere, but she settled on one at the waist, pulling Agatha flush against her, and the other at her jaw, holding her face near. She had to gaze into her eyes long enough to memorise the change in them, Agatha no longer holding her feelings back, and the pure adoration was enough for Death to finally break the distance between them.

The moment their lips touched, Death was certain she felt a cosmic shift in the universe; that had to explain why she felt a clench in her entire body, in the empty space her heart was meant to be. Their lips slid together and connected like they were made together and split at creation. As if Death had been here from the creation of the universe for the very sole purpose of waiting and waiting and waiting for Agatha to be here, to be hers.

It was innocent, just two mouths moving against each other, until Death let a tongue slip and Agatha let a moan slip. What became of them was far from innocent. Wandering, gripping hands, a body shoved against a tree, then body shoved against body. Mouth from closed to open, tongues gliding together in an unholy, dangerous dance, and the sounds. The soft ones of Agatha sighing against her lips, the sharp breaths Death had to take in at each scratch of Agatha’s nails, her love’s intoxicating whines when Death pulled back just to look at her before kissing her again.

“You killed for me,” Death whispered, not bothering to hide the love and fascination in her tone.

Agatha pulled back with a shy grin, chewing on her bottom lip which made them look even more enticing. “I am unaccustomed to courting Lady Death herself, so I did the best I could,” she leaned back in to quickly peck Death’s lips, “She was a bad, bad witch.”

Death gulped at her husky tone. “Was she?”

“Mhm,” Agatha nodded, raising a thigh against Death’s hips, forcing their lower halves closer together, “She was a bully, a mean old lady that preyed on youthful, more beautiful witches, babies really, who simply wanted help controlling their magic.”

Death brushed her lips against Agatha’s jaw, leaving a ghost of a kiss on her skin. “And what did she do with them?” Kisses under her jaw, stronger kisses down her neck, a bite at the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Agatha gasped at the sensation of teeth, nails digging into Death’s scalp which the latter found deliciously painful. “Took their power for her own until there was nothing left but flesh and bone.”

“And what did you do?”

“Don’t stop, please, my love,” Agatha whined against Death’s parted lips, legs stretched wide to make room for her lover’s hand.

Death chuckled, low and breathless. “I would stay this way for eternity, if I could.”

She stayed as long as she could; each and every moment she could spare, Death would find herself back in Agatha’s forest, the only place she found comfort. It would always be Agatha’s arms, Agatha’s eyes, Agatha’s legs so long and pretty, always wide open to invite her in.

“Harder, please,” she begged. The begging was something meant to give power to Death, something that should only happen when Agatha has been teased and frustrated to the point of no return. But her cunning little witch has figured out a way to switch it around. She begs constantly, begs in that whiney tone, moaning it right into Death’s ear before biting down on her neck. She could never resist Agatha like that, and the witch knew it with that telling smirk.

“So warm,” Death muttered against Agatha’s pulse point, having made it a habit to nuzzle her nose right there, right where she could almost feel the throbbing of her heart. And the throbbing of something else.

Agatha clenched around her lover’s fingers, pulling her in deeper. “Please, can you not feel me, dear? How wet you make me, how badly I need you?” Agatha whined again, still teasing but with a hint of real desperation in her voice.

While Death was simply taking her time admiring being this close to Agatha, it seemed her witch had become impatient. With this, she discovered a way to spin this back in her favour…all Death had to do was hold on.

“Oh, I know, my love, you feel so warm around my fingers…” Death curled them a little just to extract a gasp from Agatha’s lips, before pulling away from her neck to shoot her a sinister smirk, “I wonder…Will you feel as warm around my tongue?”

The suggestion alone caused Agatha to let out a filthy moan coated with desperation. Death was too slow to kiss down her sweaty, writhing body, too languid with her kisses and marks over Agatha’s stomach. Agatha could hang on, could beg and beg with that same smirk as she refused to drop the power, until she looked down to see Death’s eyes. Wide, blown, brown, so beautifully powerful yet filled with worship. For her.

“God, please, please, please, I cannot! I cannot wait longer, my love, I need you, I need your tongue, please do not make me wait a moment longer!” Agatha completely broke, her walls tumbling down as she begged, truly begged, without that wicked smirk.

Finally, Death thought, unblinking as she looked up and relished the image, the sounds, her little witch succumbing to madness for something as simple as a tongue. Her hair, wild and free, frizzed from the heat of their lovemaking; her eyes dark and blown enough to almost hide the blue; her lips, swollen and bruised from their harsh kisses. Death’s hand reached up to gently grip her chest, thumb gently rubbing against a perked nipple. This only made her witch wail louder, arch into her further, wanting all she could take.

“As you wish, my love,” she whispered against her glistening lips before swiping through her slit, immediately moaning at the heavenly taste. Her hand abandoned Agatha’s chest so she could wrap it around her behind, squeezing her impossibly closer.

She had never heard her witch this excited before, this broken, this mad as she thrashed and writhed against Death so hard that the latter had to use her other hand to hold her down. She gently pressed against the patch of hair just under Agatha’s stomach, enough pressure to keep her in place.

This was about Agatha, of course, it was about Agatha’s pleasure, but once Death got a taste? She never wanted to taste anything else ever again. She didn’t dare stop, just as Agatha had wanted, even as her witch cried and pushed at her head, having been pushed over the edge twice already. There would be a day. Death was so sure of it, so sure that there would be a day in the future when this would end, when Agatha would have enough of the disappearing, the Death that always follows, the inability to…to build a life with a family. And she wanted to make sure Agatha would be absolutely ruined for anyone else. No one would be able to make her feel as good as Death could. No one.

Death had Agatha every time and every place she could get her. Against a maple tree with Agatha’s legs wrapped tightly around her waist; in a bed of beautifully vivid azalea flowers Death conjured up; in Agatha’s creaky bed when Death appeared in a cloud of green in the middle of the night. They were tested to their limits to remain quiet that last time, but the thrill of risking Evanora’s angry appearance had Agatha clenching particularly tight against Death’s fingers.

“I wish to give you a name,” her thoughtful witch interrupted the silence between them, “if you would allow it.”

Death scoffed playfully. “Allow? I am not your Mother. Though she should not have the power to control you, anyway,” she added, wrapping her arms just a little tighter around her witch.

Agatha hummed, burrowing her face into Death’s neck. “I love when you are protective over me,” she claimed vulnerably, leaving a gentle kiss against the cold skin she found there. She left another, and another as she trailed her kisses up along Death’s sharp jawline.

Their eyes met, a soft look shared between them as words were shared in silence.

I will always protect you.

I will always love you for it.

Agatha sighed as she shuffled around in Death’s arms, resting her back on her lover’s chest. They peacefully lay together, watching the gentle stream of the river they stumbled upon.

“Rio…” Agatha mumbled thoughtlessly, on the verge of falling asleep.

Death’s arms tightened. “What was that?”

Agatha lazily hummed, holding Death’s hands in her own. “Rio. It means river. I stumbled upon some travellers once. They taught me a few phrases of their language.”

Death kept her gaze on the stream, watching the water smash against the rocks and tumble into the fallen tree that stretches from one side of the river to the other. Wordlessly, she circles a finger against the back of Agatha’s palm, eyes on the tree as she carefully sprouts a fresh bed of flowers on it.

Agatha let out a soft, fond giggle at the colours. “Rio Vidal. River of life.”

Rio Vidal. Though she is Death and believes she can never be life, upon waking from her nap Agatha claimed Rio rushed into her life like a river, brightening it without a doubt, pulling her from the dark depths of her mind.

“You are Death, yet I did not know Life until I met you.”

“Must you guide everyone?” Agatha asked curiously, her fingers playing with Rio’s hair. The latter mumbled against Agatha’s naked chest, reluctantly shuffling to rest her chin against Agatha’s stomach.

“Just the ones that require it,” Rio answered, leaving a gentle kiss against a bright purple mark she left just a few minutes ago, “The ones that struggle to let go…or the ones I feel drawn to.” Rio licked a stripe up Agatha’s stomach, so soft for her she could fall asleep in seconds if her body would allow her the privilege.

“You feel drawn to others?” Agatha said with a dramatic gasp, playfully gripping a fistful of Rio’s hair. She pulled her up, Rio reluctant to move so quickly past Agatha’s full, marked chest. Her tongue managed a swipe against a nipple before her lips reached her lover’s.

Rio sighed against Agatha’s lips. “Not like this. I—Never. Never before,” she confessed in a moment of vulnerability, seeking any sign of discomfort in Agatha’s eyes but finding none, nothing but glee.

Agatha connected their lips in a slow, sensual kiss. “Do you feel them?” She pulled back to ask, leaning back in right away.

Rio moaned into the kiss, fingers tightly gripping Agatha’s curves. “Every single one of them,” she whispered.

“How many do you feel now?” Agatha breathed into Rio’s mouth, twisting her hips until their thighs parted for each other, hips slotting together, slick against slick. They both gasped at the sensation, Rio immediately starting a rhythm with a slow, languid roll of her hips.

She wanted to tell the truth, wanted to scream ‘All of them! Every single one passes through like a thousand pricks to my skin’. But she takes one look. One look into those bluest of blues, those that capture the calmest trail of the morning skies and the silkiest glimmer of the gentlest waves so beautifully…so beautifully that she wishes she was not who she was. Wishes she was not The Original Green Witch, Death itself, a higher being burdened with knowledge. Rio wishes she was a simple mortal who knew nothing, for the simple want of being able to look into Agatha’s eyes and then, only then, truly believe that Magick does exist. Because she does.

She settles with, “I only feel you.”

They hadn’t said it just yet. My love at the end of a sentence is one thing, a simple term of endearment, though it does carry a heavy weight between them. But saying the actual words? Acknowledging that this thing between them is real love, a once-in-a-lifetime love? Hell, Rio would go as far as saying soulmates, if she had a soul, that is. They hadn’t said the words yet, though they spend every waking moment together, every moment they can. Though Rio has not taken another lover and she assumes – prays – Agatha has not either.

Clearly, it had been on Agatha’s mind given their next meeting after a week or so apart was tense. Rio felt it the moment she appeared, felt the distance Agatha was forcing between them. She allowed a kiss, and another, but after that she began to stroll aimlessly, trusting the forest to navigate for her.

Rio followed – she always will – with her hands in a tight clench behind her back. She dared to let her thoughts run into the wildest directions yet. Will Agatha end this? Had she realised she did not want Rio–Death to follow her to the ends of the universe? Had she simply had her fill and–

“It may be,” Agatha suddenly spoke, still keeping her walk, eyes to the soil, “presumptuous of me to think we are something more. Something real and serious—”

Rio could not help but frown, leaping forward to shake Agatha, turn her around and hold her blushed cheeks. “Do you not know how I feel for you? Really?” She truly was in shock at the assumption, now analysing her previous actions. Every passionate kiss, every longing gaze, every gentle touch. How could Agatha doubt her? As if she does not have Death wrapped around her soul.

“Let me finish. Please?” Agatha pleaded and Rio had never been one to resist that, so Agatha nodded and continued with slightly trembling lips, “But I do not care. You may feel what you feel but I am certain of how I feel and I wanted to do this for you. It’s small, really, just a—”

Rio is thrown back to the first time Agatha gifted her something, that old witch’s soul. “A gift? For me?” She couldn’t help but lean in and gently kiss her. Once she pulled back, Agatha’s cheeks were even pinker, eyes bluer.

“Of course, my love,” Agatha allowed Rio another moment of indulgence, sighing into the passionate kiss Rio initiated. Her hands wrapped behind her lover’s neck, nails scratching against her scalp in the way she knows Rio loves.

“You are too good to me,” Rio moaned out as she pulled back for a moment, leaning back in to steal another kiss, but her lips ended up against Agatha’s palm.

It seemed the forest paused with Rio as she waited for Agatha to turn back around. The witch had her back to Death now, her hands swirling her purple Magick until she uncloaked Rio’s gift.

Turning back around, equally as giddy as Rio, Agatha presented her with a box. Rio’s shaking hands took it, held it like it was the most fragile, precious thing to her. It really was beautiful, a dark, forest green with intricate patterns painted purple. She traced them with a finger, gently feeling the bumps. It felt like Magick, like she was conjuring up a spell.

“May I?” Rio asked, hands shaking at this point.

Agatha nodded and with that she unclasped the box, revealing…

A heart. Anatomical, true to size, and the darkest of blacks Rio has seen. It was glossy, shiny, almost slick as if covered in black blood. With parted lips, Rio was ready to thank Agatha, until her words caught in her throat at the sound. A pulse. The pulse was there, loud, throbbing, so loud Rio was sure she’d hear it across the universe.

“How?” She gasped, unable to take her eyes off it. A shaky finger grazed against the heart, tracing the veins and arteries.

“Magick,” Agatha raised her hand, tender and impossibly sweet against Rio’s cold skin. She warmed instantly at the touch, leaning into it without a second thought. It was hard to move her eyes from her new gift, but Agatha’s hand gently raised her head, and Rio was met with raw honesty, “As long as there is Magick in my veins, as long as my own heart beats…so will yours.”

“You–You did–Agatha, I do not know how to repay you for something like this. You are too good to me, my love, far more than I deserve,” Rio struggled to accept something like this, love like this. It was not something she thought was even allowed for her. It felt wrong, to be Death yet have a love so strong, to feel so strongly.

“Well, if you wish to repay me…” Agatha trailed on playfully, stepping back and leaning against a tree. Her fingers, cunning yet delicate, tug at her dress slowly. The hem rises from her ankles, up, up, up to reveal glistening lips and a patch of dark hair. Agatha bit her bottom lip, failing to hide her seductive grin and giddy anticipation for Death to pounce at her.

Oh, Rio will spend centuries repaying her.

Loving Agatha was unlike anything Rio had ever experienced. It came as naturally as her job, something she did not need to think about but just did. Like loving Agatha was something she was made to do. Rio quickly found that she would love her no matter what.

Agatha with a sorry-not-sorry smile as Rio collects yet another soul pointing an accusatory finger at her wicked witch. Death simply smiled back, shoving her lover against the nearest tree and punishing her with a wild kiss.

“Yes, punish me, Rio, take me soul…take my virtue…” Agatha would whimper and moan, thrashing against her playfully, her head always coming back with a grin that stretched across her cheeks.

Agatha with angry tears streaking down her face at Rio’s disappearing acts, having missed her dearly, left alone for weeks on end.

“–and you just abandon me when I need you most!” Agatha yelled, screeched, smashed her fists at Rio’s chest, “Just as you promised to never do. Does your word mean nothing?”

“My word means everything,” Rio broke her silence at that, gripping Agatha’s chin in a single hand when she looked away, “No. Look at me while I speak with you, Agatha,” she demanded, risking an authoritative tone against her quick-tempered witch, “My work is not abandonment. It is something I must do, but please, please, my love, believe my words when I say you torture my mind every second I am away from you.”

Agatha rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Oh, you cannot feel pain. Do not take me for a fool, Death.”

“I told you that because I never have. Until you. Until I started to want, and the simple thought of losing what I want…tickles,” she held Agatha’s hand to her stomach, “right here. It’s twisted and rotten. It eats at me, and I do not know what it is–”

“It’s fear.”

“Fear,” Rio repeated, voice softer, almost in a mumble as she contemplated the word, the feeling. It took her a moment but she focused back on Agatha with a sigh and gentle kiss against her pouty, angry lips, “I would sooner abandon my power than walk away from you, my love. You must know this.”

Agatha took a sharp breath at that, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. “Then do it.”

Rio, of course, meant her words in a metaphorical sense. Not because she would not do it in a heartbeat if she could, but because she simply couldn’t. She had been here since the beginning of time, collecting souls that would be lost, aimless and eventually angry without her. There is no replacement for Death; it comes for all, and all means all, past, present and future.

“I wish it were possible,” she whispered, frowning as Agatha pulled back from her yet again, this time moving to the other side of her room, “My love, please, you must know this is something I cannot give,” Rio pleaded, only following her with her eyes, “I have had only one wish and that is to be with you, always, forever,” Agatha continued to ignore her, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out of her small window. Rio knew not what to do to comfort her lover, knowing her deeply enough to see when she needed space. She dropped her head down in defeat, “I will not walk away from you. But I will let you have your moment. Summon me when you–”

Agatha scoffed, sharply turning her head with a glare planted firmly across her brows. “Summon? Oh, of course, you’re just going to disappear yet again–”

Rio sighed heavily with a fond smile. “My love, I will be sitting on the steps outside.”

“Oh.”

“And I will ignore every cry for me. Yours is the only one I care to listen for.”

With that, Rio shut the door gently behind her, stepping down and taking her seat. She must be ready for a numb behind as this would sure be a long wait. She does hear them all the time, constantly. Some are loud, souls screaming for answers, for help. But there are some quiet ones, soft sobbing that can almost feel soothing to hear. She focused on those souls, lulling them from here with whispers of ‘Soon. You will be at peace.’ But Agatha must be at peace first. She will always come first.

“Come to bed, my love,” Agatha’s voice startled Rio who was more than ready to dissociate by listening to her crying souls. It must have been less than an hour, she thought, looking behind her shoulder at her witch now in her bedclothes.

“As you wish,” Rio nodded her head once, following Agatha silently. They moved together routinely, Agatha stripping Rio of her green cloak, dress, leaving her in black undergarments. There is water for them both, though Rio needs none; she always takes a sip just to appease her lover, allowing her to indulge in the fantasy that they are simply Agatha and Rio, two lovers with no higher burden to shoulder.

Agatha sighed, only allowing her tears to fall again once she was safe in Rio’s arms. The latter pulled her closer once she heard the sobs and felt Agatha shake in her arms. Perhaps this is Agatha’s torture, that she only finds comfort in the very arms that are destined to hurt her.

“I hate that I love you,” Agatha sobbed harder, her words breaking a piece of Rio’s black heart. But Death could only shoulder it, dropping a kiss to the top of Agatha’s nest of hair.

“I am angry, my love. Angry that I am what I am, that I cannot be what you need me to be. I wish we were as simple as my love is for you. I wish it were easy, that I were easy. I wish I could hold you like this forever, that you may lay your head on my chest and hear my heart, God, I wish I had one. A real one, just to tell you it beats for you and only you,” Agatha’s breathing slowed as her sobs began to cease, “I let myself dream, sometimes. That I work as a tradesman, and that you are my…You are my wife. That I must leave you and you cry and strike and beg me to stay, and in my dream I…I am able to stay. I do it in a heartbeat, leave my work behind, build us a home, grow crops and trade from our very doorstep so I may spend not a single moment away from you. I dream, and I weep. I weep with want because I have never wanted to be anything other than what I am until I met you, and now…all I ever want to be, Agatha Harkness…is yours.”

Rio knew Agatha had fallen asleep moments ago. She let her tears fall freely.

Unfortunately, a war had broken out halfway across the globe. Long-bearded men with angry features, and thick, sluggish eyebrows, all hellbent on holding on to continue fighting. Rio had already been there for weeks, spending hours and hours on end to convince soul after soul to walk through to the Other Side. At the hundred point, she realised most of these men were only respectful to other men, so she changed her form to something they were bound to bow to. It did speed up the process significantly, but the numbers had been astronomically large so Rio did not return for months. Yet again.

By the time Rio’s head was clear enough to hear Agatha over the other souls, it was too late. She heard her, loud and clear, her cry covered in pure fear and sadness. Rio transported over in seconds, trading the grounds of war for something she feared was worse. Grabbing the nearest tree, she hid behind it just to catch her breath, to close her eyes tight and hope Agatha was safe behind her, safe and her soul still attached to her physical body.

“Mother, please!” Rio turned around at the loud cry, immediately sprinting towards the sound. By the time she reached them, their corpses dropped to the ground, weightless. Agatha stood at the stake, ropes discarded, vivid swirls of her purple Magick clouding around her. She looked…

“Agatha…” Rio whispered, gasped, unable to take her eyes off her.

The witch slowly turned her head, her eyes unrecognisable, purple, and absolutely filled to the brim with power, the sheer force of power sharpening her facial features. “They should have taught me to control it,” she said nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders before cackling louder than before, a wicked sound that had Death stuttering. Was this a test? Had Agatha finally found the bravery to show Rio her true self? One witch at a time until this grand finale.

“Agatha…” she whispered again, slowly descending to her knees.

Whether it was in fear, disappointment, or loyalty, Agatha did not know. All she knew was power, the power she had just stolen from her coven, from her Mother who had tortured her enough and decided it was time to end Agatha’s life. Fools. Every single one of them.

Facing them was a fearful challenge but facing Rio at this point proved to be more terrifying than anything imaginable. If she were to turn to her and see those eyes filled with defeat, disappointment, even anger? Agatha would not know what to do with herself. How could she continue on a life without her Rio in it?

“Do not dare feel shame for the power you possess,” Rio’s voice was unwavering, strong and sure, “If my power would not kill you, I would…” she paused this time, stuttering.

Agatha turned her head, her eyes flashing purple to her lover. “You would…what?” she asked, getting closer by making a show of floating over the dead bodies with balls of purple in her fists. Rio could not keep her eyes off Agatha, especially as she got close enough for them to share the crisp air of death. The witch gripped Rio’s chin in her hand, eyes dark and dangerous, “Spit it out.”

There was a moment of silence between them, both their eyes wide and lips parted. It is a game of power, Rio thought. That is what love is. You choose to take it or give it up. And in this moment, she wished she had not an ounce of it in her bones.

“You want power?” Rio husked out, shoving a hand against Agatha’s chest until the witch had fallen into a bed of flowers. Agatha noted there should be nothing but wet soil and broken branches on the ground, but her Green Witch was persistent in her sweetness, “Control?” Rio whispered, making a show of arching her back as she climbed into Agatha’s lap. The witch shook with nerves, lust, and excitement all at once, settling her trembling hands onto Rio’s hips, “Then take it,” Take me.

The cold wind stopped gushing for a moment, waiting for Agatha’s answer, but the witch could only look at Rio and think she really would end up being the Death of her. Their kiss sealed their fate for centuries to come, the path ahead set in stone. Rio had seen the worst of her, had all the warnings of the chaos and destruction bound to come, yet there she was, in Agatha’s lap with her head thrown back in submission.

Rio moaned Agatha’s name with each controlled bite the latter left on her neck. It was an angry scraping of tongue and teeth, lips leaving a brief, gentle kiss as if to soothe the red heat. “That’s it, sweetheart, take me, take all of me,” Rio panted into Agatha’s ears, licking down her neck filthily, rolling her hips against Agatha’s with desperate, untamed desire. Seeing her witch like that, high on power, gifting Rio souls, so dangerous, had driven Rio to madness.

Agatha whined into Rio’s neck at her words, one of her hands finding its way between her lover’s legs. Rio spread them as best as she could in this position, glad she wore a less complicated dress, a green gown of sorts. She bunched it up around her hips, revealing her naked half to Agatha who immediately pounced with her delicate fingers.

“Yes…” Rio hissed, moaned, whimpered as the witch brushed her thumb against her clit, pressing harder with each praise, “Right there,” Rio groaned, “Feels so good, my love, you feel so good.”

Agatha keened at the praise, failing her attempt at hiding how much Rio was affecting her. “More,” tell me more.

“No one will take me like this, only you,” Rio continued between heavy panting and whimpers, “I want no one but you, Agatha. Nobody is as good as you,” Her breath caught in her throat as her witch thrusted dainty, long fingers inside her with little warning. She could feel all of Agatha wrapping around her: her fingers curling; Agatha’s palm pressed against her clit; the distinct scent of lavender and honey gripping her lungs; those eyes, so deep, so beautifully bright and lustfully dark transporting her into the one place she has no access to, “If I had not met you, my love, I would have doubted the existence of Heaven. But you take me there, Gods, take me there, please, Agatha,” Rio’s words had lost their structure, turning into senseless ramblings as she begged and begged for her lover.

Agatha observed in astonishment at the submission, the easy handover of power. “My love…” She mumbled into Rio’s neck, bruising it with her kisses as she slipped another finger to join the other two. With Rio’s gasp, Agatha lifted her thumb to brush over her clit, just a single brush that had Death begging within her grasp.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she moaned filthily, rolling her hips up against Agatha’s touch, seeking, seeking, seeking…

“Will you?” Agatha panted desperately, ending her sentence short, knowing Rio understood her every word, “For me? Will you?” It took less than a minute after that for Rio’s hips to still, back arched up in the air. Agatha could do nothing but thrust again and again, pushing through the throbbing pain in her wrist. Her thumb circled Rio’s clit as she did so, keeping her right there at the top of the cliff for as long as she wished. It was all within her power, her control; she was the one who decided when to give Death life.

Rio’s cheeks turned a bright red, her face flickering back and forth to bones as she lost that little bit of control she had left. “Agatha,” She forced out with a heavy breath of relief, eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her fingers pressed into the soil, immediately sprouting a bed of purple flowers – violets, Agatha immediately recognised. She tightened, impossibly wet around Agatha’s fingers as a flow of honeyed liquid coats Agatha’s palm. It took everything in Agatha to keep from pulling her palm away and licking until there was not a drop left to spare. But she stayed, stayed there, stayed secure, stayed with Rio until her arch collapsed into the ground and Agatha with her.

They lay there, existing together and only together for a while. While they could. Agatha no longer felt fear, not like she had before. There was nothing but acceptance in her and Rio’s world, which is something she had never experienced before yet is all she ever wanted; undying, unconditional love.

“I love you, Rio Vidal,” she whispered as the stars shone brightly above them.

Rio sighed, happily burying her face into her witch’s neck. “I love you, Agatha Harkness."

masterlist + guidelines

HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED THIS ONE!!

#agatha all along #agatha x rio #agatha harkness fanfiction #agatha harkness fic #agatha harkness #rio vidal #agatha harkness x rio vidal #rio vidal x agatha harkness #rio vidal fanfic #agathario #agathario fic #agathario smut

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just-your-average-author · 2 days ago

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TIT RECAP/THOUGHTS

SPOILERS OBV

Okay so firstly the open PSA that Dan wrote about "no photos or videos if you do, I will sue your ass to the ground" and "no flash photography do you want Phil to fall off the stage...again?!?!?" killed me. it was so cute

preshow playlist, stunning, beautiful all around bops.

the sudden cut off of the music and lights to signal the show started, genuinely shocked and I was SAT let me tell you.

THEY CAME OUT AND THEY WERE REAL?!? NOT A SIMULATION?? listen I still can't get over that, I can't believe they were real people who look and sound exactly like they do on my tv at home!! I was so focused on them and soaking every moment in, I couldn't handle it

have I mentioned how attractive they are?!?!?

okay also literally Phil straight up STOPPED THE SHOW BECAUSE HE HAD TO SNEEZE AND DAN JUST STARED AND WAS LIKE PHIL WTF and I loved every second I was like yes this is straight up what they do in videos, let's have our little squirrel moment babes.

plus it made it feel even more silly and improv, overall I know obv they scripted a lot but it was sooo interactive and they ad libbed so much and I adored it

the dollhouse recap i swear wtf. first off, it was such a creative and fun idea and the different sets, and dressed up dolls that the clothes matched!! also okay I'm so sorry I had no idea the random sex positions would be a theme of the show so I was gobsmacked, but the 69ing during pinof??? "so we did what 2 closeted twinks did upon meeting each other for the first time.... put sharpie's cat whiskers on!!!" shut up for the love.

I genuinely loved the role model or no-el model segment. my show was in NC so they first option for Dan as the Mr. Lawyer was he bans ___ and someone said south carolina and they both just were rendered speechless and were like damn oh dear but laughing too.

The boxing match was so hot dear heavens, Dan's expression when Phil came out in the fake- *cough* I mean very real abs. He was acting for his LIFE.

the confessions were so good, just wish it lasted a little longer. the yapping was good and also idk if this was standardized but the whole thing where Phil said "I have a cute but also sociopathic thing going on and I think it's working for me 😌" like shut up you're so adorable

omg the quick change where they kept their mics on and narrated so many innuendos I was dying omg so silly and so funny I loved it. I was really impressed with how fast they changed, but also talked the whole time.

I loved every single solitary part of this show and I loved how they joked about how they were sorry we all went to school with whiskers then got out in the trash (cause yeah basically) and how they literally did raise us and should be blamed for us being feral not our actual legal guardians.

okay so. this show 9/10. here's where the last 1 point went.

please don't kill me, but I wasn't a fan of the song. I'm not entirely sure what it was, but the whole show was so raw and perfect and then the song was just really synthetic and overly autotuned where I personally didn't even hear their voices. like I couldn't tell who was singing which part. the ukulele part was cute, and I really hoped that would've been all of it, I guess the internet is here and interactive introverts and everything's fine just was so good you couldn't raise the bar again, but that was just my personal opinion, I know a lot of people loved the song and it was catchy and cute, I'm just not personally a fan of kpop/synthesized music so I was a little disappointed in the song but the dancing slapped so hard.

Dan flawlessly executing every move and strut and making eye contact with us while Phil very intentionally was focused on not tripping or walking off the stage and looking at Dan a few times to check if he was doing it right MY HEART.

cuties, gay, both of them, love them

overall I spent last night frantically calculating if I could afford to spontaneously go see the Nashville show as well and spend another 10 hours in the car today but regretfully thought against it.

#pineapple chats #dan and phil #phan #dip and pip #dan and phil games #tit preshow #tit tour spoilers #tit spoilers #titspoilers #tit tour #terrible influenence tour spoilers #terrible influence spoilers #terrible influence dnp #dan and phil terrible influence #terrible influence tour

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quinnverse · 2 days ago

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"Have you lost function of your eyelids, too? Just close them, you imbecile!" She spat, resisting the urge to toss one of the pillows on her bed at him. For such a seemingly smart man, he had a knack for being dense, and primarily around her. If she wasn't in such a compromising position, she might've relished in the fact that she unnerved him so much. Throwing a man off-kilter was a win to some degree, but not when it meant he wandered into her bedchamber unannounced.

I'm not the one who left my damned door unlocked! Her fingers curled into fists as the temptation to hurl something larger at him swelled in side her.

“Oh, forgive me for leaving my own damn bedroom door unlocked in my own damn house!" Forgetting herself for a second, Emma allowed her voice to rise until she heard the timbre echo within the walls of her room. When this day was over, she would make sure her father knew his time needed to be up soon. She couldn't tolerate sharing a roof with John Bolton any longer.

Such thoughts had been plaguing her enough over the past few days that she'd even gone ahead and penned a letter to her cousins, to tell them she might be visiting again sooner rather than later. Her aunt wouldn't mind, not when Emma's presence usually managed to keep both Ned and Belle in check--somewhat. Emma hadn't gotten around to sending it yet, the mere presence of the letter laying flatly on her writing desk was enough to quell the irritation for now.

But that had been before he'd traipsed into her room while she was changing. Before he had kissed her in the barn, and gotten upset with her for flirting with his friend. Their embarrassing encounters only seemed to multiply by the day and she found herself wishing for a messenger pigeon or anything to deliver her message across the pond as quickly as possible. She couldn't stand being around him any longer.

“I did not ask you to kiss me, you swine. There was no invitation.” She grumbled. There had certainly been a hope, but no invitation. Even so, she hadn't pushed him away quite quickly enough to hide her enjoyment of it. If she hadn't come to her senses when she did, Emma couldn't be sure how far she would've let him go before she realized the severity of the situation. Especially when he was confessing things to her that no average woman should hear, let alone want to hear. But Emma never claimed to be a normal woman. "Besides, we both know I, of all people, would not be so quick to consider you an intellectual."

After a moment, she let out a frustrated groan. It would be easier to grab her dirtied chemise off the floor just to save her pride, but Emma knew it would never be that easy. He had already embarrassed her and she wasn't about to let him get away unscathed. Even if it was at the cost of her own sanity, she'd make him pay for this.

“My wardrobe…” She began, her arms clutching tighter around her torso. “It’s by the door. Your eyes clearly aren’t in working order so I wouldn’t expect you to notice. But…” She couldn’t believe this was happening, that this was the way she was going about things. At this point, she'd be better off inviting him into her bed instead of tormenting the both of them, but she pressed on.

“May you please fetch a chemise for me? Or anything, really. A damned blanket would suffice right now.” She waited until he turned away again, watching him like she were a cornered animal and he were the enemy. Before she could think better of it, she felt her lips open and a childish mumble tumbled out.

“You could at least pretend you came for something more. It would, at the very least, make the embarrassment would be worth something.”

“But I suppose this makes us even. Truly even. I’ve seen you without a shirt and now, begrudgingly, you’ve seen me without one. Both circumstances, might I remind you, were your doing. For someone who refuses invitations so adamantly, you're certainly determined to have one of us give in to temptation. It's like you’re trying to make me seem like a harlot.”

Emma's seething request to shut the door took Benjamin off-guard, and glancing over his shoulder, he sucked a breath once he noted the blatant view of the hall. How in God's name had he forgotten the bloody door?!

"I...I-I can't get up without seeing you!" he bit back, concerned she might immediately start lobbing projectiles at him again. Nevertheless, with an awkward shuffle, he remained on his hands and knees and skittered back toward the door, his right leg extending before he nudged it shut.

“What the devils is wrong with you?” Emma snarled.

Still refusing to lift his head, lest he see what she was so clearly trying to conceal, Benjamin growled toward the floorboards, "Me? I'm not the one who left my damned door unlocked! I thought this was my bedroom!"

Emma remained unconvinced. “Was accosting me in the barn not enough for you? Now you have to invade my bedroom while I’m undressing?”

He scoffed, lifting his head enough to see her fiery gaze. "You did not seem accosted in that barn," he volleyed. "Most intellectuals would call what you gave an invitation."

That seemed to jolt through Emma akin to a livewire. She balled her fists and snarled, “If you’re here to take up my previous offer, I regret to inform you that the invitation has since expired. And I would’ve at the very least appreciated a bloody knock. A few moments later and you would've bore witness to far more than you deserve.”

"I told you: I thought this was my room!" Benjamin exclaimed, exasperated. "And I am not here for your so-called offer, so you can get off your bloody high horse! Is the fact I'm on my hands and knees not proof enough?"

Wishing she would grab her damnable chemise -- why did she persist in remaining half-dressed?! -- Benjamin ducked his face down into his palms and groaned. "If you would just re-clothe yourself, I could get up and leave," he coolly reminded her. "You're making this far more difficult than it has to be -- I didn't come here for you!"

He'd certainly wound up in the wrong room because of her, absolutely -- he was wholly frazzled after their afternoon gone wrong, and he was embarrassed from his lewd confession in the barn -- so much so that he'd somehow walked right past his own quarters, and stumbled into the proverbial lion's den.

"I don't care if you believe me," Benjamin spoke again. "And although I did not behave as a gentleman this afternoon, that doesn't mean I haven't come to my senses now!"

He certainly wouldn't be making this mistake again any time soon...

#emma dunster ( interactions ).#honorhearted

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iamthemain-character · 2 days ago

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Dirty Mind

astarion x fem!reader

CW: Depictions of mental illness, body dysmorphia, self loathing, descriptions of anatomy, nudity without sex, hints at a past of self harm. Please read with caution.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to the most incredible woman I know. Here's to you--and all of you--finding your healing. <3

bg3 masterlist

You knew you were being stupid.

You had seen villages that suffered under oppressive rule, slain monsters that had shed the blood of countless innocents, fought off gods and demons alike to remain true to yourself. You had seen so much evil, felt it’s burden on your heart, and yet, your greatest battle was waged within yourself.

It was no dark possession, no cruel and unjust leader that opposed you so vehemently; rather, it was your very own skin you existed within. Or perhaps it was rather your mind, turning within itself to destroy you from the inside. You detested the very body that gave you life, that had carried you through every day of your life. And yet you hated it with a darkness that could put the very nine hells to shame.

The silvery reflection you gazed upon only furthered your displeasure, the light seeming to glint off the various imperfections that built up the frame you no longer recognized. Your chest, uneven to your scrutinizing eyes, was so lacking that it was a mockery to call them breasts. Where your largeness did come in was from your stomach, as soft and pliable as a baker’s dough, and yet it was considerably less useful. It was duplicated on your thighs, the circumference making you frown the longer you stared. You felt all together uneven, as if some potter had started shaping his clay and had left you out to dry, half finished and altogether defective as a human being.

It didn’t help that you were covered in marks; your skin looking more like a mis pieced quilt to your eyes than the body of a woman. Scars from various battles stitched the fabric of your flesh, showing off your failures in battle. Worse, however, were the scars from the battle within yourself, where you failed to protect your own skin from your gleaming blade. The shame that each of those marks carried made your body burn coldly, unremorseful yet full of regret.

You weren’t even sure what your lover saw in you on the rare nights you let him have you wholly. In the occasions where you did not shun the light or keep yourself partially dressed, you let your mind be overpowered by the sensations of his own body, perfect and glorious as it made love to you in the way only he could. You would forget yourself for a while, until the darkness creeped back in and dragged you from the safety of his arms. Somehow you always came to the conclusion that he must have hated you more than he loved you, and that physicality was a poor excuse for the burden you were upon his life.

You wanted to punch the mirror where it stood proudly in front of you, mocking your very existence, your futile attempt at being somebody. You envied your lover, cursed to never see the art of his features ever again. It was an undeserving curse, one you wished would be placed upon yourself rather than the beautiful elf. Yet you would not be free from your aesthetic burden until your traitorous eyes were plucked from their sockets.

“My love, you would not believe what Gale-” The voice of Astarion at the entrance of your tent sent you scrambling, snatching up your cloak to wrap around your body. The pale elf stopped, his crimson eyes reflecting his smile as he looked you up and down. “Forgive me, my darling. I did not realize that this was an art exhibit.”

His words sunk in your stomach like lead in mud, slowly, yet inevitably gathering at the bottom, unable to ever be useful again. You glanced back at the mirror as he approached from behind you, wishing for once you could see his reflection with you instead of just yours.

His pale, veiny arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You felt the light sting of his pointed teeth as he dragged them over your neck, inhaling the scent of your freshly washed hair. “Or perhaps you are offering dessert, my love?”

Perhaps another night, you would have offered yourself, gone through the same ritual of letting him baptize you in pleasure and adoration, praying to his heart that it cleansed you of your offensive form. But tonight the hatred in your heart weighed too heavily; you feared spilling it onto Astarion and staining his affection for you.

“Have I fallen from your good graces, my dear?”

Astarion’s voice broke you from your ruminating thoughts, and you realized you had been silent a little too long. Astarion looked at you, face pinched in a little bit of defensive concern. Your own face had betrayed your thoughts, your own features contorted into a look of disgust when he had spoken his teasing proposition.

“No, no. you are perfect.” You quickly tried to remedy, hoping your tone sounds lighter than your thoughts feel.

“Then why do you look like you walked past Halsin a little too closely?” Astarion says lightly, resuming his sassy attitude after your reassurance.

You give a half-hearted laugh, amused at his dig towards your fellow companion, but still too deep within the darkness of your own mind to enjoy the lightness.

Astarion’s smile softens, and he holds you a little tighter in his arm, his left hand coming up to cup your jaw. You instinctively lean into his touch, your chest becoming feeling more like a cage for your lungs as tears threaten to reveal your weakness. “What is it that troubles you so, my love?” Astarion murmurs, his voice making your body tingle and ache like being close to a fire after a long night in the cold.

“It is nothing.” You mumble, casting your eyes down, not trusting your emotions to remain in check if you looked into his eyes.

Astarion’s cool finger presses against the hollow of your jaw, trailing forward to force your chin up. His smile holds a hint of his playful demeanor, but holds so much more love and affection. You briefly wonder if he would still smile that way if he knew just how abominable you were on the inside.

“It is clearly not nothing if it has stolen the light from your eyes, my dear.” Astarion says gently, his eyes searching yours for your untold burdens. “I am usually so skilled at bringing it back; yet I see that this is an affliction my jovial words cannot ease.” He leans down, pressing his lips to your furrowed forehead. “If my words cannot be of comfort, allow my ears to be.”

You studied the face of your lover, noting the delicate features and marks that you had come to know and love. “You’re so beautiful.” You whisper, reaching up to lightly trace his cheek.

Asatrion’s eyes lit up, delighted by your complimentary words. He grasped your wrist, bringing those fingers to his lips, pressing intimate kisses to each one. “As are you, my love.”

The sour feeling bubbled again in your stomach, and you wondered if you were going to throw up. “Don’t say that.”

Immediately, Astarion’s features darken, his silvery eyebrows drawing together in a mix of irritation and concern. “Why not? Am I not allowed to return the sentiment?”

You shook your head, feeling very small, and yet taking up too much space. This was it, you were sure, this was going to be the night he walked away from you forever more. He was finally going to see you exactly as you were. “Not when it’s not true.”

Astarion’s eyebrows rose up from their tightened position, now expressing the astonishment and incredulousness within his chest. “I do not lie to you, my dear.” He says, trying to resist the irritation he feels at being doubted.

You huff, unconvinced as you pull away from him. “Then you have been blinded. I am not beautiful.”

Astarion’s fingers curl around your wrist, not allowing you to stray further than his arm’s reach. “No, you are not beautiful. You are gorgeous, a treasure among men, more rare and bewitching than any goddess.” His words are spoken so earnestly, so confident in the truth of them. “You forget, my heart, that I have lived far too long, and seen too many pretty faces. And yet you are more exquisite than any of them.”

“You don’t have to flatter me anymore.” You say bitterly, keeping your face turned away. “You know you have my trust.”

“I’m not–” Astarion starts to snap, but he stops himself, taking a deep breath. He looks at your avoidant face, his heart stinging with doubt. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear about my sentiments.” He says quietly, forcing his voice to remain calm. “I do not continually pursue you because of survival. I do so because I love you. My undead heart is entirely yours, and any affection I express to you is entirely truthful.”

Guilt gnawed at your already heavy heart, making you feel like an even filthier person than you were before. You knew Astarion was being genuine, you had no reason to blame him. Yet you felt like a caged dog, scared, and biting to find its freedom. “You shouldn’t love me.” You say lowly, unable to keep the disgust at your own behavior out of your voice. “I’m no good for you.”

Astarion bristles a little at this, giving a unbelieving scoff. “You are the best thing that has happened to me in my cursed existence. You cannot stop me from loving you any more than you can stop the sun from rising in the morning.” He steps closer to you, his grip on your wrist sliding down to intertwine your fingers with his. “Why are you running from my love?”

His words spoken so gently, without any accusation or judgment, break your fragile heart. Your lips pull into a frown, but you cannot stop as tears rush to ease the burning in your eyes, watering your cheeks in streams. Your breathing becomes choked, every inhale a struggle to get enough air as you stifle sobs.

Immediately, Astarion comes forward, cocooning you within his embrace, as if the sheer strength of his arms could keep you from breaking. You bury your face into the linen on his chest, your crying violent as it drags up all the self loathing, all the dark thoughts and ideas that had settled into the walls of your body and mind. Your hands cling pathetically to Astarion, trying to ground yourself amongst the sea of your pain.

He doesn’t let you go, instead holding you to himself, trying to support your trembling body as the tears streamed from your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn't try to give any meaningless platitudes to smooth over your emotions; all he did was let you cry, pressing his lips lovingly to the top of your head, almost as if he could push out your harrowing thoughts with each kiss.

Time seemed meaningless and yet all too present as your soul rained down upon Astarion’s shirt. Every time you attempted to calm yourself, to try to regain some grasp of the traitorous emotions, the tears would simply wash over anew, sending you right back into your linen hiding place.

By the time your body finally wrung itself of its tears, you were left feeling thoroughly spent, tired and melancholy, the embodiment of gray itself. Astarion’s hands left your body, coming up to cup your face, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, down your nose, and across your cheeks before he pressed his head against yours.

“I don’t like myself.” You whispered, your voice raspy from the strain of your sobs. “I hate the way I look. I hate my body, and I don’t...I don’t know why you can't see it, or when you’re going to realize you could do better, and I…”

Astarion didn’t let you continue, pressing his lips against yours to silence you. His ruby eyes were shining with unshed tears, pain and worry twisting your empty chest. “You, my love...my treasure, my heart..” He shook his head, overcome with emotion for a moment. “You are utterly perfect to me. There is not a part of you I would change, or that I do not think is the most incredible sight to behold.”

The twisted feeling in your chest had risen up to your throat as he spoke, threatening to choke you entirely. “There is so much wrong with me.” You insist, unsure of whether you’re speaking of your physicality or your mind, but even further unconvinced of if it really mattered.

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Astarion’s voice was still loving, but each word was enforced with a firm tone, denying any argument. “Flawed, perhaps, but nothing wrong. And even if you are entirely flawed, that does not make you any less perfect in my eyes.” He paused, bringing his lips to your knuckles as he spoke again. “Or in my heart.”

Everything inside of you wanted to protest, wanted to fight back; perhaps if you hurt him he would finally understand what you were. But in your heart, there was a tiny flame of hope that craved his words, feasting upon the adoring look in his eyes. It was that hope that shone through your dark mind, a tiny thought blooming that perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps you did deserve love.

“How can you be so sure?”

Astarion’s smile returned, as assured and adoring as ever. “I wish I could show you the way I see you. To open up my heart and give you all my deepest thoughts and sentiments for you.” He gazed at you thoughtfully for a beat of silence, then kissing your hand once again. “Perhaps I cannot give you my mind, but I can still show you how I feel. If you would allow me.”

The instinct to run, to deny either one of you the chance to be open and genuine with one another, burned in your chest. But you loved Astarion, and so badly you craved to just let yourself be convinced that that could be enough. “Okay.”

Astarion’s eyes were full of love as he closed the distance between you; slowly, he let go of your hand, bringing it to your shoulder. He catches the edge of your robe against his nails, and he brushes it downward, letting the loose fabric slip off. Your body tenses, your heart squeezing, as if trying to tamp down the swell of emotions you feel towards the vampire.

“Breathe, my love.” Astarion softly whispers, his hand caressing the soft skin of your neck, worshiping the same patches of skin that you despised for their red roughness. “You need only speak your discomfort, and I will stop. But I only wish to show you my affection.”

The only discomfort you felt was from the fact that you existed as you were, but it was intoxicating to have Astarion so reverently touch you, crimson eyes so intent in their admiration. You could not find it within yourself to pull away. “I want your affection.” You admit softly, wanting only the elf’s long ears to catch your confession. Astarion smiles warmly, looking pleased with the opportunity your words presented him.

Tenderly, he removed your robe from your body, his actions not unlike how an artist reveals their work. His eyes, usually so hungry when he saw you naked, instead were marveling at your body, taking in every part as if you were a painting that needed to be understood as well as appreciated. “You are so beautiful, my love.”

Heat rises up your neck, feeling vulnerable and unsure of yourself under his admiring gaze. Yet you still did not want him to stop, your insides fluttering as he placed his cool hands on your waist. His smile unwavering, paralleled by his enraptured eyes, he guided you further into the tent, until he had you lay down on the bed roll. Astarion fussed over you for a moment, making sure your pillow was right, that the blankets were comfortable enough, that you were alright. It was an endearing turn of sweetness amongst the emotionally heavy atmosphere, bringing a hint of a smile to your lips.

Astarion knelt over you, his hands beside your head; his ruby pools swirling with devotion. “You are truly the light and love of my life. A thousand years attached to your side could never be enough to satiate the desire I feel to have you, body and soul. No matter how you view yourself, you must know that no flower that blooms, no gem set in gold, no god sent divination could ever give my eyes a sight that is more magnificent than you are.” You had only ever heard his voice this raw, this unaffected and meaningful in his words, the first time he told you he loved you. “I adore you. There is nothing that you could ever do to change that, certainly not by being yourself and not even by trying. My heart is entirely bewitched by you and I will not let you go.”

Your eyes felt misty, your body dried of its tears from your previous bout of crying. Your heart ached, but it almost felt good, to be seen in all your pain and hatred and still be told that you were loved. “Astarion...I love you.” Your voice is trembling, but earnest in its words.

“And I love you.” Atsarion murmurs back, leaning in to press his cool lips to yours. “More than anything. And I will tell you every moment until there is not a doubt left in your mind that you are my only religion, my goddess.”

Astarion moves his lips from your own down to your jaw, slowly pressing kisses of amorous devotion over your skin. Like a priest at the altar, he allowed his praises to be felt rather than song, pious in his utter worship to your body. Down your neck, through the valleys of your collarbones, making the pilgrimage to the heights of your breasts. Faithful and unwavering in his piety, he continued down your sternum, making no exception to any mark or hair or scar that came in path.

You internally cringed as he got to your soft belly, preparing for his disgust; instead, however, you heard his voice murmur against your skin. “Gods, I love you.” His hands splayed over your hips, grasping a little as he pressed his face into your yielding body, sending heat up your core. Your surprise was only furthered as you felt the light scratch of his vampiric teeth catching on your stretch marks, following the rivulets with intent.

As he moved further, he pressed a light kiss to your pelvis, giving it the affection he certainly knew it was worthy of, but he continued on, wanting his actions to be sensual, but not sexual; you were worth so much more than that. He certainly adored making love to you, but in this moment he wanted to simply convey his love for you through his touches.

His hands moved to your plush thighs, and he made another sound of contentment as he kissed the skin there, giving equal adoration to the scars you felt so much shame for. You braced yourself for questions, but he asked none, silently accepting that that would be a battle to face another day. For now, he simply kissed over the pocked skin over your cellulite, nibbling any part that seemed particularly alluring to him. Though that proved to only have his fangs bared constantly, every new ripple of your thighs only looking more appetizing as he continued.

Throughout Astarion’s entire ritualistic worshiping, you had slowly relaxed, melting into the bedroll as you experienced his sheer devotion. Your mind was pulled away from its dark thoughts, not in the way it usually was during passion, but rather feeling like the dark inner person within your mind had been calmed, wrapped in a blanket of warmth.

Astarion sensed that his efforts had done at least a portion of what he desired, and so he rested his cheek against your thigh, gazing up at you with lazy admiration. “Shall I continue? Will you be convinced if I should perhaps lick your toes?” He teased, a smirk curling on his lips.

“Ew!” You squealed, instinctively curling the appendages inward. “Astarion!”

Despite your disgust, Astarion felt content with his words as he heard you finally laugh, light hearted and easy once more. “There she is, my beautiful love.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss behind your ear as he comes up and lays next to you. His arms remain around your own frame, wanting to keep you as close as he could.

“Thank you.” You whisper, looking into his eyes, your heart warm and full from his adoration.

“No need for thanks.” Astarion insists, a leg coming over yours to pull you against him. “I love you. And for that, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove it to you, for as long as you need me to. You are mine, forevermore, and I will take every part of you and love you for it until the heavens do not rise upon our flesh again.”

#who needs therapy when i have google docs and a dream #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x female tav #astarion angst to fluff #comfort fic

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applebuttercringe · 21 hours ago

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Pre-finale Arcane thoughts

I'm so glad we are getting more Arcane content tonight, I am so sad that we are never getting Arcane content ever again.

The writers have revealed that Act 3 will be the longest act by far, with the final episode being much longer than the average episode. It isn't specified how long, but it will be longer.

Despite this extra runtime, and the S2 pattern of getting multiple music video segments per episode, this Act has by far the least songs. Most of the songs have already happened. We only have 3 songs on the soundtrack that haven't happened yet. Then again that assuming the Blood Sweat and tears song will not make it into Arcane. This might be a good sign that they are going to use that extra time for more detailed plot. I know too much music was a big complaint of the first 2 acts.

Also there will be a Viktor song ♥️

I am hopeful for more Jayce and Viktor content, I am excited that they will have another confrontation and Viktors final transformation. I am of course sad about the figurative death of Viktors humanity. It seems from some leaks like the show will put immense emphasis on Viktor and Sky's relationship. It is still unclear to me if the Sky Viktor see's in the Hexcore is really Sky. From what we saw in S1 Viktor and Sky didn't have a very close relationship, we are only ever shown him brushing her off. His grief over her death is more a general guilt and grief of having taken a good persons life, not a personal loss because of a significant relationship between them. My interpretation is that Viktors visions of Sky are a manifestation of guilt. After finding out how much she looked up to him he wished that he had gotten to know her when he could. Believing she is with him now is a coping mechanism to avoid the guilt that he is grieving someone who he went out of his way not to give a chance. Maybe the show will take it in this direction, maybe she will be revealed to be the Hexcore controlling him, maybe they go all in on SkyVik as the new doomed romance.

I like Jinx and I look forward to the show furthering her recovery. If they do. Inevitable because of the death of Isha Jinx is going to spiral, we will get way more sad Jinx content. She will try and kill herself again, she will be absolutely destroying and isolating herself. It's the same thing we have gotten from Jinx for the entire show, she is just forever on the pain train. I am hopeful however that the show will focus on a recovery and that Vi and Jinx's relationship will stay intact despite Jinx's intense grief. I hope Vi will in some way be able to stay and comfort Jinx through the loss of Isha, and through Jinx's self blame. Both Vi and Jinx blame themselves for the death of their younger sibling (powder's emotional death) and perhaps they can both find solace in each other.

Caitlyn and Vi will get back together. Fingers crossed that we get a Cait/Vi sex scene. though honestly the hope is mostly for the memes. After their devastating breakup I am not sure how well the show will be able to just get them back together and make the relationship ok. From both characters perspectives the other has betrayed them in every way, gone against their deepest morals. Vi is in a close family relationship with Jinx, the woman who killed Caitlyns mother, after she promised she had no more sympathy for Jinx. Caitlyn betrayed Vi's trust and tried to shoot a child, then she attacked Vi and gassed the streets of her home. I really hope Arcane doesn't just gloss over this and get them back together. We know from the trailers that they at least argue about it, but most of the blame seems to be shifted to Ambessa, which is kinda weak.

Obviously we will get the Ekko/Heimerdinger Time travel plot. My only concern is that we will not get enough time for this. Even with the extra long act, time travel is an insane element to include this late in the story. Time travel as a plot point is infamous for creating massive problems for the story, it's almost never done well.

Overall I think episode 7 will start with a cold open flashback to Jayce's time in the Hexcore and show us both what happened to him that caused his turn against Viktor, I think this will be a flash forward to a future where Viktors commune has spread and the people don't really have free will. This flashback will also show us what happened to Ekko and Heimerdinger. This is where time travel will be introduced.

The next episode will focus on Jinxs grief, she will have another attempt on her life and be stopped by Vi. Vi and Caitlyn fight over Jinx's involvement in Caitlyns mothers death, but Caitlyn will see Jinx's grief and how it mirrors her own and come to the conclusion that war destroy all. Caitlyn and Vi will fight about Caitlyns involvement with Ambessa. Ambessa and Singed will be bringing Vander back to life as well as Viktor. Singed will strip Viktor of his remaining humanity so the "mutation" will survive. Viktor in some way will agree to this motivated by his witnessing how emotions tore down his commune and the betrayal of his best friend, accompanied by The Line song.

Jayce returns and finds out that Viktor is being resurrected, he once again wants to stop him in order to stop the Arcane from spreading. He will explain the Hexcores spread to Vi and Caitlyn to explain his action sagainst Viktor.

In the final episode they all team up to fight Ambessa, Jayce goes separately to fight Viktor. Ambessa will have revived Vander, except he will have lost his humanity and no longer contain Vi's father. This breaks Vi's heart, but she ultimately has to fight and stop him. Caitlyn and Ambessa will have a showdown that mirrors their training fight on the boat. This fight will take most of the episode and have a banger soundtrack. At some point in this Piltover v.s. Noxus battle Jinx will show up having made the choice to move forward and redefine herself, here we get the haircut and new design. Maybe she will rename herself.

I'm not sure how Mel fits in, her plotline seems so separate to the rest of the story. My assumption is she somehow makes it back to Piltover and confronts her mother about being the mystery child with magic powers. She will also side with Piltover against her mother. Being forced to fight against her daughter will shake Ambessa's resolve, as in her mind she is doing all this for her daughter.

I have the sinking feeling this will all end with the characters solving it with the power of friendship. It seems obvious that they will team up to fight Noxus, but there is no way they kill Ambessa, she is too profitable and promoted by Riot. Her status as a badass is being promoted on all the games and she has a tie in book coming out. I doubt they kill Vi or Jinx, too central. Caitlyn has to live to end up with Vi. Killing Viktor for a third time would be cheap. Jayce's arc hasn't led up to it.

I have a lot of ideas for cool things that could happen, and where it feels like the story is steering, But I can't see how these plot threads come together for a satisfying conclusion in just 3 episodes.

So much discussion about Arcane S2 ends with "but we'll see where it goes" this is the shows last chance to prove if it really was going somewhere with all of this, if the last few episodes were just set up to something great, like how so many people found season 1 act 1 boring/generic. or if the show is just fumbled. If these episodes suck then it will retroactively make these characters arcs all feel like they ended up going nowhere. In a heavily plotted show like Arcane where everything has always ended on a cliff hanger, where it finally goes will make or break the show. These character arcs and little animation details people have been obsessing over were either genius or a bunch of fluff that ended up amounting to nothing.

I am excited, a little worried. Mostly excited.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane season 2 #viktor arcane #jayce talis #arcane jinx #arcane theory #vi arcane #arcane jayce #arcane predictions #predictions #arcane discussion #arcane caitlyn #caitlyn kiramman #caitvi

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spelllingandthemysteryschool · 2 days ago

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i have a really difficult time feeling confident in my grasp of certain practical skills that are necessary to, like, survive as an human being in this world & i really cannot tell if a) other people are as uncertain as i am when performing these tasks and it’s something they’re better at breezily pushing through in a way i’m not able to do even if the task feels high-stakes and insurmountable or b) they’re not as uncertain about it because it comes more naturally to them and doesn’t require a detailed script like the kind i prefer and therefore seems less high-stakes and insurmountable. like either way i can tell there’s something wrong with the way i move through the world but i can’t tell what that thing is. for example, whenever i’m cooking an elaborate new meal or driving a longer distance than i’m used to with someone else, i tend to defer to the other person who’s there with me and ask them about each step i’m meant to take in a way that usually culminates in me pissing people off because they don’t conceptualize tasks in this detailed step-by-step manner i need to make sense of things or because they think i’m feigning incompetence or anxiety and deliberately asking them these things to get out of doing it. in reality i know i can’t fuck up a meal (i will waste ingredients and therefore money) or fuck up driving (my life is at risk as well as the lives of those around me) so i really want to make sure i get it right because the consequences scare me, but usually no one else is receptive to this notion and they get very exasperated or even angry, which makes me extremely frazzled and more prone to fucking up, which pisses them off further. this really makes me sound like that tweet that’s like ‘omg you people can’t do anything’ which is kind of really embarrassing. by no means am i a new hand to any of the (non-comprehensive) examples i’m talking about here tbh so it’s sad that i still struggle with such basic skills despite all the practice i’ve had—in addition to practical tasks i’m newer to, like the ones i now regularly perform within my work environment. i guess i probably need to try and do these things on my own more often so that at least the element of someone else hovering over me and yelling at me for being useless is removed, but i do not have my own space in which to move about as i please and i know that this frantic and pervasive sense of fear and consequences looming over me and this need to have some kind of step-by-step to refer back to when i’m at a loss for how to proceed will remain with me for a long time or maybe even forever. i feel so stupid and i really wish i could just be a normal person like everyone else

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sissybabycucksophia · 11 hours ago

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The Adult Baby Adoption Part 3

(This story is complete fiction and although i may desperately wish it isn’t, there is no fact or real world experience behind this story, and themes reflected in the story may be triggering, these themes are not my actual beliefs and are only part of a fantasy kink scenario. Also non of the images belong to me)

“Wakey Wakey Jadey bear~” a familiar voice melodically hummed, slowly i began to open my eyes having fallen asleep on daddy’s lap. Now however i appeared to be somewhere else. Slowly coming too I realised i was sat in a changing room, with daddy stood between me and the door. Looking down I realised I was sat in nothing but my diaper and my pathetic little girls flower cross necklace, even the pink wig on my head was removed and I gradually noticed that the diaper was a brand new diaper. “Well aren’t you a sound sleeper Jadey bear? I managed get you completely undressed, remove your wig and change your diaper all without you waking up! Also i added a few diaper stuffers to your diaper just to make it last longer” daddy said gently patting my head.

Feeling the embarrassment rush through me i reacted oddly to my nakedness and crossed my arms across my chest trying to cover up, “daddy…. Why have got no clothes on?” I whimpered looking up at him. At that daddy would pull out of his bag and begin securing on my head a more realistic looking Brunette wig which reached down to my nipples. “Because silly little baby! We need to get you more appropriately dressed obviously” daddy chuckled as he kissed my cheek and I noticed hanging on the door in front of me a big puffy white dress. “Ready for what?” I whimpered to which daddy stood up right after securing the new wig and said “ready for your Christening baby! Your going to be christened Jade Ulysses Carmichael and from then on you’ll be one of god’s soldiers. You’ll live a life devoted to this church, its flock and your fellow babies also being christened today. We’ll get a certificate with your new name and we will never again have to refer too you by that vulgar name you used to have. I can’t wait for you to legally have my first name as your middle name and my surname as your surname! You’ll truly feel like my child once my name is part of your name!”

Shock hit me like a bus as daddy spoke, I don’t believe in any god or any religion! And yet this man was not only going to christen me a follower of his religion but also change my name and add his name into mine like a stamp of ownership! “But daddy I Don’t beli….” I tried to protest but daddy cut me off as he pulled me too my feet and took the puffy white dress from the door, unzipping the back of the dress it was clearly it had been designed in a most child appropriate style but in adult dimensions. “Ssshhh jade, i know your excited baby but we really must get you ready!” Daddy said as he then raised the dress over my head and dropped it down over me.

Man handling my arms through the waste, the dress would stop with the waist resting on my diaper waist band. Guiding my arms into the dress’s sleeves daddy pulled the torso of the dress up into place. Before i could object i felt the torso of the dress begin cinching tight around my body from the waist up as daddy zipped me in. Looking down i saw a tight bodice with little sparkly detailing, puffy shoulders which tapered into form fitting sleeves which were lined by sparkly detailing and a skirt which poofed out from my waist hiding everything beneath. As I studied myself daddy would begin guiding my feet into whilte socks with frills around the ankle and a pair of white dolly flats with an ankle strap and white flowers across the toes. Stepping back too look me up and down daddy would turn me around too look at myself in the mirror, as I studied myself daddy would reach over my shoulders and dig out the little girl flower cross necklace to make sure it was on show.

Hugging me from behind daddy whispered “my beautiful little angel, your the vision of femininity my gorgeous baby girl. I honestly cant wait to christen you my daughter! Remember when your being christened that your giving yourself to god and this church baby! Isn’t that great?!” Daddy whispered in my ear. Not that i really heard it as i stood looking at myself in the mirror… why was I Allowing this, surely any embarrassment from being seen chastised and diapered couldn’t be as bad as this! As i stood totally enraptured and entranced by mental fantasies of escape and freedom i didn’t even flinch as daddy secured a thick black collar around my neck which on the front had my new baby name ‘jade’ in big metallic letters and from the back of it i felt something hanging down my back. However it wouldn’t be until i felt my right wrist being grabbed by daddy and manoeuvred behind my back that i would stop day dreaming and begin too panic.

As i felt a thick cuff lock around my right wrist I panicked asking daddy “have you not embarrassed me enough by dressing me like this? Can i not even have my arms free?” I whimpered as I tried too tug my right arm back round it would tug on my neck as the two collars seemed connected. Ignoring my concerns daddy would secure my left wrist into the other cuff and before i knew it i was helpless once again, turning me around too look at me daddy crouch before me and placed a hand on either side if the bodice of my dress and looked deep into my eyes as he said “you know why i agree to take such a yucky, ugly, weak, pasty and pathetic little boy from the agency to be my Baby girl? Do you know why i picked you? Your eyes…. Your beautiful big blue eyes. So innocent and adorable, i knew that once i fixed the rest and made you a little girl that those eyes would be far more comfortable once the face and body around them matched their feminine and beautiful charm!” Daddy said as I suddenly stopped struggling to get my arms free and blushed with embarrassment as i said “you chose me because my eyes are pretty? But you said you didn’t want a boy baby from the agency? You said we had to make do with the fact this mix up had happened and it was my fault for reading the paperwork wrong” i said with confidence and even upset building in my voice. He’d chosen me! Had he stolen me away before a mommy dom got the chance too choose me?. “Sssssshhhhh jade there there. Yes i chose you, your right I didn’t want a baby boy but i knew looking at your innocent blue eyes i could make you perfect! Now we best go now, its your turn now to be Christened!” Daddy replied standing up and opening the changing room door, tears began to fill my eyes as visions of a different life flash through my mind. Leading me out the door of the changing room I followed behind like the submissive little baby faggot that I was, leading me too the stage I looked out as “parents” sat with their “babies” sat all dressed up. The adult babies all wore white, the adult baby girls all wore dresses like me and the baby boys wore white suits.

Looking too daddy he motioned for me to sit on the chair behind a school desk in the middle of the stage, shuffling over i sat down struggling to keep my dress from poofing out in all directions as I struggled to free my arms. Sat before me was a piece of paper on which was written ‘This Document hereby states that James Valence will be Transitioning To and will be changing their name too Jade Ulysses Carmichael. As such this document also states that the afore mentioned James, willingly grants Ulysses Carmichael Full Power of Attorney while still of mental capacity to do so. As such this legally binding document states that James Valence will be legally adopted by Ulysses Carmichael and will turn over all decision making capabilities and freedoms too Ulysses Carmichael.’ Oh god no! This couldn’t be happening! And it got worse! My signature had already been faked on the document! Watching daddy go into his pocket and pulling out a pen and reaching past me to sign and accept legal authority over me, “no please! Daddy stop! Don’t do this!!! Im a man but i swear i’ll never resist you again as long as you don’t sign that please!! Please!! You cant do this!!! You can’t take my freedom like this!!!!” I begged and whimpered as tears gushed down my face and dripped onto my dress. Signing to contract regardless, daddy would proceed to kiss me on the lips and begin making out with me before pulling back too whispering “sh’up faggot, your mine now! No ones coming to save you! Now dry those helpless blue eyes and lets get you christened!” With an evil smile as he grabbed the underside of my left arm and dragged me too my gay little dolly flat and frilly sock coated feet.

At that the crowd of parents and subs cheered, clapping, throwing diapers, Dresses, Bras and stuffies onto the stage at me. As they did reverend imelda would come onto stage and stood at her podium, then from the floor of the stage next to daddy arose a large Tank of water. “Well as you all know Today we Christen all of your new babies with their new names and identities as your children. The first beautiful baby to day to be Christened in the eyes of god is the absolutely pathetic Jade Ulysses Carmichael!!!!” Reverend Imelda said excitedly as daddy push me over too the tank of water pressed me up against it so my knees were against the tank. Then i felt his hand on the back of my neck and suddenly before i could say a word i was bent over at the waist, my ribs against the rim of the tank and my head fully submerged. Panicking i screamed under the water and desperately thrashed around trying to free my arms and push myself out but the straps holding my arms behind my back were far too tight. My life began flashing before my eyes as I inhaled water and coughed wasting valuable oxygen, whats worse was i knew no one was helping me nor was reverend Imelda stopping the ceremony. After 2 minutes and thirty seconds daddy would pull my head out of the water, dropping to my knees in my puffy christening dress I began coughing up the water i’d swallowed as tears rolled down my face and sissy cum’s leaked into him diaper. “I now hereby announce Jade Ulysses Carmichael christened!” Reverend Imelda said excitedly as a cheer filled the room. Dragging me to my feet Daddy picked me up bridal style once again and would carry me off stage too an empty seat at the end of the front row. Sitting me down right night too the man who’d humped me against my will. “Babies need to sit in the front row, daddy will be just a few rows back. Welcome to my family and the church Jade… daddy’s so proud of you” he said as he then disappeared.

For the next two hours i sat watching every Adult baby sign a name change and power of attorney document before having there heads dunked in the tank. Like me some were horribly distressed and uncomfortable but every baby had some kind of restraints on their hands or arms too stop them fighting the dunk. Tears slowly dripping down my face the entire time and sniffling like a sad little girl eventually the event began to reach its conclusion. Being lifted to my feet by daddy I was escorted to a group picture with all the “babies”. However as though a cruel taunt I was stood next to the only other Adult baby who had been forced to crossdress. Recognising her from earlier the girl was beautiful, she had such soft skin so soft and feminine looking, her eyes a beautiful golden brown and her lips plump and shapely. However much to the sheer devastation of the girl she had had her hair cut and shaven to a buzz cut, her chest was clearly being binded, her nails has been cut short and was stood wearing a white formal suit. Her hands were mittened and cuffed together in front of her and a pacigag held a blue paci in her mouth.

Stood next to her I begun to feel less alone as she balled and whaled with tears of sheer devastation and despair. As they arranged us to take the picture, I stepped closer to her pressing my chest against her side. Looking at me she tried to shake her head and say she wasn’t a man, “its ok! I’m a boy! Look just snuggle up to me like we’re getting along then when you get home tell your captor that you would feel better if you got a playdate with Jade Carmichael!” I whispered as I then rather humiliatingly rested my head on her shoulder and smiled. As the picture was taken so marked the end of the ordeal, grabbing my by the shoulder my now legal guardian and decision maker would lead me out of the church, forcing me to curtsy goodbye to every adult we stopped to talk too on the way out.

(Pictures for reference, Jade is forced to wear this dress in an adult size that fits him)

#permanent feminization #feminized sissy #crossdresser #loser humiliation #forced ferminization #pathetic loser #sissy crossdresser #adult diaper #controlling sissy daddy #daddy diaper sissy #bd/sm daddy

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