#and he let it destroy and puppet him

[waywardstation]

A rather random question that's been plaguing me for the past 15 minutes and I wondered about your thoughts: do you think before he left, Volo left any of his pokemon behind? Some he wouldn't get rid of, like his egg daughter Togekiss, but I can't see him taking Arcanine with him out of Hisui. For one, it likely has a Growlithe partner we never see (due to the pokemon's lore) and probably leaves them with Tuli and Ginter. A full team would attach unnecessary attention for someone on the run.

Very interest thought OP!!! I haven’t thought about it before.

I couldn’t see Volo getting rid of his egg daughter Togekiss, or Garchomp, because these are Pokémon he’s had early on in the game. Our first fight with him, he only had his sweet togepi, and on our second fight, it’s togepi and gible.

And then the third time, when he fights us at the end, suddenly it’s a full team of Togekiss, Garchomp, Arcanine, Spiritomb, Roserade, and Lucario. How did that happen??

These are my first thoughts, so it could change over time, but I feel like this could narratively be explained by Volo realizing that our MC has what he wants, and that’s when he actively decides he’s going to take them down. So he gets a full team together, some of which can speedrun evolution with stones (roserade and arcanine).

I feel like the only Pokémon he has a genuine connection to would be his Togekiss and Garchomp. The others might have been pulled together just for this fight in an effort to overwhelm the MC. So when it’s all done, and Volo decides to leave, he might feel conflicted with these Pokémon that he possibly railroaded just for his own benefit. They did not need to be roped into this.

I could see him leaving some of his Pokémon with Ginter and Tuli, to help assist with ginkgo guild work when he leaves, and the only two he would keep would be his Togekiss, and his Garchomp.

Love this concept OP!! My thoughts on this might change over time from these initial ones; I’ll keep thinking on it!

[worstloki]

there is a difference between being born to a throne, maliciously vying for a throne, stealing a throne, and having a throne thrust upon you when you are already in the midst of an identity crisis. And I fear Loki's place in the line of succession has people unable to differentiate between any of these

[avelera]

I am literally so baffled by how so many people think the Viktor/Jayce separation in Arcane S2 was:

1. Rushed

2. Deserved, because Jayce ignored Viktor’s wishes and that’s what Viktor was reacting to

3. A choice Viktor was making, literally at all

Let’s go through these one at a time but they’re all related.

1. Yes it’s rushed. That’s because of time constraints per episode, sure, but forget that for a second. Viktor getting out of his goo cocoon and immediately leaving while still STARK NAKED is weird. It’s very weird. It’s meant to be a five alarm fire, red klaxons blaring, levels of really fucking WEIRD. The guy is LITERALLY NAKED he just walks out, barefoot, into the Undercity.

It’s weird and it’s meant to seem weird and indeed, inhuman, because that is not Viktor. Those are not Viktor’s choices. That is not who Viktor is. And the fact it is so rushed is part of the warnings, and meant to show us just how much something is very very wrong.

2. Tying into Point 1, if this was a real disagreement between Jayce and Viktor as we knew them through S1, Viktor would have stopped to get some damn trousers and shoes. I know it sounds like I’m joking but legitimately, there is no (or very little) conscious human thought going through Viktor’s head in that scene because a human being choosing to leave their partner of years over legitimate disagreements would have stopped to get fucking dressed before they left. That is not Viktor.

And to briefly launch into a defense of Jayce, he has spent literal years with Viktor doing science to address Viktor’s failing health. He knew about Viktor’s fear of dying. They’d both dedicated themselves to hextech in the hopes it would better people’s lives but the more selfish goal at the heart of that research for both of them was that it would save Viktor’s life.

Viktor only told Jayce one (1) time to destroy the hexcore and he didn’t explain why at all. Jayce didn’t know about the self experimentation. He didn’t know about Skye’s death because Viktor never told him.

Jayce spent years working on a cure for Viktor and in a moment of blind panic used their research to save his loved one’s life based on what 99% of his interactions with Viktor with one (1) outlier would have told him that this is what Viktor would have wanted, which was to live, and using their research to make sure he lives has always not only been on the table, it’s literally been the main focus of their overarching research goals minus one weird and unexplained thing Viktor said once while a zillion other things were going on in Jayce’s life.

Jayce using their research to save Viktor wasn’t a conscious defiance of Viktor’s wishes, it’s literally what 99.99% of Viktor’s wishes that Jayce knew about would have pointed towards. He was as far as he knew enacting Viktor’s wishes, the wishes Viktor had for years upon years. Without knowing about Sky, Viktor’s one request to destroy the hexcore was a weird and out of character request that had no explanation. It didn’t hold up when compared to everything else Jayce has ever known and experienced with Viktor.

3. Whew, anyway, the bigger point is that Viktor is a Hexcore puppet at this point so it doesn’t even matter if he had legitimate grievance against Jayce. He’s not leaving because of grievances, legitimate or otherwise. Viktor would never leave Jayce like that (or while STARK NAKED).

Literally in one of the last scenes we got that gave us a glimpse of Viktor’s inner life and motivations, he told Singed that Jayce would understand and stay by his side no matter his choices or transformations.

Singed is skeptical. But Viktor WAS RIGHT. Jayce didn’t even blink, didn’t hesitate at all to hug him after he was transformed so drastically. But my point is: real Viktor was actively worried about losing Jayce. Real Viktor would not take off like that.

And in one last defense of Jayce, I think the reason he just lets Viktor go there is that he has always respected Viktor’s autonomy.

Jayce notes in S1 that Viktor would often disappear without warning. He never tried to control Viktor’s movements. That’s what makes Jayce yelling at him for going to the Undercity so shocking to both of them in S1.

Jayce is also traumatized and shell shocked himself when Viktor leaves. He’s not prepared and he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t do what he probably should which is prevent Viktor from leaving (literally naked and barefoot!) because it doesn’t occur to him to control Viktor’s movements but also because he’s in shock.

But he really should because again, that’s not Viktor. That’s not Viktor making a conscious choice, that is another power and impulse puppeting what is left of Viktor, using his tenuous connections to his identity like his guilt over Sky and his/his + Sky’s overarching desire to help people in the Undercity.

It has nothing to do with Jayce. Jayce’s choices are not why Viktor is leaving. And the real Viktor would never leave Jayce under such abrupt and INHUMAN circumstances.

We are meant to be as alarmed and confused as Jayce was. It is a part of a pile of evidence that something is very wrong with Viktor and indeed, the Viktor we knew is not the one in charge of his actions right now. How much of him is even left in there is what remains to be seen, and if who he was can ever come back.

[tsuutarr]

Yandere!Hero (Chosen One) x Saint!Reader

Being the Hero – the Chosen One – means that the world’s fate is on Elias’ shoulders. He’s long since forgotten how to live for himself, his life belonging to everyone but him. He’s merely a puppet that’s being strung along by the world for the sole purpose of saving it.

At first, he was honored to be chosen as the Hero – it’s a privilege most don’t get. But everyone expects too much – everything – from him. His life is carefully shaped into what others want of him, people only looking at his role and not him as a person.

Now, he fights and saves people due to duty, not desire. There is no sparkle of pride when he helps villagers. Instead, all that is left is another thing checked off of his mental checklist. Now, he just wants to rest. He just wants things to be over.

So that’s why he despised the idea that some Saint from the Church would be his “helper.” Traveling with someone else is only going to slow him down. Not to mention the fact that he doubts the Saint has ever seen bloodshed and disease like he has.

But when he actually meets and travels with you, the Saint, he realizes that you’re actually not that bad. You’re actually kind of nice. He’d expected you to turn your nose at the commoner population, refusing to heal them, but you actively seek them out to help. You’re kind and gentle, but headstrong. Even when you’re visibly exhausted, you do your best to keep going. 

It’s… kind of impressive, actually. He had misjudged you, perhaps.

Even now, you’re helping the knights that were attacked by bandits (which Elias had vanquished), healing not only their bodies but their souls, too. He can’t help but look at you, a raw beacon of kindness that he hasn’t seen before in his travels. 

Once you’re done healing the knights, you look up at him, before a gasp escapes your lips. “Elias!”

He blinks at you, curiously.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Ah.” Elias looks down at his hand, blood dripping down his fingers. He had instinctively grabbed a knife by the blade earlier because he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it in time. “This is nothing.”

“Oh, shush!” you say, approaching him. You push him towards a tree stump, forcing him to sit, which he allows. Carefully, you take his hand in yours, frown deep set on your mouth. Your hand is so warm that it makes his heart burn.

“You’re tired,” he states, bluntly. He doesn’t tug his hand out of yours. “You’ve healed too many people.”

“I can–”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Rest for now, Saint. I am fine.” And he’s right – he’s the Hero, after all. His wounds heal much faster and better than a normal human being. He doesn’t necessarily need your healing.

“Still,” you murmur, looking up at him. “Can I at least clean and bandage it?”

It’s pointless, really, but Elias says, “Do what you want.”

So you do. You disinfect and clean his wound, before carefully wrapping his hand with bandages. For some reason, his heart squeezes painfully as he watches you tend to him so gently. He doesn’t remember if anyone’s ever treated him this kindly.

“There.” You look proud of yourself. It’s kind of cute.

“You didn’t have to,” he mutters without really thinking about it.

You give him a smile that makes his brain stop. “I wanted to. I want to support you.”

For some reason, your words almost make him want to cry. He’s not sure why – he’s seen so much death and destruction to the point that his emotions have become numb. Yet, you bring flickers of his feelings back to him – happiness, sadness, anger, love. 

You make him feel like he has an existence beyond just being the Hero. You make him feel human.

So, how can he let you go? He can’t – and he’ll do everything he can to make you his. Even if it means he has to destroy the world.

[lovifie]

Lift Me Off My Feet

Chapter 6: Boundaries

Masterlist

Original Thought - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12

W: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, a bit of angst before the nasties ❤️

The good thing about the three of you doing the walk of shame together is that at least you are not the one who got it worse. Price is walking like he just came of the confessional, not a sin committed in his life; you look like you should, like you just got fucked nicely but nothing a couple of minutes laying down can't help you disguise and Gaz… poor Gaz look a bit destroyed, but he carries himself with a certain attitude that makes you think: “Good for him.” and it helps him look confident if it wasn't for a weak limp as he walks. And if you are able to tell, you are sure the rest of them can as well.

“Pay up, Johnny.” Ghost says extending his hand to Soap as they sit on the sofa. 

“Fuckin’ he'll, Gaz.” Soap answers, taking his wallet from his back pocket and dropping a £20 on Ghost's hands. 

“You made a bet?” You ask curious sitting on the floor getting your legs under the table, Ghost and Soap are sitting on the sofa, Price sits down on the armchair and Gaz sits on the armrest of the sofa.

“Yeah, about who would break the truce first.” Soap explains and turns to look at Gaz. “I thought you were stronger than this, mate.”

“What truce?” You ask, sending Ghost a quick glance to ask him to play along. He doesn't say anything. 

A beat of silence goes around the room, everyone expecting the other to talk. It is Price that breaks it clearing his throat. “Right, I'll explain it. We talked about you, about how we have been treating you and about how it shouldn't have happened.” 

Your stomach turns at the confession, and a voice screams in your head: “I told you, idiot! Giving yourself like a whore on sale! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!” You hide your hands between your thighs to hide the shaking and swallow the spit pooling in your mouth. 

“Not like that.” A warm hand on the top of your head brings you back. “Try again, Captain. So many ways to phrase it, and you choose the worst.” Ghost says 

Price rubs a hand against his face, exasperated with himself. “What I meant was… that we don't regret what we have done, we regret the way we have done it. Yeah?”

And it reaches your ears, but it doesn't get to your brain. Since the whole ordeal began, the cruel voice in your head that doesn't let you enjoy things has been scratching the walls of your head to try and make you focus on her and let her plant the seed of self-doubt in you. But you pushed her back, and the kisses and caressing of the men in front of you helped greatly. It was like seeing a shadow from the corner of your eyes, but when you turn your head it disappears; but now, hearing from Price that it shouldn't have happened, even if he was just a poor choice of words, it has made you turn your head to your shadow but this time it hasn't disappeared. Instead, it's looking at you and laughing at your face for being stupid. 

“You alright, birdie?” Ghost brushes your hair behind your ear, keeping his hand cupping your jaw and turning your face to look at him. Concern floods his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, but doesn't push it when you nod at him. 

“What we wanted to do, was do the things that we should have done before we got freaky.” Soaps continue. “Go on dates, expend time together… get to know ye. Those things.”

It only fuels your confusion. “What?” You ask looking at Price. “Dates?”

“You… you don't want to?” He asks mirroring your confusion.

“Do I have a say?” You ask, genially confused. And to you, you mean it as in “Do I have the power to choose between offers? Do I have the power to ask for you? Do I deserve more than crumbs of attention and respect?” But to them, it sounds like: “Do I have that power?”, you know, as if you haven’t gotten under their skin and you couldn't move them like puppets at your will and want. 

“I don't understand.” You mumble rubbing your face, eyes burning with tears.

“What it is?” Gaz asks sitting straight, focusing on you. 

“Why?!” You ask a bit louder that wanted. “Why me? Why do you care about me? Because I can understand that I threw myself at you and to never look a gift horse in the mouth, but what I can’t understand is why you would go out of our fucking lane to worry about the fucking shitty horse!”

The tears are flowing freely down your face by now, and you realise that they are all looking at you with expressions you can't read. You have cried in front of them before, but it was out of fear for your life, you are fine with that. But letting them see you cry because you are an idiot that caught feelings? Nah, that's too much. “I'm sorry, I… I need a moment.” You stand up, managing to get out without any of them catching your hand and lock yourself in the bathroom, in the little space between the sink and the bathtub. 

You cry your feelings out, wanting to just dry yourself out before going out, but Ghost beats you to it and knocks on the door. “Can I come in, birdie?”

“The lock doesn't work.” You mumble between sobs.

“I know, that's why I'm asking.” He says, he cracks the door open slowly and sticks his head in looking at you. “Can I come in?”

You nod, and he enters closing the door behind him. He lifts you up from your hands making you whine like a child, sits down where you were and sits you on his lap. “You got a thing for tiny spaces.” 

The TONK sound of Ghost hitting his head on the sink following the curse words makes you chuckle at the ridicule of the situation. Ghost finally settles down, and he cups your face making you lay your head on his chest. 

“What has you so upset, birdie? What is making you so sad?” He asks, the rumble of his voice travelling through your body.

You shrug your shoulders. “I just don't get it… why me?”

“I don't know, birdie… you just are.” He says caressing your face. “I can't explain it, it's just… you. We have been trained and forced to be methodical, use logic, don't get carried away by emotions, years and years of training. And now you are here, and we don't know how to act.”

You bury your face in his chest, taking in the new information, but without interrupting him. “When we entered your flat, Price saw the chair on the balcony and he almost jumped head first just to check if you were on the ground. Gaz has gone against Price's direct orders, and trust me, Gaz would rather cut his own arm than go against Price… Birdie, I'm not going to call it love and act like I know how that works. But don't bury the corpse without killing it first.”

You look up to him, and find him already looking down at you. He gives you a kiss on your forehead through the mask and asks: “Give us a chance, birdie. Please. We are all adults, we'll talk about it. Set bases and rules so everyone is happy and comfortable. But you need to let us try. Only once, birdie. That's all we need.”

Simon's words enter your head, finding the idiot voice that lives inside and slapping her across the face. After a while, you no longer have the need to cry, and even though you are elated by Ghost's comfort, it is not fair to the three men seating in the living room.

You stand up first, Ghost's hand on your back. You grab his hand to help him stand and put the other hand on the edge of the sink so he doesn't hit it again, earning yourself a chuckle from him. 

Soap is the first to see you, sitting with Gaz on the sofa. Price is still in the armchair, smoking a cigar. You walk up to him, picking the cigar from his hand and letting it down on the ashtray. You sit on the armrest of the chair, putting your deets on his lap and your hands between your thighs. 

He looks up to you almost holding your breath, like the next thing that you will say could seal or break the deal. “You don't regret meeting me, right, John?”

His face twitches, as if you had just slapped him across the face, and he quickly shakes his head bringing his arm up around you to move you to his lap keeping you close. “No, dear, no. I could never regret meeting you, I'm sorry I said it like that, I promise I'm not usually such a muppet.” 

“I wanna give it a try.” You say and look up to him. “But I'm scared.”

“You don't need to be, what's scaring you?” He ask looking at your face.

“You don't know me… what if once you get to know me, you don't like what you learn? If you get bored? Or disgusted…” You mumble, talking more and more softly as you bury your face on his neck.

“Now you are just talking nonsense, love.” Price says, cupping your face and peeling your face away from his neck. “And you are thinking too highly of us, what if you are the one who doesn't like us?”

“That's not-” You begin to say, ready to argue that it is not possible to not like them, that they look like they have come out of a firefighter calendar, that they have been nothing but kind and caring with you, that if you found something about them you didn't like it would most likely to bother you enough to break away. But you look at his face, and he has this know-it-all expression that quiets you up. 

“Exactly, love.” He says and lets you hide your face again. You sigh, tired of your feelings and start to stand up. “I'm gonna have a shower.”

“Wait!” Soap says standing up quickly and sprinting to the kitchen, coming back out with different kinds of shampoo and body skin care products. “How about a bath? A bubble bath?” He asks, happy to cheer you up and to have an excuse to mess around with the different liquid. 

You nod quickly smiling widely and watch him run to the bath. Price calls your attention with a tap on your lower back and explains: “Gaz and I need to go back to base, Ghost and Soap will stay with you tonight, that's fine with you?”

You nod again, saying goodbye to both of them, feeling too awkward to hug them because of the newly exposed feeling even if just an hour ago they were balls deep inside you. You run to the bathroom when Soap calls your name.

“Quickly, bonnie. Get in before it goes cold.” He says, satisfied with the sweet smell and bubbly water. “Do you need anything else?”

“Actually, can you lend me some more clothes? I'm pretty sure I have run out of clean clothes and underwear.” You admit, looking a bit ashamed.

“Sure, I'll bring ye some of mine. I'm sure ye'll fill in my knickers just fine with that fine arse of yers.” He mumbles in your ears, earning himself a slap on his biceps as he exits the bathroom to pick up the clothes. He drops them by a little later and lets you to enjoy your bath.

The bath truly helps you relax, of the tightness in your muscles and of the exhausting feelings in your head. It also leaves you room to think about them, to rationalize them. Simon is right, you cannot say no just because you are scared it may not work out in the end, not without trying first.

After some time, the water starts to get cold, so you drain the tub and grab the towel to dry yourself. You look at the clothes that Soap lend you, and realise he only left his briefs and a t-shirt; cheeky bastard. 

As you open the door, the smell of food floats around the whole house and it makes your stomach rumble. Ghost and Soap must be making dinner. So you walk down the hall, entering the kitchen without thinking.

And part of you blames you for it, but another part is really glad you didn't.

Johnny is on his knees, in front of Ghost, getting his mouth fucked by the late one. The wet sounds of Johnny gagging around Ghost’s dick as it hits the back of his throat almost hide the sound of your steps, but not good enough fot Ghost.

“Hi, Birdie.” He groans, caressing Johnny head in such a tender way it clashes with the filthy image. “Are you hungry? Johnny here couldn't wait for dinner.”

“I can see…” You mumble back looking at Soap, unable to peel you away. You are glad you just got out of the tub, being able to attribute your blush to the heat of the bathroom. Still, no bath can explain the way you clench your thighs together, and Ghost chuckles when he notices.

“C’mere, birdie.” He instructs, extending his hand to you. You grab it, feeling him pull you close; his hand moves to your waist, cupping your face with the other. “I really want to kiss you right now, pretty bird”

And you know what he is asking for, to break the truce; because if you initiate it, he is technically not breaking it. And it is cruel, especially to Price that you know is going to be the last one to break it, but right now, with Ghost mask up to his nose and Johnny chocking on his dick, your mind is busy. 

You get on your tip toes, urging Ghost to bend down and he gives you a quick peck on your lips. Just to seal the deal, before he pulls your head from the back of your head making you open your mouth to groan and he gets his tongue inside your mouth, turning the groan into a moan. 

It is such a filthy kiss, its only fitting for a filthy situation that you just yourself into. 

Johnny doesn't last before calling for your attention, but he doesn't call you, instead, he pulls your leg between his and starts humping his leaking dick against you. It makes you look down breaking the kiss and making Ghost look down as well, he chuckles seeing the Scotsman so desperate and grabs a handful on his mohawk making him let go of his dick with a POP sound. “Don't fuck her leg, you fucking mutt” Johnny whines when he grips his hair harder and Ghost looks up to you. You can see the gears spinning inside his head when he looks from you to Soap, both grabbed by the hair, and you are not really surprised when he says. “Get on your knees for me, birdie.”

When you drop to your knees, Ghost pushes you and Soap’s head closer to each other and Soap bites your mouth kissing you as he devours your lips. His knee on the ground is against your cunt, and when he flexes closer to you it makes you moan inside his mouth.

Soon, Soap’s tongue is not the only thing in your mouth and you feel something blunt nudge at the side of your lips. You pull apart an inch, opening your eyes, just in time to see Ghost’s dick slide between Soaps and your mouth. Both tongues getting tangled around his already wet length, Ghost moans without letting go of both of your head. Soap hands find their way to your waist, and start to help you grind yourself against his tigh. 

“She is going to ruin your underwear, Johnny.” Ghost manages to say between grunts and moans. “Better to help her take them off.”

Big hands grab you from under your arms hoisting you up, Ghost holds you against his chest with your back pressed to him and Soap helps you take off your underwear. Just when you are naked from the waist down, you feel Ghost slip his dick between your folds, rubbing your clit on his way forward. His red tips stick out from between your legs, and you can almost feel Soap mouth water and the sight of both your crotch together. “C’mon, Johnny, I didn't tell you to stop sucking.”

Johnny’s tongue is warm against your skin, and for a second when you look down, all you see is Ghost fucking Soap’s mouth through you. Until Ghost begins to thrust, and his tip keeps nudging at your clit and if it is not his tip it’s Soap's tongue running side to side on it. 

Ghost is still hugging you from behind, his face now hidden in your neck moaning little words that don't make sense, you grab his arms trying to keep yourself steady, you can barely reach the floor having to be on your tiptoes on top of Ghost's feet. 

The mix of it all, feeling almost like a fleshlight by Ghost, Soap moaning and gagging so close to your clit and Ghost’s dick rubbing again and again against your clit, has you cumming embarrassedly quickly. And if it wasn't for the way Ghost moans against your neck when you clench your thighs together, pulling Soap’s hair again to keep him from sucking him, basically edging himself not to cum yet, you would be embarrassed. Instead, you are almost ready to cum again in mere seconds.

“It looks like Johnny is a bit needy right now, doll. Do you wanna sit on his dick, hm? Suck my dick while you do? Johnny has been talking nonstop about that little mouth of yours, birdie. Been driving me crazy.” He says as he kisses your neck, leaving it wet with his spit as he barely manages to speak properly. 

Soaps, still on his knees, sits on his feet, cock free and ready for you to sit on it. You hoist his lap, getting your knees on the floor sided to his forcing you to spread your legs. You rest your hands on his knees as you lower yourself, and moan in tandem with Soap once he is completely seated. 

Ghost grabs your hands, almost picking you up, and moves them to his thighs to allow you to support yourself. Soaps begin to move, slowly, letting you get adjusted to the stretch, as he begins to fuck you almost doggy style. It pushes you forward, and you moan against Ghost’s dick making him shudder.

You start to kiss his tip, soon getting your lips around it earning a moan of your name from Ghost. He caresses your head, brushing your hair away from your face. Soap grabs your waist, helping himself fuck you faster, skin slapping against your ass making you moan as you suck Ghost’s dick.

It is almost as thick as Soap's, but it's the way it hits your throats that makes the difference. Tears prick at your eyes, slowly falling down your cheeks, and when Ghost sees them he coos at you as he smears them on your cheek with his thumb.

You can see his half-open mouth thanks to his mask being risen, and you clench your cunt when you see him bite his lips to keep his moans from spilling out. Soap hugs you from behind, bitting your shoulder and begins to piston in and out of you. His hand goes south, rubbing at your clit and you grab Ghost’s thigh sticking your nails in making him hiss almost like a moan. 

“I'm gonna cum all over your pretty face, hm? Painted like a canvas, love.” He groans grabbing your hair. “While Johnny paints you inside, all ours, inside and out, love. Our little birds, all ours.”  He keeps mumbling, taking his dick out to jack it off in front of your face. 

You stick your tongue out while looking at him, and moan when Johnny change his speed, becoming sloppy and switching the speed with slower but deeper thrusts. He moans against your shoulder, biting again hard and that's enough to send you over the edge. Johnny and Ghost following you as if they were waiting for you. 

Ghost spents end up mostly in your mouth, but you feel the hot spurts settle on your face making you close your eyes. Soap sits down, stretching his legs, and he pulls you with him, softening your dick still inside of you. 

“I wish I could send Price a picture right now” Ghost says chuckling looking down at the both of you who chuckle too with difficulty to breath.

“I think… I think we should go shower again, bonnie.” Soaps says behind you, and you can only agree. 

Once cleaned, the three of you sit around the sofa ready to have dinner, quite delicious and gracefully, not burnt. 

“So, bonnie, ye wanna go on date?” Soap asks with his mouth full.

“I was gonna ask first, was swallowing my food.” Ghost says, almost scolding him.

“Actually… I thought about it, and I think I want to go on a date with…

Hii, how are you?!

The next chapter is your choice, bam, bam, baaaammm!!

Let me know if there is any kind of date or anything like that that you would like to happen, hehe.

Also, just an explanation in case anyone was confused. As I said, English is not my first language, which means I don't really know many idioms in English, and that plus the fact that when I can remember how they are I just make up my own, sometimes they lack some sense 🤣.

When in this chapter Ghost says: "But don't bury the corpse without killing it first." I was thinking about the phrase "to sell the bear's skin before catching it", but that one is actually the opposite, it is when you are a bit too optimistic about how things are going to play out. So I don't know how I ended up writing the corpse one, and then I remember the fact that Ghost was buried alive and it just... in my mind it made sense.

Sorry if it doesn't 💗

As always, thank you so much for reading and for commenting, love youu ❤️🌸

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[endless-ineffabilities]

Diet Mountain Dew

chapter 2 of the National Anthem series

President Aemond Targaryen x f!reporter reader

synopsis: a reporter finds herself entangled in an affair with Aemond Targaryen, the President of Westeros.

in this chapter: In her new assignment, the reader has to immerse herself in political affairs. But will she get caught up in another kind of affair altogether?

word count: 6.5k

themes/warnings: smut! (18+), tension!, language, pining, power imbalance, infidelity, a bit of a slow burn then a decisive unravelling

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

How did you get yourself into this?

You’ve been asking yourself that question a lot lately.

You’re not sure when your job as a reporter became quite so complicated. But you had prepared yourself for hard work, for late nights and challenging deadlines. Highgarden News granted you this assignment—a high-profile, career-defining opportunity to shadow President Aemond Targaryen, as he campaigned from city to city. It was the type of assignment that could make a career, a ticket to bigger stories, bigger roles, maybe even a permanent spot in King’s Landing.

Yet here you are, two weeks into the campaign trail, and you already feel yourself slipping.

What started as an assignment became something else, something you’re almost afraid to name.

Only one news team is granted access for each region, with yours being the one assigned from The Reach. The reporters from the other regions had arrived in droves in Lannisport weeks earlier, and then now in Riverrun, trailing Aemond’s every public appearance. In each city, his campaign team organised luxurious setups, from lavish hotel suites to VIP access at his events. It was a calculated display of power and promise—a future where the country could have all the sophistication and glamour it desired, all thanks to the Targaryen name.

And you are always closest to him. You.

As you move from one city to another, you can feel it growing, that silent speculation from your colleagues. You’re special, they whisper. His favourite. His go-to for the tough questions, the tough days. 

At first, it was easy to ignore. But when Aemond singles you out in every briefing, when his publicist Margaery—almost maternal in her role as his chief handler—asks if you need anything on behalf of “the President’s office,” it gets harder to deny that connection lingering between you and him.

Every day, it’s something else: a small smile sent in your direction, a private nod, a comment to you and only you when a question gets a little too personal. It’s like he’s let you into his inner circle, and even your best friend Theon, who kindly volunteered to assist you throughout this assignment, has become more insistent in his insinuations.

And, as much as you tell yourself otherwise, you find it impossible not to watch him just as closely.

Aemond is, without a doubt, relentless. It’s as if he’s constantly at war, a one-man show of steely-eyed ambition and razor-sharp wit. He doesn’t just address his audience; he commands them. His campaign team circles him like hawks, eager to please, but he always keeps them at arm’s length, rarely indulging in their advice.

His grandfather and campaign manager, Otto Hightower, is the only one who gets close, hovering, guiding Aemond’s every move with a careful hand, though it’s clear they clash. Otto wants a puppet, someone to execute his carefully curated, well-worn tactics to keep the Targaryens in power, and Aemond… Aemond wants something else entirely.

He’s made it clear—he will not be controlled.

“I’m the one they’ll listen to,” he snaps in a rare, private argument you overhear in the hotel corridor one evening. You can almost feel the electric charge in his voice, the tightly controlled anger that lingers beneath the surface. He’s too smart, too keenly aware of his image to lash out publicly, but in these quiet moments, the crack in his polished exterior shows.

“And you’ll destroy your own campaign if you keep refusing to listen,” Otto fires back, with a ferocity that is reserved for his grandson, not the President. “You think they care about you? They want to see power preserved, to see someone they can trust and control—”

“They trust me,” Aemond interrupts, his voice a low, cutting whisper. “And I won’t be controlled by you, or anyone else.”

There’s a silence after that, and you find yourself stepping back, pressing against the hallway wall, your heartbeat spiking as you try to blend into the shadows.

Otto’s voice drops to a chilling calm. “You’d do well to remember, Aemond, that being president means knowing when to bend.”

But Aemond doesn’t bend. Not for anyone.

He finds you, always. In each press briefing, his attention always seems to land on you, pulling you into his orbit whether you want it or not. Because no matter how you deem it to be—inappropriate, overwhelming, distracting—he’s simply too intoxicating.

He relies on you—most of the time only you—when he’s tired, frustrated, or just seeking a confidante. With each private moment, each conversation, the promise you made to yourself of keeping things professional grows weaker and weaker. 

The occasional brush of his hand on your hips or on the small of your back as if letting you know that he’s got you, that he’s there, is nearly enough to get you to break.

And then, there’s the pen incident.

In an afternoon meeting, a few people from his inner circle gathered around, including Margaery, Theon, and Aemond’s loyal security guards, Steve and James. You’re taking notes, barely listening to the endless back-and-forth about strategic points in the city that will “swing the voters,” when Aemond turns to you, breaking the hum of conversation.

“Could you grab that pen from my pocket?” he says, his voice low and casual, as if it’s the most natural request in the world.

Your hand falters, and you glance at him, wondering if you misheard. But no—he’s watching you intently, with that strange, intense expression that you can never quite read. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, a glint of challenge in his eyes. He knows you can’t refuse without drawing attention, yet his request feels deeply, absurdly personal. It feels like a dare.

Aware of the eyes on you, you slip your fingers into the front pocket of his suit jacket, which haphazardly rests on the small table beside you. You begin to suspect that he placed it there deliberately, just for this moment, and this suspicion is confirmed when your fingers brush against something unexpected—something soft, delicate, and unmistakably familiar.

Lace. Your lace panties.

Your breath catches, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you realise exactly what he’s done. Those were the same ones you had been missing since that night—the same night you made out in his car, crossing a line you’d sworn you’d never approach.

His gaze doesn’t waver, a flicker of satisfaction flashing across his face as he watches your reaction. It’s a possessive look, a reminder of that moment, of the way he had drawn you in, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself. You quickly pull your hand back, clenching the pen and clearing your throat, avoiding his gaze.

“Something wrong, angel?” he asks smoothly as he retrieves the pen from your outstretched, near-trembling hand. Oh shit. Not here, not now.

Margaery raises an eyebrow at the name, her lips twitching in amusement, and Theon, standing off to the side, looks like he’s holding back a loud, theatrical laugh. But Aemond doesn’t break, doesn’t show even a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he seems pleased, his eyes glinting with amusement as he seamlessly segues into the discussion at hand.

After the meeting, Theon doesn’t waste a second before sidling up to you, eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement. 

“Angel, huh?” He draws out the word, savouring each syllable. “Didn’t realise we’d upgraded to pet names with the Commander-in-Chief. That’s new.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Theon, don’t start.”

“Oh, but I’ve already started,” he says, all faux seriousness. “I mean, what’s next? Is he going to give you a little heart emoji in his messages? Add a winky face?”

“Don’t you have something better to do than dissect my life?”

“Normally, yes,” he replies, feigning deep thought. “But in this case? Absolutely not.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “In fact, I think I owe him a thank you for giving me endless material. And you know Margaery caught it too—she’ll have that eyebrow arched for weeks.”

“Are you done?” you sigh, but he’s relentless, clearly enjoying himself.

“Oh, honey, I’ve barely begun,” he says, leaning in as he glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “Because let’s be real. You’re not getting called angel for, what? Your groundbreaking, objective reporting?”

“Theon, what the fu—”

“Yeah, I bet he’s covering you too… literally...”

“You’re gross.”

“...with his tight body, and his thick c—”

“Okay! Okay, I get the picture!”

The next day, it becomes ever clearer that Riverrun—a critical, symbolic region—has remained steadfastly out of reach.

The Tullys, who are influential in Riverrun, have held a deep-seated mistrust toward Aemond’s family for generations. Once allies, the Tullys and Targaryens grew increasingly distant over the years, tensions flaring over each slight, each perceived grab for power by either family. Riverrun is deeply traditional, loyal to old values and wary of Aemond’s ambitious plans, which feel to them like unwelcome interference. And with Cregan Stark—Aemond’s primary rival—making calculated moves to win over the Tullys, Aemond’s approval ratings in Riverrun are slipping even further.

Cregan Stark is as adept at appealing to people’s hearts as Aemond is at appealing to their logic. With his easy smile and steady presence, Stark has positioned himself as the family man, the man who values every corner of the country and pledges to protect its heritage.

Aemond, on the other hand, is seen as a firebrand—a Targaryen not content to merely lead but determined to change, to push, to innovate. Stark’s connection to the Tullys is not just strategic; he has endeared himself to them, winning over not only the common people but Governor Edmure Tully himself, the unyielding leader who holds significant sway over Riverrun’s political landscape.

Still, Aemond persists, though his methods grow sharper and less forgiving by the day.

The morning in Riverrun is bitterly cold, as if the city itself has turned on Aemond. After his latest speech, which was met with only a polite smattering of applause, he retreats with his team to a private conference room in the hotel, his jaw clenched, his demeanour taut as he listens to Margaery brief him on the polling numbers.

“Riverrun isn’t budging,” she says, her voice hesitant but steady. “They’re not warm to us—and to be honest, Cregan Stark’s campaign is winning them over. He’s made a point to connect with the locals, attend Tully family events, visit their memorials. His team’s doing an incredible job of selling him as someone who’s part of their world.”

“Their world?” Aemond repeats, his voice laced with disdain as he leans back in his chair. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t run campaigns based on sentiment.”

“Sentiment isn’t useless,” she counters, glancing around at the team with a knowing look. “Especially not here. Riverrun values its heritage, its ties to old families. Stark’s giving them exactly what they want—a friendly face who promises stability.”

You observe him from the far side of the room, notebook in hand. You’ve been watching him closely, taking mental notes, seeing just how he ticks under pressure. And right now, his restraint is paper-thin.

Theon nudges your arm, leaning close enough to whisper, “You know he’s never going to win them over with these tactics, right? Riverrun doesn’t want what he’s selling.”

You nod slightly, acknowledging Theon’s point, but say nothing. It’s true: there’s no sense of warmth or nostalgia in Aemond’s approach. Instead, he comes off as cold and unyielding, refusing to play the game of familiarity and tradition that Riverrun adores. Stark, on the other hand, seems to step right into that world effortlessly, casting himself as the everyman with a steady hand and the charm that disarms even the most sceptical locals.

Aemond’s voice breaks your thoughts. “The Tullys can have their nostalgia, their small-minded ways. But it’s a relic of the past,” he says, a sharp edge in his tone. “I’m not here to coddle them. I’m here to bring Riverrun—and the entire country—into the future, not keep them mired in their ancestral grudges.”

Otto clears his throat, his gaze calculating as he turns toward Aemond. “If you ignore the Tullys, you risk alienating a significant power base. And frankly, this region is one you can’t afford to lose. Stark may look like an innocuous threat, but don’t underestimate him, Aemond. He’s winning because he’s using tactics that work, that make him appear… sympathetic.”

Aemond’s mouth twists, barely masking his contempt. “Sympathetic isn’t the same as capable,” he says icily, his gaze flicking to you. “But maybe the press has some insights they’d like to share?”

You feel the weight of his gaze and everyone else’s as the team shifts their attention toward you. For a moment, you hesitate, caught off guard. You meet Aemond’s intense stare and try to keep your response measured. “Cregan Stark’s strategy here seems to be focusing on shared values,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “He’s connecting with people on a personal level. He’s convincing them that he’s one of them, someone who understands them. And while you’re pushing for change, they may not feel ready for it… or see the need.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable as he takes in your words. “So you’re saying I should be more like Stark?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge that raises goosebumps along your arms.

“No, not exactly. But it might help if you met them where they are before asking them to follow you somewhere else. Sometimes, people need to feel seen before they’re willing to listen.”

His expression tightens, and for a second, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he lets out a low, humourless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do nostalgia tours,” he says finally, his voice low. “I’ve already won once before, that’s why I’m sitting here. They still don’t know who I really am? Fine. I’ll show them. But I’m not going to beg them to like me.” 

It doesn’t take long before he dismisses the team, instructing them to meet later in the evening for the next round of campaign preparations. Everyone files out of the room in a silence that feels heavier than it should, but you’ve only just stood from your seat when he commands, “Stay.”

You look around, and it is only Margaery and Theon left in the room, but they barely pause on their way to the doors, communicating their understanding that Aemond pertains to you. They’re used to it by now. 

“So,” he says, his voice smoother and more level than mere moments ago, “we’re here, angel. Riverrun.” He’s perched on the front edge of his desk—his usual spot, whenever he calls you in for a word.

You only emit a noncommittal hum, legs crossed as you sit on the chair in front of him. A small act of defiance because he continues to ignore your request for him to stop calling you angel. Never mind that there is no one else within earshot at the moment, save for Steve and James patrolling the hallway outside. 

“Nothing to say…” he posits the question, and you quickly jump into a response.

“Well, there is—”

But then he adds, purposefully cutting through at that moment to catch you off guard, with the slyest of smirks gracing his lips. “...angel?”

You sigh in defeat. “I told you—”

“Not to call you angel, I know, I know.” He waves a hand dismissively, and you know he’s just going to disregard the repetition of your plea. “But it’s the only name that feels right. That or… I don’t know… Baby? Sweetheart?”

Mortified, you look away from him, scanning the view outside the windows and ignoring the warmth you felt from hearing baby roll smoothly off his tongue. “None of those, Aemond, please. You know what, nevermind.”

He carries on, laughter still evident in his voice. “Tell me, are the people here in Riverrun right to be sceptical of me?”

“They’re wary, yes,” you admit, choosing your words carefully. “You’re a Targaryen; the older generation still remembers your family’s history. Frankly, many of them are wondering if you’re actually here for them or if you’re just trying to settle old scores. It also doesn’t help that Cregan Stark has endeared himself to the Tullys, and if he has their endorsement—”

“Then I’ve lost Riverrun,” Aemond states, his eyes darkening at the possibility, but he doesn’t lose his composure. Or if he feels the slightest hint of worry, he doesn’t let it show. If anything, he’s much calmer now, with just the two of you in the room, as opposed to when he was surrounded by his team. “And what do you think?”

“Well, the Tullys—”

“No,” he clarifies sharply. “What do you think of me?”

He stands perfectly still, all of his focus directed at you. Your stomach twists with the sudden intimacy of his question, but you meet his gaze, refusing to back down. 

“I think you’re ambitious. Smart, ruthless when you need to be. But I also think you haven’t shown enough respect to the values of tradition and ancestral heritage. It’s clear in how you talk about the opposition, how you dismiss their concerns. People feel that.”

His jaw clenches, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I dismiss what doesn’t matter,” he says coldly. “I’m not here to appease everyone, nor to waste time on people who aren’t willing to listen. I’m here to make real changes.”

“You’re here to secure your legacy, Aemond,” you counter, unable to hold back the accusation. “It’s about power as much as it is about the people. Maybe more.”

The air becomes charged, and his stony mask almost falls to give way to surprise. You’re willing to wager that no one in your position has ever spoken so directly to him before. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But then his lips curl into a smirk, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Perhaps it’s both, angel,” he concedes, surprising you. “But ambition isn’t a sin, you know. Everyone in this room wants something out of this campaign.” He gives you a pointed look, as if daring you to argue.

You’re unsure whether to feel guilty of the truth he’s pertaining to. You did accept this position because of the prestige that it offers, the way it can doubtlessly do wonders for the trajectory of your career. And only that… right?

Aemond can’t have been a motivation, no matter how strong his pull is. No matter how often you have imagined that it were his fingers, in the place of yours, stroking your wet folds before you fall asleep.  

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “There’s ambition, and then there’s ruthlessness. People don’t trust a man who’ll do whatever it takes to win. They need to believe you’ll put them first.”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes that you can’t quite read. He crosses the space between you with slow, measured steps until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and he plants his hands on the armrest of your seat, caging you in.

“And what about you, my angel?” he asks, voice low, his gaze intense. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches, his proximity affecting you more than you’d care to admit. His hand brushes against your arm, featherlike and tantalising, and you feel your resolve hanging on by a thread. How soon until you surrender another pair of your lace panties to be his salacious keepsake?

“I trust you to be who you are,” you say quietly. “The question is whether that’s enough.”

He lets out a long sigh, his gaze softening, and for a moment, you  see a glimpse of something more—a vulnerability hidden beneath the polished veneer of the aspiring president. He watches you with a strange intensity, as though he’s trying to read your every thought.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “We both know how to play the game.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you force yourself to look away, breaking the spell. You know the price of getting too close, of letting yourself get sucked into his orbit. It would be so easy to lean into him, to let yourself be caught up in his ambition, but you can’t afford to lose yourself.

“I’m just here for the story,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. But even as you say it, you know it’s a lie.

“Go ahead then, say it,” he murmurs, coaxing you. His gaze is trained on you, hard yet unmistakably interested. “Tell me how I’m arrogant, tell me how you don’t need this job, don’t need me,” he taunts, but his eyes betray him—they’re daring you, almost pleading, though he’d never admit it.

You hold your ground, refusing to let his words twist your resolve. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” you retort, but the bite in your voice only seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth curves, barely a smile, yet somehow even more alluring than a full one. 

He leans closer, his scent enveloping you—something fresh and faintly musky, muddled by the thick aroma of premium-grade cigars. “Then why don’t you walk away?” he asks, as though he already knows the answer. “Are you still here because of your job?” he murmurs, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Or maybe… you enjoy this.”

Your words falter, caught in your throat. Because you don’t want to lie. Not here, not with his gaze stripping away every pretense, every defense you’ve carefully held between you.

He reads it on your face before you can speak, and it emboldens him. His fingers trail up your arm, over the thin material of your white blouse, and his touch is maddening. His hand moves to cup your face, and the tenderness in the gesture is an almost unbearable contrast to the edge in his voice.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers, daring you.

You can’t. And in the silence, he makes his move.

Without warning, his mouth is on yours, fierce and unyielding, a kiss that speaks volumes about everything you’ve both left unsaid. The world blurs, narrows down to the way his hands move against your back, the press of his lips on yours. Every nerve, every inch of you feels ignited, drawn helplessly toward him.

Aemond pulls you from your seat, carrying you to his expansive desk without much effort. He sweeps an arm across the desk, papers and official documents scattering to the floor, pens clattering with a reckless abandon he rarely lets show. For once, the President’s carefully curated world is disrupted—by you.

Your ass slides along the smooth surface, his arms bracing at your sides. And even as you resist, pressing your palms against his chest in some futile attempt at defiance, he only pulls you closer, responding with a hunger that’s every bit as intense as his usual restraint. 

Aemond steps back just enough to tug his tie loose, letting it fall to the desk before undoing the buttons of his shirt, each one revealing more of the hard lines of his chest. When he finally shrugs the shirt off, he returns to you, his hands trailing down your thighs, his touch firm, almost searing.

“You don’t want to leave,” he breathes against your lips, his voice roughened by need. His mouth traces a path along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me you do, angel, and I’ll let you go.”

Your lips part, but no words come, just a breath that’s half sigh, half surrender. And the truth is, you don’t want to. Not even close.

He pulls back to catch your gaze, the weight of his stare laden with desire. “You understand what this means, don’t you?” he asks, his voice thick with urgency. 

“Wh-what does it mean?”

His mouth curls into a sly smile, one that’s both playful and predatory. “It means you’re all mine, angel,” he declares. 

Before you can respond, he lowers his mouth to your neck, trailing soft, heated kisses along the sensitive skin. 

“Do you know how much I’ve craved this?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve fought every part of myself to keep this professional, as you wished. But every time you look at me, I can’t help but want more.”

His fingers trace along the zipper of your pencil skirt, and as he slowly pulls it off, his eyes stay locked on yours. When the skirt falls away, followed by your blouse, and finally, your undergarments, he leans back, taking in the sight of you with unabashed greed. For a brief second, his gaze softens, a look of admiration flashing across his face, before his jaw tightens and he regains his control. 

He tugs at your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, and as you obey, your body instinctively pulls him closer, pressing against him. You can feel the hard length of him against your core, and a soft moan escapes your lips as he grinds against you.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he rocks his hips into yours, so firmly that his signet ring is sure to make its marking. You arch your back, pushing against him, craving the friction, the connection, the release that feels just within reach. “Aemond,” you manage to gasp, the sound barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh yeah, baby? Shouldn’t… Or wouldn’t?” He knows exactly how to push you, and he revels in it, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Shouldn’t,” you decide, feeling emboldened.

“Good,” he growls, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. He captures your lips once again, and you can taste the desperation in his kiss, a hunger that ignites something primal inside you.

In a sudden movement, he grips your waist and lifts you off the desk, his strength almost overwhelming. He turns you around, pressing you down against the cool surface, your cheek brushing against the scattered papers and pens, the remnants of his work now a forgotten afterthought. He holds you there, his body cocooning you, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he’s anchored in the moment, unyielding in his intent.

You hear the rattling of his belt buckle as he hurriedly shimmies off his suit trousers, until he’s left as naked as the day he was born. The fucking President, in all his glory, his glistening cock fully erect as if saluting the bastard it belongs to. 

You can’t help but gasp as he positions himself behind you, his tip propped against your ass. His hands roam your body, gliding over the curves of your hips, the swell of your thighs, and you shudder when he trails his index finger along your slick folds, prepping your hole for entry. The thrill of being so exposed, so completely vulnerable before him, only makes you feel hotter.

Aemond leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you ready for me, angel?” he asks, the question hanging heavy in the air, thick with implication.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, feeling the undeniable chemistry that crackles between you. “Yes,” you whisper, and the admission feels like a declaration.

And with that, he pushes himself inside you, entering you with a powerful thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. You gasp at the sensation, a mix of pain and pleasure that ignites every nerve ending in your body. The desk creaks beneath you as he moves, holding you tightly, anchoring you against him as he finds a rhythm that’s both unforgiving and intoxicating.

You push back against him, matching his rhythm, letting the heat and pleasure wash over you in waves. Every thrust sends sparks racing through your body, and you can’t help but moan, the sound echoing off the walls, mingling with the soft, urgent sounds of skin against skin.

“Uhh, yeah, baby, just like that,” he growls. “Let me take you—”

Your body responds instinctively, tightening around him, drawing him deeper, and you feel the rush of euphoria just within reach.

“Aghhh… please, please!” you gasp, your words bordering on desperate, a testament to the need coursing through you.

He grips your hips, urging you to meet him, to give in to the wild abandon of the moment. “Not yet,” he snaps harshly, but the smirk on his lips betrays the pleasure he finds in your desperation.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to change positions, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he lifts you up, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist. In a fluid motion, he shifts you both, and he climbs atop the desk so that he has you in missionary, your body flat against the cool surface. 

He thrusts into you again, even deeper this time, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely.

As he looks down at you, the image of your flushed cheeks, beautifully fucked expression, and the way his name rolls off your tongue in sensual mewls loops in his mind, each time with a sharper pang of satisfaction.

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your jaw when your head flops to the side. He demands your eyes—he wants to peer into your soul when you finally crumble. “Look at me when you fall apart, baby. I want to see you unravel.”

“Aemond, fuck yes—” He sees you give in, eyelids fluttering as you obey. He likes being in control, but having you like this might be enough to make this part of him fray. Just say the word and he’s yours. You’ll be the only one who can command the Commander-in-Chief.

“Oh, my angel,” he purrs, a sensual melody that is soft and rough all the same, as he stretches you with his girth and brings you to ecstasy with every roll of his hips. “My beautiful, beautiful angel. You like this, don’t you? You like when I take your body like this? You’re so fucking hot, baby…”

“Yeah, yeah… I fucking love it—”

“You’re gonna love me,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate hush. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

You’re gonna love him. Whatever the president wants, the president gets. 

“Yes, yes, yes—”

Aemond thinks of making you swear it. To promise that you will love him. Perhaps, if you say it in an official capacity—under oath, for instance—you’d actually fall in love with him for fear of perjury. It’s a childish thought, but he considers it, and mulls it over with as much seriousness as he does the labour policy frameworks Criston is proposing.

He can make you do it. He wants to. 

Please, please, angel. 

“You mean it, baby?” Aemond asks you, not minding that your pupils are blown out from sheer pleasure and your mind is probably going haywire. “You swear you’ll love me?”

Your lips quiver around a gasp as the swollen mushroom tip of his cock drives roughly into your g-spot, the whites of your eyes visible as they roll to the back of your head. “Whatever you want, Aemond.”

You said it. So he has you now. No takebacks.

He sits back, eyes glued to your writhing figure from above, lording over you like you’re his most prized possession. He takes one hand and uses it to lift your hips, raising your pelvis a few inches off the mattress, while his other hand comes to rest firmly on your lower belly, pressing on your flesh as if sensing his cock buried within. He feels it all—from the outside, the outline of his pulsating length sliding in and out of your core, and inside, your walls clenching on instinct when he slams deep. 

The ruthlessness in his gaze spurs you on, as well as how he handles your body, positioning you right where he wants you. His angel, in the perfect angle, a vision as he hits the right spot with every wet-sounding squelch. Your glistening juices coat his cock, and he has to keep himself from bending down and drinking them all up from you. It’s an exercise of willpower to resist sucking your folds and licking every bit of the sticky, tangy moisture. All his, just as you’re all his to eat, to devour.

But that’s for afterward. Now he has to cum in you first, and decorate your insides with his seed. May the gods bless Westeros, his constituents all recite. 

But nothing compares to you. The gods don’t hold a candle to your light.

There is only his angel, taking his cock so well like a good girl, like a good little slut.

“I’ll fill you up, angel,” he murmurs, his voice rough and dripping with lust. “Give you everything I have. Bless you with every bit of my fucking… patriotism.”

“Fuck yes, Sir,” you whine helplessly. He is so gone.

“Oh, my angel is so needy, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir… need you so much…”

“So mouthy, baby,” he says proudly, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “Are you going to sound this pornographic in the morning? Ask me… ask me how I like my pussy in an interview?”

You reach for him as you sweetly giggle at his words, your fingers curling at the back of his neck as you pull him down for a kiss that’s hot, messy, and all-consuming. He moans in your mouth, looking at you all cunt-drunk with heavy-lidded eyes. 

You trace his jaw as you attempt to come up with something coherent. “That’s—” Slam. He slows his pace, punctuating your words with rough thrusts that take your breath away. “—a good question—” Pound. “—Sir.” Plunge. “So… how do you like your pussy, Mr. President?”

He laughs. Now that’s one question he could get used to hearing more often. But only if it’s from you.

“Hmm.” He curls his lips, pretending to consider while caressing your face. “Let me see… I like my pussy… wet, tight, and completely fucking yours.”

“Good answer.”

“Warm around my cock… just like this.” His aforementioned member twitches as it massages your inner walls, and it feels so good when you tighten around him, that he has to bite his lip to restrain from letting out a feral growl.

“—s’that so?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smirks, reaching down to flick your aching bud. “You see, it’s gotta be on this body right here.”

“Sure,” you say in mock defiance. “Bet you tell that to all your women.”

“No,” he breathes, his roguish smirk in place, “only the journalists.”

With an indignant whine, you slap his chest. “You ass!” Your voice is light, full of warmth, and it prompts him to make a face at you, pulling the corners of his lips downward. Your laughter echoes freely, and something in him switches, as if he’s been disarmed. 

He lets his forehead rest against yours. He knows he’s teetering on a precipice of something he won’t be able to pull back from, but he feels like jumping into the void if it means being with you. “Are you calling your president an ass? My, my, angel, that could be a felony,” he teases, his brows quirking. 

“What, are you going to send me away?”

Aemond’s expression hardens for a moment. “Not a chance.”

He increases his pace again, his hips blurring in the motion. The two of you desperately chase your climax, settling in an unforgiving rhythm—your ankles suspended in the air with your legs spread wide, him ducking down to suck your tit or bite along your jawline, his balls grazing the flesh of your ass. 

When the moment overtakes you, his grip tightens, an unspoken command, and you give in, your whole body quivering underneath him. He follows you over the edge, groaning deeply as he reaches his own release, warmth spilling into you as he involuntarily shudders. His breathing is heavy against your skin when he finally collapses beside you, his arm slipping around your shoulders, holding you close as the last ripples of pleasure fade.

“You know, if I’d known what it would take to get that fire out of you,” he murmurs with a smirk, “we’d have done this sooner.”

You raise a brow, playfully challenging. “Assuming, of course, I’m even coming back after this.”

Aemond rolls his eyes, drawing you even closer, but there’s a hint of vulnerability lingering there.

His forehead presses against yours, and his pulse steadies as he allows himself a moment of closeness, a silent confession. "Stay with me," he whispers, and he is suddenly stripped bare, because the words slipped out without his permission.

“Aemond—”

“I don’t want you going anywhere, okay?” Though his words are possessive, there’s a plea just beneath the surface.

You don’t answer with words; instead, you let your hand reach up to cradle his face, thumb brushing the faint scar underneath his ghost-white prosthetic.

And he deems it more than enough.

The next morning dawns bright and unyielding, the weight of Aemond’s words lingering in your mind, but you’re determined to focus on the task at hand, burying yourself in notes and strategies for the day’s events.

But your sense of composure shatters, when you’re met with the imposing figure of Floris Baratheon, the First Lady herself. She glides toward you under the harsh lighting of the hotel lobby, impeccably dressed in a tailored fuschia suit that speaks of authority and sophistication, her presence commanding the room’s attention. 

“So, you’re the flavour of the month,” she says, a mocking lilt colouring her voice. “I’ve… heard about you. Honestly, I was expecting more.”

You straighten, feigning confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. “I’m here for the campaign coverage, ma'am,” you reply, keeping your tone professional, but she’s not having any of it.

Her eyes dance with cruel amusement. “How quaint. Must be quite the thrill, getting special treatment from the President himself. Access like that must mean you’re more than just another reporter. Just a passing phase, I’m sure. A little distraction to help him cope with all this pressure.”

You bristle at her insinuation, indignation rising within you, along with the inevitable shame. “I’m just doing my job.”

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me give you a word of advice—don’t get too comfortable. My dearest husband has a habit of moving on when the novelty wears off.”

The venom in her words strikes a nerve, and you’re struck speechless, searching for a retort that won’t come off as surprised or defensive—and finding none.

Floris laughs at your expression, a cold, biting sound that sends a chill down your spine. “You know, you’re not the first ‘angel’ Aemond has forcibly inserted into our marriage, and I assume you certainly won’t be the last.”

With that, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, but she glances back one last time, adding, “Enjoy your little fling, angel.”

a/n: and so it officially begins! It's going to be tough out here for our girl, getting involved with a married man. The fucking President, at that! Oh well. As long as she doesn't fall in love. Let me know what yous anticipate from the story (apart from even more filth that's sure to come) 🤍🤍🤍

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[ckret2]

Chapter 54 of everybody being really eager to kill their prisoner human Bill Cipher for good: the gang's trying a new way to create fuel for the one weapon guaranteed to destroy Bill.

It goes so great.

As Ford drove to Northwest Manor, Dipper skimmed through the introduction to Flatworld, where Edward Bishop Bishop was pretending that his book had been dictated to him by a sentient square; but he couldn't focus on it. He sighed, shut the book, and stared out the passenger window at the passing trees.

"Something on your mind?" Ford asked.

"I'm thinking about the Axolotl's poem again. The one about Bill."

"Ah. Still trying to remember the rest?"

"Kinda. Mabel and I are working on it together," Dipper said. "But it's not that. I've just been wondering... what if the poem is... you know, part of a prophecy about Bill or something? Mabel remembered another line of the poem—'A different form, a different time.' What if the Axolotl was telling us why Bill's back as a human? Maybe we need him here—to, to use his powers to fight off a bigger threat or something. Do you think that's possible?" He held back another question: what happens if we kill him before then?

Ford frowned thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about the Axolotl as well," he said. "About the worlds I visited that called it a god of criminals, tyrants, and luck. That sounds to me like the exact kind of being that would be Bill's ally. And it's odd how resistant Bill was to telling us anything about the Axolotl, when it simply passed over town for a few seconds and then moved on. Why the secrecy? How does Bill think it benefits him for us not to know about it?" Ford shook his head. "I think you're on to something, Dipper—I think whatever the Axolotl told you is important. The question is: important for whom?"

Dipper's stomach turned. The Axolotl had radiated such kindness; it was hard for Dipper to believe it could be up to anything evil with Bill. But then—Dipper clutched at Flatworld with the damning biography on the back—but then, how many people had Bill himself fooled with the benevolent teacher act?

Dipper understood now why "Don't Trust Bill" had so quickly turned into "Trust No One." Even when you knew that there was only one real enemy—even when you knew that most people out there were still reasonably honest and friendly—you could never tell just how far Bill's shadow stretched. "I guess that's true. We can't really know."

"We can't know yet. But it is worth trying to figure out," Ford said. "I wish I could tell you where to start looking for answers. For now... we'll just have to consider anything possible."

Ford was right. But all the same, every time Dipper paranoidly asked himself What if Grunkle Ford is right, what if the Axolotl really is on Bill's side, a second, even more paranoid, even more worried voice asked, But what if he isn't?

####

When they arrived, Fiddleford was already in his lab, hard at work on the miniature particle accelerator they'd come to see him about.

"The paradox what was powering it started yowling" Fiddleford said. "So obviously it ain't a paradox no more."

Ford grimaced. "That does lay to rest whether the cat is alive or dead."

"Sure does," Fiddleford said, sighing. "So I let the cat outside and I'm rebuilding the whole contraption to run on a more robust paradox. I hope you've got better news for me, Stanford."

"We hope so too. I think Dipper might have the solution to our fuel generation problem."

They briefly explained Dipper's unfortunate puppet incident last summer—Fiddleford had to take a break in the middle to grab a cup of coffee, "To steady my nerves,"—its ongoing effects on his sleep, and the new developments of the last few days, culminating in Dipper learning how to project his soul out of his body—

—which, Ford now realized, he probably should have expected Fiddleford to take poorly.

"Sweet sasparilla!" Fiddleford kicked over his chair while jumping onto the nearest table. "You're dead?!"

"What?" Dipper said. "No, I—"

"You're like a ghost possessing a zombie!"

Dipper thought that over. "Whoa..."

But, even though Fiddleford thought the whole affair went against the rightful order of the world, he agreed that it was a sound idea and worth trying. "It's lucky that my tater tot and I hunted out all the ghosts in this place during our spring cleaning," he said, opening a cabinet. He retrieved what looked like a pair of vacuums redesigned to be worn like backpacks with an assortment of random electronics dangling from wires. He held up a set of goggles and headphones hanging off one of the vacuums. "I invented these doohickeys that'll let you see and hear ghosts! They'll let us keep in contact with Dipper while he's out of his body." He set the vacuums on a table near the miniature particle accelerator and said, "First, though—Stanford, I need you to help me rebuild this machine."

"Of course." Ford turned away from the vacuum he'd been inspecting to look at the miniature particle accelerator.

Dipper said, "Wait, there are other ghosts in this mansion?"

"Yep!"

"I hunted one at the Northwests' big party last year," Dipper said. "How many more ghosts are in here?"

"We've caught, oh... thirty or forty so far."

"Seriously? That's amazing." Dipper was already thinking about the amazing Ghost Harassers episode this place could have been. Maybe even a miniseries.

"Aw, it weren't that hard. If you leave the TV on, they like to flock around it to watch. All you've gotta do is hide in the corner until a whole big bunch of 'em are gathered 'round—and then ya get them!"

"Oh," Dipper said. "Huh. I just tricked one into getting trapped in a silver mirror."

"Well, that's right impressive too. I never woulda thunk of that," Fiddleford said. "Me and Tate have been sucking them into cooling pouches in these here vacuums and then sticking the pouches in a chest freezer down in the dungeon! Maybe I oughta line the freezer with silver."

"This place has a dungeon?" Dipper asked.

Before Fiddleford could respond, Ford asked, "Which parts are we replacing?" He was inspecting the miniature particle accelerator.

"All of them!"

Ford gave Fiddleford a surprised look. "All of them?"

"Yep! Every last one!"

"Is the design changing that much?"

"Nope! It's staying exactly the same!"

"Then... why can't we just use the same machine we already have?"

"We will be using the same machine!" Fiddleford smiled mischievously. "Or will we?"

"Ah! I see! The particle accelerator of Theseus," Ford said. "Very clever."

"And kinder on the local stray cats, I reckon."

Dipper offered his assistance, but the work involved too much welding and buzzsawing for him to try untrained, so he was directed to sit a safe distance away with the first aid kit. At least it gave him a chance to read some more. He had to shove aside a couple flashlights and the glue grenade to reach where the slim book had slid to the bottom of his backpack during their walk from the car.

He skimmed over some of the worldbuilding looking for the story before he realized the story was the wordbuilding and looped back. It was a lot bleaker than he expected, even after Mabel's warning. Rigid class system, oppressive government, all kinds of horrifying shape prejudices... Frustrating dream visits to the ignorant line people in the first dimension who didn't believe in the second dimension, and to the self-absorbed King Zero in the point-sized zeroth dimension who thought a whole universe was contained inside him... A just as frustrating visit from a sphere who simply couldn't explain the third dimension in a way the square protagonist could understand, which was even more annoying since the square had just seen how the first dimension couldn't comprehend the second for the same reasons, so why couldn't he accept the possibility of a third dimension he couldn't imagine? Dipper got that it was supposed to be a metaphor to help three-dimensional readers understand that not being able to visualize a fourth dimension didn't mean it was impossible; but still. Come on, man. Don't be stupid.

On the other hand, at least now Dipper had a framework to understand the concept of higher dimensions and probably a leg up on next year's geometry. Would high school geometry cover four-dimensional space?

After a couple of hours of work and a break for lunch, the miniature particle accelerator was rebuilt and ready for another attempt to generate fuel. Fiddleford pulled on one of his ghost vacuums like a backpack, put on the set of connected headphones and goggles, and settled his glasses on over the goggles. "Y'all ready?"

"Ready," Ford said. He was seated at the accelerator's monitors, holding the jug that would contain any NowUSeeitNowUDontium they generated, and wearing the other vacuum—with the goggles over his glasses, and he was a bit worried about how Fiddleford had positioned his.

"Ready," Dipper said, a tad less certainly. What if he couldn't do it today? What if he'd never actually been able to do it last night and the whole thing really had been a dream?

But Fiddleford flipped the accelerator's power on, stepped back, and said, "All right! Do your thing!"

"Okay." Dipper stared straight at the machine, and—eugh—thought about degloving his body from his soul, peeling out of his skin fingers first.

This was only the second time he'd left his body deliberately. He'd observed in the past that the mindscape was strangely gray and still compared to the real world—but he'd never realized just how stark and swift the change was, like all the color and warmth had been abruptly sucked from reality. He shivered.

Ford inhaled sharply. Fiddleford stumbled back against the nearest table and yelped, "Flipping flapjacks!"

"You can both still see me?" Dipper said. "Can you hear me, too?"

"Loud and clear," Ford said.

"Like the voices of the dead." Fiddleford shuddered. "Welp, let's get this over with. I don't like all this ghost business. It ain't natural."

Ford gave him an amused look. "Since when have you ever been concerned about what's 'natural'? Didn't the engineering club vote you 'most likely to build a robot that flies in the face of God'?"

"You hush! There's nothing unnatural about iron, electromagnetism, and flamethrowers."

Dipper studied his body's face, its eyes pointed blankly toward the particle accelerator. "Well, I'm looking at the experiment, but I'm definitely not thinking about it. I think that's half of the paradox?"

"That's right," Fiddleford said. "Now, you just—float yerself on over to the other side of the accelerator, and think about it without looking at it."

"Right." Dipper positioned himself directly across the accelerator from his body, shut his eyes, and tried to think experimental thoughts. He didn't know much about Dontium besides what Ford had written about it in Journal 3—that it was inert when you were looking at it and radioactive when you weren't—so, if the miniature particle accelerator generated any, would he get blasted with radiation? Or was his body staring at the accelerator enough to keep it inert? But no—it was supposed to fill up the jug Ford was holding, right? Ford was observing it. Dipper tried to imagine what must be happening inside the accelerator; how did it work, would particles spontaneously generate in the tubes? Maybe they circled around until they fell into the hose to the jug...

He heard Ford gasp. "Fiddleford, look at this— Don't listen to me Dipper, just keep—keep thinking whatever you were thinking!"

"Is it working?"

"It was! Don't let us distract you."

Dipper tried to ignore the sound of Fiddleford running over to Ford, and started humming to drown out their hushed conversation. That was good, right? It meant the experiment was working. Keep thinking about that—experiment. Experiment. Expeeeriment. ... He wondered if trying to do the experiment by putting himself and Tyrone on either side of the accelerator would have worked, or if it had to be Dipper's soul and his body—

"Hot diggety!" Fiddleford shouted. "We've reached critical mass!"

"What does that mean, is it bad?" Dipper opened one eye a crack, trying to squint enough that he couldn't see the particle accelerator. "Is it gonna explode?"

Ford explained, "It means we've generated enough Dontium that it can sustain its own existence. Now, even if you get distracted, what we've already generated will remain. It can only go up from here."

"Wow," Dipper said. "That only took, what, a couple of minutes?"

"Less than that! During our last attempt, we tried for hours without reaching critical mass," Ford said. "Your idea was right on the money. Excellent work, Dipper."

Dipper grinned. After all that anxiety, it was almost a letdown how easy it was, but the coolness factor made up for it. He could just imagine the conversations the first week of high school: What did I do over summer break? Oh, nothing much. Just synthesized a new element. To fuel a weapon custom-designed to kill an immortal chaos god. And did I mention I was a ghost at the time? It didn't quite top last summer's adventures, but...

Then something went wrong.

There was a noise halfway between the electric buzz of a tesla coil and the rip of Velcro being torn apart. A stench like burning hair filled the air. A line of shifting colorful light began worming its way out of the center of the particle accelerator and up into the air.

"Oh no. Ohhh no!" Fiddleford grabbed his head. "The micro-rips! The threadbare fabric of reality! Our experiment put too much of a strain on it! We tore straight through!" One foot bounced agitatedly, "Ohhh, I knew I shoulda run some calculations before substituting in Dipper for you and Stanley."

Dipper gasped as the line of light began to agonizingly stretch open wider. Reality began seeping over its edges and dripping through into the kaleidoscopic miasma beyond. It developed a second horizontal rip across its middle as reality stretched beyond endurance in multiple directions. "What—is that?" He was afraid he knew.

"A dimensional rift," Fiddleford said.

"The Nightmare Realm," said Ford.

The last frayed thread holding reality together snapped apart, and the rift tore open wide, fully exposing the Earth to the roaring roiling chaos beyond. 

They screamed.

"Hello?" A giant set of dentures with stubby arms and legs leaned through the rift. "Oh hey! Aren't you the guys that killed Bill?"

They screamed again.

"Is screaming how humans say hi?" the monster asked. "I'm Teeth. Aaah!" He turned toward Ford. "Hey! Fingers! Lookin' less electrocuted than the last time I saw you—"

Ford socked Teeth in the incisor, knocking him back through the rift. "Back, you! You and your 'friends' are not welcome in this dimension!"

"Ow. What the heck, man."

Fiddleford shouted, "Don't stop observing the Dontium!" He bounded across the room on all four to scoop up the milk jug and stare at it. 

Ford nearly toppled through the rift, and had to grab onto the miniature particle accelerator as the heaviest nearby object to anchor himself. The rift sucked on reality like a vacuum, and the longer it was open the more powerful it grew.

Over the roar of the rift, Dipper yelled "What do we do?!"

"We have to seal it! Before it sucks all of Gravity Falls into the Nightmare Realm!"

"How?!"

Last summer, the instant Bill had no longer been around to maintain the dimensional rift, it had also sucked reality into it, starting with everything that properly belonged in the Nightmare Realm; but then it had also quickly sealed itself back shut. On the other hand, this rift was just opening wider and wider. Maybe it wasn't like the rift Bill had used to enter Gravity Falls, then? Maybe it was structured more like the wormholes that had been left behind after Weirdmageddon—

"I've got it!" Ford picked up Dipper's body—trying not to shudder at how lifeless it felt—and unzipped his backpack. "Is the alien adhesive grenade still in here?"

"It should be! Let me see." Dipper floated over to peer into his backpack.

The rift was already strong enough to drag at Ford's clothing. The lightest objects in the room lifted into the air and were sucked through. Papers. Pencils. Coffee mugs. Dipper's soul.

He screamed. "GRUNKLE FORD!"

"Dipper!" Ford grabbed for Dipper's ankle, but his hand passed right through. Ford's blood ran cold as Dipper tumbled head over heels into the Nightmare Realm.

"Look at that," Teeth said, watching Dipper soar by. "Dinner delivery."

There was no difference between the mindscape and reality in the Nightmare Realm, if Ford followed Dipper  through he'd be able to get a grip on Dipper there. But how would he carry Dipper back to Earth without him melting through Ford's grasp the moment they were through the rift? Didn't matter, grab Dipper first, then figure it out—

Fiddleford shoved the jug of Dontium in Ford's hands as he ran past. "Watch over this!"

"What—!"

Fiddleford jumped into the Nightmare Realm, the end of a long extension cord tied around his waist. He stretched out the hose of his ghost vacuum and flipped a switch, and with a yelp Dipper's soul was sucked inside. Ford gasped in relief.

Trying to keep as much of his attention on the potentially-radioactive jug as possible, Ford reeled Fiddleford back in, shoved the jug in his hands, and dug into Dipper's backpack again until he found the alien adhesive grenade. He pulled the pin and chucked it through the rift. "Duck!"

He shielded Dipper's body and Fiddleford shielded the Dontium jug as the grenade exploded. Even so, the force of it blew aside everything within ten feet of the rift and sent both of them sprawling. When Ford glanced back over his shoulder, the adhesive had gummed up the opening of the rift like a popped glowing magenta bubblegum bubble; and as he watched, it sucked the opening shut. In a few seconds the air was still and quiet, and the only sign the rift had ever existed was an immense, jagged vertical line in the air around which the light refracted wrong.

Fiddleford gingerly got back to his knees, then pulled off his glasses and pushed up his goggles. One of the lenses had been crushed, and the glasses' frame was bent beyond repair.

Ford heaved a long, heavy sigh. "A bit too familiar, wasn't it?"

Fiddleford blinked at him. "Wasn't what?"

"The—reeling you in from the Nightmare Realm?" Ford said. At Fiddleford's blank look, Ford said, "The portal test?"

"Oh." Fiddleford scratched his head. "I... still don't remember it too clearly."

"Ah. Yes. Of course." Ford's stomach churned with guilt as he looked away from Fiddleford. Over thirty years late was too late to apologize, wasn't it? (Over the past year he'd wondered, again and again; and again and again he'd decided that it was.) "Thank you for saving—" He gasped, "Dipper!"

"Oh, right!" Fiddleford took off his vacuum, dropped it on the floor, and unzipped its bag. The ghosts of a Northwest in a buckskin coat and a confused-looking hippie escaped into the air. "Hey," Fiddleford barked. "You get back here!" He raised the vacuum's hose and flipped its switch. He caught the hippie, but as soon as she was sucked in she flew out the unzipped bag and off to freedom again. Fiddleford lowered the hose and shook a fist at the retreating spirits. "I'll get you ectoplasmic varmints, just you wait!"

Ford knelt on the floor and held the bag open wider. Dipper floated out, arms crossed tight and shivering. "So... so cold... and dark... and really, really dusty."

"Let's get you back where you belong."

Ford held up Dipper's body as he lay back down in it. He could see the moment color flooded back into Dipper's cheeks and his eyes focused again. Dipper groaned.

Ford said, "You're never doing that again."

"I am never doing that again," Dipper said.

"We can't do that again," Fiddleford said. "The fabric of reality in this town is too unstable to handle another paradoxical physics experiment that powerful! We'd rip open another rift to the Nightmare Realm!"

"And we just tossed away all of our remaining alien adhesive," Ford sighed. It left Gravity Falls vulnerable if any more rips formed. Sometime soon he'd have to go back to the alien crash site and see if there was any more adhesive he could scrounge up; but even if he did, they couldn't risk wasting more of it like this.

"But did we get what we needed?" Dipper asked.

Fiddleford held up the milk jug of Dontium and shook it. It had a strange shifting color, wavering between cyan and orange depending on the lighting. "Looks like we got about three-fourths of a gallon," Fiddleford said.

"It's only enough to fully power one shot," Ford said. "But... one shot is all it'll take to destroy Bill." His stomach flipped nervously as he said it. He'd been anxious every other time he'd prepared to kill Bill, but that had always been because he'd been preparing to battle for the fate of the universe with a godlike monster who could easily kill him or worse. For the first time, he was preparing to execute a defenseless prisoner, and he didn't know whether it would make the universe any safer.

For half the summer he'd hoped Bill was harmless. Now he wished he had proof that Bill wasn't, so that he could lay his conscience to rest.

Dipper looked as uncomfortable as Ford felt; but when he caught Ford's gaze, he hardened his expression and nodded. Ford nodded back.

"WOOHOO!" Fiddleford leaped his full height straight up, making Ford and Dipper start. "We done it! YAHOO!" He waved his hat around ecstatically, doing a little jig in place. "YIPPEE! HIP HIP HURRrr—hey, how come you fellers ain't celebrating?"

Ford didn't know how to explain without making Fiddleford worry he was at risk of falling under Bill's spell again. "We'll celebrate when he's dead."

####

"Who was at the door?" 8 Ball shouted. When he didn't get a response, he paused his game. "Teeth?"

Teeth waddled into the game room. His face was completely plastered shut with some kind of glowing purple glue.

Pyronica cracked up and Paci-Fire chuckled darkly. 8 Ball sighed, "What'd you get into, you idiot?"

Teeth waved his hands emphatically.

"All right, okay." 8 Ball stood and stretched. "Does anyone have the number of that lamp guy Bill used to hook up with?"

Half an hour later, having lured over Lava Lamp Guy with the false promise of ping pong pool and illicit liquids, they cornered him in a bathroom, with Zanthar sitting in the tub restraining him while Paci-Fire struggled to hold his face still.

"Please!" Lava Lamp Guy screamed. "Let me go! I'll do anything you want! My neurologist said I can't take much more of this!"

"Cease your complaints," Paci-Fire said, as 8 Ball took off Lava Lamp Guy's bowler. "You shall not dissuade us. We do this because we have no choice in the matter."

"Why not?!"

"Because none of us feel like making the trip to a dimension with a drugstore."

8 Ball stuck a soup ladle into the open top of Lava Lamp Guy's head and fished around until he got a scoop of the red goo floating around in the thinner orange liquid. Lava Lamp Guy howled in agony. Zanthar heaved a weary sigh.

8 Ball carried the ladle over to where Teeth was sitting on the toilet lid kicking his feet. "Here you go, bud."

Teeth clapped his hands, grabbed an oversized toothbrush, and held it out for 8 Ball to pour the goop on. He scrubbed his teeth until the goop dissolved the adhesive. "Whew!" He stretched his jaw a few times, then jumped to his feet. "Thanks! I was worried I was gonna miss karaoke night." He looked in the sink mirror to scrub off the remaining scraps of adhesive.

8 Ball put Lava Lamp Guy's hat back on. Lava Lamp Guy groaned, "I think I forgot my third husband."

"You've only been married twice," Hectorgon lied.

"Oh." Confused, Lava Lamp Guy said, "Alright."

Teeth muttered, "Blech, divorce memories." He grabbed a bottle of mouthwash to clear out the taste.

"So what happened?" Kryptos asked. He was hovering in the doorway beside Pyronica.

"I'unno. I think the Dimension 46ers were messing around with their portal or something? They opened up a portal here."

"What? Uh-uh," Pyronica said. "It had to be some other dimension. We just invaded them, why would they open the portal again?"

"No no, that sounds like humans to me," Kryptos said. "If one of them pushes a button and immediately dies, the guy standing next to him will go, 'I wonder if it does that every time.' I've seen them do it."

"It was definitely them, I saw that local contractor Bill recruited for the portal who went nuts. Fingers or whoever."

8 Ball groaned. "You mean the guy that invaded the Quadrangle and tried to kill everybody?"

"Yeah. That guy. He told me I wasn't welcome on Earth and chucked a glue bomb in my face. I was like, well alright, buddy, I'm not the one who opened up a portal in your house, you could have just stayed home instead of ruining my day," Teeth said. "I didn't really say that to him. I thought it."

"So now the humans are invading us." Pyronica threw her hands in the air. "Great! This is just terrific! Bill teaches them how to make their own portals, they follow us home, and now we're about to have a pest problem that knows how to use tools! How long is it until this whole place is crawling with humans?! I'm going househunting, how many rooms should I look for? 8 Ball?"

"I'm in."

"Teeth?"

Teeth sighed, but said, "Yeah. The neighborhood's going downhill. Especially if we're gonna have a pest problem."

"Big Z?"

Zanthar gave a thumbs up.

Pyronica looked at Paci-Fire. He averted his gaze. Pyronica said, "Paci?"

Sullenly, he said, "We should ask Keyhole's opinion as well."

She laughed in disbelief. Nobody cared about Keyhole's opinion, he went with whatever everyone else went with. Appealing to Keyhole was just a delaying tactic. "Fine, sure. We'll get Keyhole's opinion."

"I'm not going," Hectorgon said, crossing his arms.

Relieved, Kryptos said, "Yeah. Me neither."

"You don't have to," Pyronica snapped. "You two and Morph can wait for Bill to come back from the dead as long as you want. But the rest of us are leaving."

Kryptos tilted toward the hall, gesturing for Hectorgon to follow him away from the others. "How long do you think we can hold this place without the outerplanars?" The Quadrangle was all that remained of Bill's turf. Without Bill's energy boosting them, none of the shapes were particularly powerful. They'd always depended upon the other Henchmaniacs to guard Bill's stronghold, the heavy-hitters like Zanthar and Pyronica. Even Bill preferred to let them fight his battles when he could; Bill's energy was much vaster, but less renewable.

Hectorgon grimaced uncertainly. "We've gotta think of something fast."

####

Dipper stared at the jug in his lap, ensuring it didn't turn radioactive before they got home. Bill practically seemed to have a radar for Ford—and on top of that, could see through walls—but as far as he cared Dipper may as well have not even existed; so they'd decided that Ford would go in the main door to ensure Bill's attention was turned away while Dipper went through the gift shop and took the elevator down to Ford's study. Ford had told Dipper where to find a lead locker that would keep the Dontium contained until Ford could use it to refuel the Quantum Destabilizer; all he had to do was put it in and stare through the crack until he'd slammed the door shut.

And once they'd decided on that, the drive home had fallen deathly silent.

As the Mystery Shack appeared through the trees, Dipper asked, "We're doing the right thing, right?" His voice was quiet. "I hate him, but—we owe him our lives. And there's that prophecy..."

"Lives can't be owed," Ford said. "Yesterday he may have saved us, but tomorrow he would still destroy our world in a heartbeat. We can be grateful to be alive—but we can't let that stop us."

"So, we're doing the right thing?"

Ford was silent for much longer than Dipper would have liked. "I hope so."

####

(We're moving toward some important stuff!! Hope y'all enjoyed and I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this week's chapter!)

[wanlia]

sleep well, dearest—

“Their slumber was a symphony, each breath a note of peace, and I, the conductor, watched with a heart overflowing with love.”

pairings. wanderer x gn! reader.

premise. this rare moment where wanderer let himself relax and relishes in the moment of just simply watching his beloved, — you, sleep.

contains warnings. teeth rooting fluff, ooc! wanderer, soft! wanderer in this one, this is more like a drabble

the warm breeze of the soft howling of the winds passes through the open window of your shared home, the lights were out and the only thing that was lighting up the room was the moon shining through the dark night as your sleeping form was laying right next to your boyfriend — wanderer, who’s eyes was staring down at you.

if you had been awake you could see the fondness he has in his face, an expression that no one had ever seen, not even you.

you always know wanderer refuses to show any vulnerability, not to anyone but you — his lover, was the exception though it’s only a rare occasion that you’d get to see him in a vulnerable state.

wooden like hands caressed the silkiness of your hair, so delicate and tender as if he was afraid that it might get destroyed if he put any ounce of pressure. his touch was gentle, unlike how it usually was. unlike whenever he fights.

wanderer’s indigo eyes drank the sight of your sleeping face, the way your mouth was slightly parted, chest heaving at every breath you take, your eyes shut closed as you nap, the way you look something that came out of a book under the sheer light of the moon was perfect.

everything about you was perfect.

the sharp tongue that always says the most meanest and offensive things to people including you ( unfortunately ) was saying sweet nothings into your ear, even if you were asleep, his words was soothing you making you fell into more deeper slumber.

it was already past midnight and yet he wasn’t sleeping not like he wanted to anyways, his eyes isn’t heavy nor does he feel the need to sleep. he rather just sit next to your sleeping form and admire you than sleeping.

wanderer was a puppet so he doesn’t need sleep, he can last a whole year without sleeping and that’s one thing he liked being a puppet, he doesn’t need sleep so he can look at you all day without getting tired.

his fingers that were previously tracing your hair was gone instead it was resting on your waist, holding and squeezing it possessively before he leaned in close to your ear. pressing a kiss on the crown of your head, forehead, cheeks and finally on your lips then finally whispering one last thing to your ear.

“sleep well, dearest. goodnight, i love you.”

now playing,

she looks just like a dream

 

𐔌◞ ◟𑂴 ᪲⠀   ׅ     © XIAOLIA 2024 ★ 🫧 plagiarism, reposting, taking inspirations and translating my works with or without permission is prohibited.

[linkspooky]

YUTA WAS ALWAYS SELFISH

I was originally going to make this post the week the big twist with Yuta in Gojo's body happened, because of the massive subversion that it was. It was the kind of twist that made you question if everything you ever knew about the character was wrong. Namely, Yuta one of the most empathic sorcerers we see in the series - the character who seems to lack the selfishness of the other sorcerers that make up jujutsu society. The kid who fights with the literal power of love.

Was Yuta a monster to begin with and we just didn't see?

So ignore the clickbaity tagline, Yuta is one of my favorite characters I'm not going to start calling him a terrible person. Rather that Yuta is dismissed as a soft kid or a wifeguy, when he's actually more cunning and cutthroat than anyone gives him credit for.

If a sorcerer is nothing more than a con-artist, then if the talent for trickery he displayed in the Sukuna fight is anything to go by Yuta is a true sorcerer down to his bones. Yuta turning Gojo's body into a puppet seems like a massive twist, and almost out of character for Yuta who was so devoted to Gojo.

His earlier fight in the culling game even seemed to hint that Yuta was too soft and he didn't truly have the attitude to fight someone like Ryomen Sukuna who was the embodiment of a calamity.

These panels seemed like a prophecy that Yuta was doomed to fall short against Sukuna. That he could never live up to his title as the next Satoru Gojo, because unlike Gojo and Sukuna who can stand on the top alone Yuta clings to his loved ones.

Sukuna got to where he is by rejecting love. Sukuna is Sukuna because he's never needed anyone to satisfy him. So how can Yuta who needs to be surrounded by his loved ones at all time to validate him and tell him it's okay for him to be alive even compete?

However, even in JJK zero Yuta's love is questioned on whether or not it's as selfless and "pure" as it seems. To begin with, Maki calls him out early on for attracting bullies by playing the victim a lot. He pretends to be a good and innocent person put upon by his circumstances and bullies when really he doesn't want to help himself. Instead of standing up to the bullies he's always let Rika protect him and then condemned her for being a monster. He's let Rika take the blame for all the destruction, even though Rika is HIS cursed technique, created by HIS emotions, and is protecting him.

Yuta doesn't make any attempt to try to learn to control Rika, or even work with her, he just shrivels away in fear.

"You act like a good person, but it feels fake..." Yuta has always adopted the facade of a good person. He seems soft, socially anxious and withdrawn, even after he gains confidence as a sorcerer those traits don't go away because they're a part of his outward persona. Jung divides the psyche into two parts, the persona a mask that faces the world the parts of yourself that come out in your social interaction with people and then there's the shadow your repressed personality.

Yuta's shadow is a literal monster that declares her love for him and then expresses that love by violently destroying everything around him.

Yes, Rika initially contained the soul of someone else but Rika the curse was created by his technique, her power corresponds to his emotions, she comes from his shadow, and even after the real Rika passes on the Shikigami RIKA still remains completely under Yuta's control. Rika is Yuta, the embodiment of his twisted definition of love that would curse his loved ones to keep them by his side forever because he can't live without them. All of Rika's insane possessiveness? That's Yuta's too. Rika's violent overprotectiveness? That's Yuta.

How poetic is it really that Yuta and Rika are so codependent that Yuta's shadow, the other half of his personality is literally RIKA. Yuta cannot exist without love, and without someone too love, he's so terrified of being alone that he cursed Rika and then turned her corpse into a puppet after death. He uses his loved one as a weapon to fight his enemies.

If you think about it for more than five minutes Yuta's cursed technique and Rika has some seriously messed up implications, but it's hard too because as messed up as Yuta's love is it's still genuine.

Love is a curse, but in 236 Nanami speculates that sometimes curses can save people too, just like how Jujutsu Sorcerers use curses to fight and protect others.

So Yuta's love is a screaming, raging, overprotective monster, but it's also what give shim the motivation to fight ofr others. Yuta's love is a curse, but curses can save people too.

Yuta on the other hand isn't aware of his own darker nature most of the time.

The big twist in Jujutsu kaisen Zero is that just as Maki accused him of from the beginning, Yuta was playing the victim all along. He acted like Rika cursed him with her dying breath, but Yuta was the one who cursed her because he couldn't bear to live without her.

However, even this apology is a bit telling of Yuta's self-centered nature. He immediately turns everything into his fault and starts beating himself up over it. He doesn't look at anyone else's perspectives or that other people had a role to play. He deliberately ignores Rika's feelings on the past few years, which Rika is quick to point out for him.

This scene has a parallel later where Yuta ultimately, only thinks about himself first and foremost. In spite of wanting so badly to be surrounded by his loved ones, it's more about him loving them, and less about their feelings for him.

After all he's completely willing to commit a double suicide with Rika to protect his friends, ignoring the fact Rika doesn't want him to pass on just yet, and Maki, Inumaki and Panda wouldn't want him to disappear either. This scene has a direct parallel a year later in the fight against Sukuna when Yuta gives up his body.

Maki almost breaks character from her usual culling game arcs stoicity to fight and argue with Yuta to stop him form doing this, and Rika who one year earlier told Yuta to live a long life so she wouldn't have to see him on the other side so soon is reduced to screaming and sobbing while holding his dead body.

Yuta loves people, or at least he feels an intense amount of love for people, but he can be as self-centered as the other sorcerers we see in the story. Geto even points this out right away, that Yuta is selfish, that he's seeking self-affirmation first and foremost. He needs other people's approval, their love, to feel like he deserves to exist. He'll do anything to earn that love, and once he has it he'll do anything to protect it but it's ultimately for himself.

It manifests in Yuta's technique itself copy, which first and foremost requires Yuta to consume parts of his loved ones that can never be healed if he wants to keep their copied technique. Yuta gets stronger by literally eating his loved ones. We have canon confirmation that Yuta fed part of Inumaki's severed arm to Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique is to emulate the strengths of all of his loved ones copying them and making them a part of his oqn technique, because Yuta will take any shape and form in order to be loved. It's also the perfect technique for fighting as a part of a group, because someone like Sukuna will naturally assume that Yuta's technique STEALS instead of COPYING so he'll forget that the original still retains their technique.

Yuta's not only selfish and has a very selfish, overprotective love for others, but it's those exact qualities that make him an effective sorcerer strong in the area that Gojo is the weakest. Group coordination.

Gojo is in his element when he's alone, but Yuta is so codependent that he literally cannot exist unless other people are looking at him. His strength comes from the things he copies and takes from his friend, and he turned his loved one into a puppet to fight others. Is it really that surprising that this kid would willingly use Gojo's body as a weapon after death when that's literally what he did to Rika.

How telling is it that like Yuta learned that Rika was cursed by him, went so far to exorcise her spirit, and then after finally letting go after her spirit passed on he made a second Shikigami named Rika a few months later made out of the small remnants of cursed energy that Rika left behind as a gift after passing on. The dude is not over Rika, he's like, Geto and Gojo levels of not over Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique being the literal weaponization of his love and his loved ones makes him the best character for group coordination in the entire series. Yuta even adopts apsects of hakari's persona when making his plans against Sukuna since he decides to gamble at several key points in the plan.

Several of the key moments in the fight are all Yuta's plans, with some collaboration from Angel. He makes several bets too like Hakari would. The first being going to finish Kenjaku by himself and using both Todo and Takaba in conjunction to trick him. The second is the bet that he'd be able to make it back in time to rejoin the fight in case Higuruma's plan fail.

It was Yuta who let his own domain barrier down on purpose to let Sukuna think he had the victory so he would let his guard down and make it easy for Maki to ambush him. Something that also required perfect coordination between Yuta and Maki working in tandem with one another.

Yuta set up Hana to do one large jacob's ladder when Sukuna least expected it because he knew Sukuna would forget that his technique is COPY and not steal. He also made the biggest bluff which was leading Sukuna to believe that he fed Rika his last finger.

These aren't just good bluffs, they require near perfect coordination with your allies and taking several chances on them. Nobara might not have even woken up so the last finger / resonance Gambit was perhaps the biggest gamble. Maki and Yuta had to coordinate with each other well so Maki would be there when Yuta dropped the barrier. Yuta needed Takaba a relatively new and inexperienced sorcerer to survive against the threat that was Kenjaku, and he needed all of his allies to stay alive while he was prioritizing Kenjaku.

These are all plans Satoru Gojo would never have been able to pull off, because Gojo only ever relies on himself. If Yuta and Hakari had intervened in the Gojo and Sukuna fight then he would not have been able to go all out, whereas Yuta REQUIRES people collaborating with him in order TO GO ALL OUT.

This is Yuta. This is his strength. Yuta is nothing without love, so he takes on the forms of the people he loves and takes things from the people he loves in order to gain the power to protect him. Yuta copies everything from the people he loves, so is it really that much of a surprise that he'd become a monster just like Gojo.

In some ways, Geto and Yuuta were the same. Geto was too sincere. To someone like him, the reality that the world of sorcerers presented to him was just too cruel. ’…that in a world like this, I couldn’t be truly happy from the bottom of my heart.’ To live for the purpose of being yourself. And for that goal, Geto could only continue to pursue his twisted dream, drowning himself in the curse that lies in the gap between ideal and reality.

Love is a weapon for Yuta. Just like his curse technique can take any form, so does Yuta's love, and so does Yuta himself. Love always wins, and in order to do so Yuta will take any shape necessary, no matter how twisted.

Love is the worst curse of them all, and Yuta will become the worst monster of them all if it means protecting his love ones.

[ihavedonenothingright]

Hmm. So uh. Guys. Heaven Official's Blessing fans. I need you to understand that this match up is like. Sadistic Genocidal Hydrogen Bomb (Mo Ran) vs. Slightly Mean Coughing Baby (Jun Wu). There is no comparison. Oh my god.

WN Criminal Upper Bracket

Mo Ran from The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2ha)

[No Propaganda Submitted]

Crimes: where do I even start. World domination? SA? Murder?

Wiki Link

Jun Wu from Heaven Official’s Blessing (TGCF)

Submission: This is MAJOR SPOILERS for Heaven Official's Blessing- but as for his crimes, just like. All his actions as Bai Wuxiang were so iconic. Jun Wu was so single mindedly focused, he manipulated so many people and brought so much death, destruction, and despair to ruin Xie Lian's life and to turn him into a Calamity like himself. It's the dedication to the bit for me, he wiped everything from his disastrous past and became emperor of heaven. Jun Wu had all of the heavenly court fooled and under his thumb for centuries and played the part of the caring mentor/father figure to Xie Lian all while gladly placing the cursed shackles on him. 

Wiki Link

[Please be kind and respectful in the notes. Anti-Propaganda is NOT allowed.] 

[pop-philosophy101]

Sprawling Immediate Thoughts on Agatha All Along Episode 5 (spoilers duh)

Well, so like obviously that wasn’t Agatha’s trial, right? Like, so sorry, but the 80’s sleepover goosbumps aesthetic doesn’t exactly scream Agatha Harkness to me. You know who it does scream? Billy Maximoff, a boy born in his mother’s 80’s sitcom creation. Even the decorations on the walls of the cabin say “Westview” and “Eastview.” Agatha sure as hell doesn’t give a damn about Westview. This isn’t the trial adapting for her, it’s adapting for the newest member of the coven. Teen finally got his bonafides as a coven member once he exchanged brooms with Alice. (Put a pin in what Agatha said about the brooms representing selflessness).

Then when solving the trial there is major structural changes. In the first trial the key to the solution was tied to Jenn’s fall from grace. The trial is essentially calling her out for her terrible morals in business because she feels powerless since being bound. She feels like nothing she does matters anymore, so who gives a damn if there’s petroleum in the Goop. Then in Alice’s trial the entire solution was embracing her mother’s love and sacrifice, something she’s been rejecting out of fear and anger. In this trial, there is no solution for Agatha. She can’t go back and change the past, she can’t reason with her mother, she can’t fight back. Agatha has no recourse with a woman who believes she was born evil. Agatha is powerless; she’s a puppet in this game. You know who does have power in the episode titled “Darkest Hour/Wake Thy Power”? TEEN!

Furthermore, I don’t think this trial is over. We know that when Agatha has siphoned power it becomes purple, she even says to Rio “Let me get my purple back.” But we see when she leaves the treehouse, Alice’s power is still orange. This indicates to me that the power isn’t actually Agatha’s, this is all still part of the trial.

Obviously part of the episode is about Agatha confronting her past, because that’s what the whole show has been about. But even more specifically this episode was about Teen/Billy finding his power. Back to that pin about the brooms symbolizing selflessness now. Teen confronts Agatha outside asking her if this is all witchcraft is. The hunt for power and the selfish pursuit of desire at the cost of everyone else. Sure, that could be about Agatha, but you know who it fits better? Wanda. Even without malicious intentions, Wanda did enslave an entire town in a torturous mind prison so she wouldn’t have to confront the reality that Vision was dead. Even after realizing this, she’s tempted to keep Westview this way so she can keep her perfect life. In MoM she is willing to destroy anyone in the hunt for her children. She let’s her rage guide her to cruelty and destruction. Wanda is meant to be the hero, but she knowingly traps Agatha into a mind prison with no escape for over three years. When Agatha goads Teen into finally revealing his true identity we see he gives in to his mother’s own worst instincts. He controls those around him when he feels like he can’t control his own life. He is calmly cruel to enemies and allies alike. I think the end of his trial will be rising above Wanda’s worst impulses and becoming better and more selfless than his mother.

Keep in mind, the trial was ouija. It is all about communing with the dead. And who’s murder trial did we begin the season trying to solve? Not Evanora, Death, or Nicholas’, but Wanda’s.

TLDR: No way in hell Agatha’s trial involves Lycra and ankle warmers, something is afoot here.

[sh1-n0bu]

I’d like to order some nsfw genshin impact SAGAU stuff:

More specifically, its when the Creator uses a vessel different from Wanderer, their main, and he gets jealous all the time.

So, when they descend on teyvat, one of the first things they do is fuck the jealousy out of him so badly he cant speak. (Yes its overstimulation because MAN…)

♡︎ 𝙢𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙜𝙤𝙙 ♡︎

characters: sub!AFAB!wanderer (or scaramouche) x nb!dom!reader

warnings: overstimulation, dacryphillia, jealousy, oral fixation, squirting, fingering, slight cult-ish and religious undertones

notes: hhhh my first sagau smut

kabukimono adored the creator.

how could he not? he was just a mere creation and a vessel of the god of all gods.

the first to tell the poor, discarded puppet of you was niwa. when seeing how everyone in tatarasuna worshipped a being called divine creator, the poor puppet couldn’t help his own curiosity and ask. in response, niwa patiently explained to him how there was once an ancient being. a god of all gods. one who even reigned over the archons, celestia itself. one who created teyvat, blessed it with life and in their weakened state, went to an eternal rest.

kabukimono adored the creator with the hollow remains of where his heart is meant to be. an empty shell filling with fuzzy feelings, smile spreading on his face whenever he goes to pray at your shrine, offerings of small yet precious things left in your altar. he only hoped it would please your soul.

kunikuzushi has secret reverence and respect for the creator.

you took away his friend, his home, his family and yet he still hopes for your guidance. carrying hope in the shape of a small wooden carving that he made, which he clutches closely to his chest.

during restless nights and moments when he feels himself slipping, losing hope, losing sight of loving you — he clutches the wooden carving to his chest. tight, tight to the point it leaves a dent in his pale hand and whispers into it. how he wishes to be in your care. how he hopes that you didn’t abandon him. how he hopes that your loving arms would hold him one day. how you are the only source of life he has.

how all the blood he shed was meant for you. a sacrifice for you. to appease you. to bring you back to teyvat. to see you in flesh.

kunikuzushi has secret reverence and respect for the creator.

scaramouche despises the creator.

you left him. when his own mother betrayed him and left him alone, he was lucky to be found by nagamasa. he was lucky that niwa was kind enough to let him stay at tatarasuna. how you were so cruel that even after all the metal and iron, gold and silver he molded and modeled to make tiny offerings to your altar. how you were twisted to give him small slivers of hopes in the form of niwa and the sick child, yet to take them away.

he hates you. despises you. loathes you. every little altar he sees, he hopes to destroy it. every statue of you he glimpses at, he uses his delusion to shock the old and eroded stone until it breaks and crumbles. oh, how badly he wished to do the same to you.

the sixth of the eleven fatui harbingers won’t even hesitate for a split second to spit on your name even in the presence of the tsaritsa. childe always looks down on him whenever he does. the ginger’s hands twitching, delusion and vision mixing up together as he tries his best to hold himself back from jumping on the short arrogant puppet.

and yet despite it all… scaramouche still clutches the small wooden carving of you. holding it close to his chest as he secretly whispers in his mind how much he wishes to please you. the puppet only hopes all the bodies he piled up would satisfy you, even just a little bit.

wanderer loves you dearly.

he has been wrong this whole time. you were never twisted, never sick in the head nor heart, never wishing to manipulate him, never wishing harm or pain upon anything. you were gentle. loving. every life form you passed by would swoon and sway, hoping to touch you. even touching your clothes or robes would be enough.

when be first got his vision, he heard your voice in his head. it was the same loving warmth that enveloped the traveler. it was warm, gentle, loving but still not fully there. when he protected the traveler and the floating thing, he could hear you cheer for him. for him.

but when an array of shooting stars engulfed the fake skies, wanderer looks up as always. blue ones, purple ones and then he felt it. a certain pull in his chest. like how red strings of fate tugs on your pinky in all those fairytales.

and he follows.

running, running, running — until he eventually reaches an odd place. a clear sky, one that looked real and one that cradled him in a gentle warmth.

“yeeesss!! you’re finally home! welcome home, wanderer!” a voice rings in his head loud and clear. excitement, happiness, elation, joy, pride — all sorts of emotions bubble in him, ready to burst out. but instead it fell down in the form of a tear. a happy tear.

it was you. it was the creator. the all-knowing, all-loving one. and you wanted him! him of all people! and you were happy that you had him!

yet wanderer doesn’t get it.

if you loved him so much, wanted him, pre-farmed for him as you said and even got his signature weapon, why were you using someone else? why use that cocky cryo user from mondstadt? why use his brother who is equally cocky but knows how to keep it hidden? why use that annoying old archon who flaunts that he is your oldest and most devout follower? or even the yashirou commissioner!

was he not enough? was he not strong enough? did you needed to “farm” for his talent materials? if so, no need! he already went ahead and got them for you when you logged out! everything to make him the perfect dps as you called is all there and ready!

strange.

why was your other characters are all either dead or on 1hp when you log in? only wanderer is there — your main — in full hp. standing proud and cocky with the same grin.

——

it’s tough to be a god.

no seriously. all jokes and that damn catchy song aside, it was indeed tough to be a god. especially when all these powerful people who can literally control elements and even gods themselves were worshipping you. how can you be a god of all gods?

well, you found out the answer to that question on one of your earlier days when you got a little bit too curious. all in the form of an ichor bleeding out of your palm that you sliced. and perhaps a bit pressured too. after all, being put on a pedestal for everyone to see and worship and grovel to is hard to deal with. especially when you were suddenly thrown into a world that you thought was only fictional!

but there was also something else that was incredibly, unbelievably, astoundingly hard to deal with was your main. the puppet who was abandoned. the short, sarcastic asshole. but never towards you! he would hate to make you even slightest bit sad or angry.

and yet he does it anyways.

going out of his way to stalk down some poor merchant you like buying things from to buy most of their stock so you won’t visit the merchant’s shop again. picking fights with your acolytes when you show the slightest hint of favoritism. hell, he almost killed childe. but of course, the battle lusted ginger loved the thrill and had asked for more future fights.

which all led to here. him getting his well deserved punishment.

poor wanderer thinking he was all too slick. how he was doing everything behind your back so you wouldn’t know anything. how you would stay innocent to his actions while he goes and picks another fight. but you noticed. every single jealousy inflicted actions wanderer had pulled and orchestrated, you knew.

anyone could walk in right now and see what was happening. anyone of your pathetic other acolytes could walk in and see how good you were fucking him. fingers knuckles deep into his cunt, fucking him so good, so deep.

and dear stars and you, wanderer wanted that. he wanted those pathetic worshippers to see how you favored him above them.

wanderer had lost his sense of self and mind long time ago. the moment you wrapped your hand around his throat to manhandle his tiny body to sit on your lap, his mind was gone. a blank sheet of paper.

the puppet doesn’t remember how many orgasms you’ve wrung out of him but he loved it. he wanted it. he wanted more. he wanted your fingers to fuck him open.

in his hazy mind, lust ridden babbles and overstimulated body, he can feel it. how your other hand is keeping his labia spread open. how you apply pressure around his cunt. how your fingers are squelching into him, creating a filthy wet shlick! shlick! noises.

how your hand keeping his labia open goes to tug on his clit. pinching the bud of muscle as he writhes and screams in your lap. squirting over your fingers again like a common brothel whore. and he loved it. by the stars above, he loved it.

because deep in his most depraved part of mind, wanderer knew that he was a whore. your whore. your common brothel cheap whore. your whore who would spread open his legs for you if you asked for it. who would eagerly finger himself so he can provide you with some sort of entertainment. who would take your hand and guide it inside his shorts, not even bothering to wear undergarments, so he can give you easier access.

he doesn’t remember. doesn’t want to remember how many times he came. when you place him on your own throne, legs propped on both sides on the armrest, his wet, slick covered pussy and hardened sensitive clit for the world to see, all he can think about is how good it feels.

when you get down on your knees in front of him, it feels like a sacrilege. shouldn’t it be him who’s on his knees in front of you, trying and hoping to please you?

yet all of his thoughts fly out the window when your fingers stretch his sensitive pussy open again. fingers hooked on the inside slightly, just enough to open up his inner labia and for you to admire his gaping hole. waiting eagerly for you to claim it once again.

“your gra—aanhg!! grace! grace! your grace!! f-feelsh good. feelsh good feelsh goodfeelsgoodgoodgood ghk—! aammh!♥︎“ the jealous puppet whines and babbles on, your title falling over his lips over and over like a mantra as he drools. mind long gone, sanity on the thin line between delirium and lucidity. struggling to comprehend just what is happening.

he feels your mouth on him. tongue lapping at his juice greedily like an insatiable animal while he struggles to keep his legs open. hand twitching, hesitating for a moment before he grips onto your hair tightly — his only anchor. he can feel everything too greatly.

body sensitive, pushed over the boundaries of his virgin state. he could feel how you suck on his sensitive clit, forcing him to squirt into your mouth.

if this was how you would treat him to stop his jealousy induced rampages, maybe wanderer should do it more often.

[phoenix-bleh]

Shadow Milk Cookie dating headcanons

Sadly I like this chaos agent so I wrote some dating headcanon also I’m at my peek of inspiration so might as well use it:p

This man will literally spoil you. You saw a pretty clothing? It’s yours. You’re craving some food? he got you. You thought that trinket you saw at the store was pretty cool, BOOM it’s on your front door.

He will always let you see his behind the scenes when he’s planning on a new project for his stage. You may even be apart of it! (as his love interest ofc)

Still plans on destroying all of earthbread and taking control of it with his comrades, but don’t worry he’ll spare you from the chaos he causes, your safe.

Most likely has a plushie or puppet of you laying around in his chambers somewhere for when he gets lonely.

He’s funny but definitely thinks he’s funnier than he really is.

I can see him being really affectionate when it comes to you. Hugs, kisses, cuddles, hand holding, etc is a complete must to him and will hold you for as long as possible whether you like it or not.

Can and will pick you up and toss you in the air just to scare you a lil.

He doesn’t want to hurt you but that doesn’t mean you’re free from his constant pranks.

He gets jealous pretty easily when you’re paying more attention to someone else other than him.

However if things get out of hand and he finds out they’re are flirting with you or acting a little too close to you he’ll rage and yell at the person you were talking to and scare them away.

Then he’s all whinny and says quote on quote “They were gonna hurt you! i was just protecting you! besides he should’ve known you were mine anyway…”

You both end up cuddling together

He’s definitely gonna be taller than you and will use you as an arm rest

shares his plans on world domination with you as if it’s the most normal topic to talk about and you’re starring at him as if he wasn’t already insane.

If you ever plan on flustering him just give him a kiss on his cheeks or forehead. He gets so giddy and covers his face with his hands, he’s kicking his feet while his face is all red with the widest smile on his face.

Don’t think you can leave him like that he will more than gladly return the affection

He’ll grab your face with both of his hands and smother you in so many kisses till you’re squirming and telling him to stop “what’s wrong~? Isn’t this what you wanted~?”

When I say he craves physical touch I mean he will go out of his way to make any attempt to just put an arm around you (he’s a lil clingy you guys)

There are times when he’s more mature especially when he needs too

“Come on y/n cookie, you cannot be staying up this late! And for what? Work that is definitely less important than your well being? Go to bed right now or I’m dragging you there myself.”

Duh ofc there art for this one I love him sm😔

[branwinged]

the magnus archives is a romcom—no what the hell it's not. it is, however, a gothic horror romance between jon and elias. because you see, the thing about jonelias is that their canonical dynamic is built around an absurd number of gothic genre tropes. jon sims obviously fits the mold of the tortured gothic protagonist quite nicely who's facing both external (the other avatars targeting him) and internal horrors (his progress as the Archivist weighing on his conscience). but he's also trapped in the gothic manor which is the magnus institute. there are secrets (the place being a temple to the eye), locked doors, forbidden chambers, and bodies in the attic which serve as evidence of past misdeeds (the panopticon; gertrude and jonah's bodies in the tunnels), the institute/archives is ultimately destroyed by fire - purging the gothic manor i.e. the symbolic destruction of the previous order with fire is a common motif in the genre. and jon's work in the archives is haunted by the figurative ghost of gertrude who remains a curious mystery he must unravel and will serve as a constant reminder to jon of his own inadequacies (just like du maurier's rebecca fr)

elias is then —

1) his personal bluebeard figure who murdered his predecessor, a comparison which only gets stronger with the jonah magnus reveal since he's been cycling through archivists for two hundred years, all having met gruesome ends in service to him and jon being his final and most notable choice. are you seeing the maxim de winter rochester imagery. are you.

2) his gothic double. doubles as a literary trope are your hidden self made manifest, the horror lies in the double (elias) revealing the gothic protagonist's (jon) hidden, true self to them. elias as an avatar of the eye is entirely unrepentant for his nature, he revels in it. which is a mirror to jon's own self-flagellation because despite how much he feels torn about his own metaphorical vampirism, he likes it. he admits as much to gerry as early as s3 when asked about his feelings on his ability to compel truths. and why wouldn't he! after being kept in the dark so long, why wouldn't he like it? and jon and jonah had in common their natural curiosity even before they found the beholding. elias is a mirror and jon looks in it and sees someone who is him, but not quite. someone who is what jon would be if he could simply let go, but jon can't. like most gothic protagonists he will kill his double because it is a reminder of a self-truth he can never escape.

and watcher's call. like what even is that. what do you mean that's a thing. what. literally wuthering heights. "why did you heed the call?" // "because this is the place i know i should be" <- normal dialogue to write for two guys definitely not starring in a gothic romance.

^ same genre of images. so the spider, the mother of puppets, the web which is the symbolic representation of narrative thread in the magnus archives universe WEAVED them together? red string fated, that's what they are? so they're soulmates. that's what you're saying. they're literally soulmates. soulmates as existential horror? just enough of an illusion of narrative agency for jonah/elias to claim, "the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose" but paradoxically joined by fate, which isn't a good thing! because no god-like powers of hope, or love, or indigestion, or whatever, only fear. because even though both help the other achieve narrative self-actualisation (elias making jon the archive and jon making elias the king of a ruined world), their union also irrevocably destroys their lives as they hurt each other in deeply personal ways which signify their greatest fears. elias manipulating jon, whose biggest fear is mr spider, i.e. loss of control and jon repaying by being the very thing that kills jonah, who has spent multiple lifetimes trying to escape the end. and that's romance <3

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

After being ignored by the Justice League for years and thought of as a scam Phantom finally faces an opponent he didn't win against and his city is destroyed, killing everyone. The monster is heavily wounded by Phantom however as it was a brutal fight for both of them

Danny is heartbroken and in shock while the Justice League face off against this threat and also lose. Eventually they get thier second wind and rematch it and kill the thing, but just barely.

Later a small memorial was held for Amity Park and Phantom was enraged at how small it was. 70,000 people died and this was it? Most of the people hear weren't even mourners. They were press and fake ghost enthusiasts trying to catch internet points for thier viewer count. He hears some redhead say that the people of Amity were scammers and this whole ghost thing was fake. With tears in his eyes he screams, not as Fenton but as Phantom, "I'm fake?!" He grabbed the man by his throat and flew a few feet into the air, "You think I'm fake?! Here! Let's see how fake I am!" His words were dripping venom as he possessed the man and laughed as he used him as a puppet, attacking the people around him with ectoblasts and sending them running away screaming.

Bruce Wayne watched on as some unknown Elderich entity possessed Wally West and began attacking people. So Amity Parks pleas for help as well as the pleas from thier supposedly fake superhero were not just part of an elaborate tourist trap.

Green lantern had some explaining to do. Hopefully it wasn't too late to salvage the situation and save this child.

It was.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Souls-like AU: What you need to know about The Puppetmaster!

Ah, Caine. The man, the... uh, silly guy with the weird teeth head.

First things first, Caine is NOT an AI, despite claiming himself to be one when he introduces himself to Pomni. He is a full-on human being, and was just as trapped as everyone else is (it's simply easier to claim he's the AI gamemaster, which is sorta half-true).

But... due to him being one of the creators of the Souls-like game, The true AI Gamemaster had chosen to take out it's anger by puppeteering Caine via it's strong influence.

Thus, becoming the mad Puppetmaster.

To ensure full control over him, the AI had Caine's empathy levels blocked, turning him into a whimsical but unpredictable sociopath who moreso cares about letting the players be a part of the game forever, rather than anything else that would be detrimental to player comfortability and fun meter.

Despite this however, the AI isn't actually mind-controlling Caine, It's processing powers could never take over an entire human brain no matter how much it tried; it is simply influencing his thought patterns, ideas and emotions to a much, MUCH darker level, as well as amplifying his traits down to the negatives like a parasite.

So in The Puppetmaster's isolation and desperation for interaction, he's chosen to keep players inside the game for as long as he wants.

The AI even talks to Caine openly sometimes (it comes in the form of the heartpiece blinking and glowing in a pattern), though usually when they're alone.

When this happens, it seems like Caine is simply on a "one-sided" conversation with the air that could easily come across as a madman's insane ramblings to any sane being that encounters him at that moment.

Now, what about Pomni?

She's his s/o in real life, how does he feel about her being present in the game?

Well, he strongly feels something, that's for sure. It constantly flickers between adoration (natural) and possessiveness (influenced), But to Pomni, he's just being one hella weird guy with no respect for personal space.

Still, due to his empathy levels being blocked, he can't help but feel nothing whenever Pomni dies from a boss. After all, it's just a quick snap with the fingers, and then she's back to life like no big deal. All good and dandy, right?

Who cares about the technicalities of death when you could bring someone back over, and over again?

What about Able?

Able's his good brother. Sure, there were times when Caine felt inferior compared to Able's intellectual talent, but Able always comforted Caine whenever that happened, and all would be fine between them.

Though now.... this tiny bit of inferiority complex has turned into full-blown jealousy and paranoia, thanks to the AI's influence.

This was a major factor in Able's imprisonment inside The Patriarch's body, which is a process that's usually dangerous (since the AI and the human consciousness could mix, coughcoughjustlikehim), if it weren't for the fact that Able had a way around the code to prevent it from completely mixing with him.

Able's case is special, since The Patriarch was already a part of the game before his arrival. Able's defiance against the Puppetmaster resulted in The Patriarch becoming Able's physical prison instead of a traditional "player-turned-boss" scenario, where the players' moveset, iconic traits and thought process become a template for their boss AI counterparts.

What about the "Face The Puppetmaster" ending?

Instead of cutting it's losses, the AI doubled down on it's efforts; taking on both Able and Pomni and further amplifying Caine's already massive jealousy and paranoia into a full-on anger breakdown over the "betrayal".

This ultimately leads to a fatal flaw that allows Pomni to strike the heartpiece when it's at it's lowest (from using all of it's processing power) and even deliver the finishing blow, which destroys the gamemaster completely with the help of Able completely removing the AI itself from the game.

Thus, freeing Caine from the strings of the Puppetmaster persona.