#and if they may have any agenda behind what they say!

[arugulafriend]

"get out of the right wing pipeline"

im not right wing, good job assuming anyone who calls out your bullshit must belong to the enemy camp

"Just because you have experienced injustices as a white persoN"

im not white and your assumption has proven that the only motivation for thinking any of this is indeed, racism

"race theory does not teach black people"

and now you contradict yourself, stop telling black people what their experiences are and what theyve been taught, hypocrite

Sigh… okay, I hoped you would listen and consider what I said and I guess you won’t!

I assumed your race, because very often racist white people utilize anti-white racism to further their political agenda. Trying to make themselves more oppressed to minimize the legitimacy of actual racism.

Have a good life! I wish u only the best and maybe one day you consider you might not be right and there different ways of viewing the world💕

[eubybubble]

slytherin boys after an argument

ft. Tom, Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo

Theodore Nott

Realization hit him hard after a prolonged silence. The air felt thick, and he felt nauseous as he shifted his gaze from a small crack on the wall under his fist to your face. He just swallowed and left the room without a word.

He was terrified of himself, didn't he promise to never raise a hand on loved ones? Technically, he hadn’t, but it was too close. Thoughts flooded his mind as he rushed up the stairs in a desperate attempt to breathe fresh air. It wasn't surprising that he instinctively headed to the Astronomy Tower – your favorite place. Reaching the top, he stood there and retrieved the cigarette pack with trembling fingers. After hesitating, he lit one. Everything seemed to remind him of you. It was never that serious, you just wanted to help him.

Now, he felt like a total fool. Leaning against a wall and sliding down, he pondered over the the relationships. You were too sweet, he couldn't let you suffer near someone like him. With that, he set his mind on ignoring you and breaking up with you because "that'd be better for you." It seemed like you would only agree, he didn't consider any other possible answer.

In the next few days, he deliberately skipped meals and tried to ignore your questioning gaze in halls. However, you heard a slight cough from behind after the lunch.

"May we discuss something?"

"Well, if it isn't Theodore Nott! What—" he didn't let you finish.

"Let's break up." you froze, staring at him in disbelief.

"Nott, are you insane? Didn't you think to ask me?"

"I'm doing it right now."

"Really? It felt more like you just stated a fact and I can only accept it. It was really low of you to avoid me." Your eyes became shiny as tears started to accumulate involuntarily. Theodore noticed it, and despite the cold agenda he planned, he rushed towards you, wiping the tears.

"You wouldn't want to be with me," he mumbled.

"What? We could've talked! We've always talked about how important communication is, but how come we don't practice it? I know you, and I know myself; I wouldn't give up on our relationship that easily. And more than anything, I know that I want to be with you. Why would you do that to me?" you sobbed, clutching onto him as if you were afraid that if he left now, you would never see him again.

"Shush, principessa, I'm so sorry-" he didn't expect such a reaction from you. As you hid your crying face in his chest, his heartbeat only became faster. What an idiot he was for even thinking of such a thing. "I'm so sorry. For everything I've done and said. I'll work to be better for you," he rambled quietly. "Do you trust me? Are you ready to give me another try?" His voice cracked slightly as he asked the last question. You just nodded, and he chuckled at the sight. "Tesoro... I'm so sorry. I promise you it won't happen again." He gave you a forehead kiss, and he really meant it. Even though he didn't say anything about it, he decided to quit smoking. Yes, it won't be easy or a short process, but at least he found a far better addiction - you.

Tom Riddle

From the moment you saw Tom, you thought it could have worked out. At least, you hoped so. It all felt dumb. All those times when your friends told you to break up or said that he didn’t care about you - you refused to believe them. And now, it got you here when the most precious person told you were some troublesome trivia. In the past, you and Tom would at least talk during lunch or sit next to each other in Potions where he patiently helped you, but now, he skipped most lessons, and if he attended one, he’d sit alone. Everyone noticed it, and you became the target of their whispers and snickers. Some even went as far as mocking you in the halls.

“Well, if it isn’t the one Tom Riddle dumped. What, did he finally realize that you’re pathetic?” you tightened your hold on your books and tried to leave hurriedly until the blonde boy from the group shoved you into the wall. “Aren’t we talking to you? Why are you leaving so suddenly?”

It was a pretty loud encounter, so Tom, who was walking nearby, heard it and stopped in his tracks. To tell the truth, he didn’t even want to break up. He invented this silly excuse to protect you because he was afraid of his own actions. He hoped you’d be stubborn and come once again, but you didn’t. That’s when he knew he messed up, but his pride held him back from going to you. And now, someone was bullying his treasure.

But they underestimated your power. You didn’t want it to escalate into violence, but they started it first. With a swift movement of the wand, you threw them off with a big blast. Not even bothering to look behind, you paced up and bumped into someone.

“Oh.” As he put his hands on your shoulders to steady you, he eyed the unconscious group behind. “Using a spell of such power at this hour?” he mumbled nervously.

“Care to explain why you care? Get off, Riddle.” You tried to shove him away, but his grip was strong.

“What’s going on with you? I didn’t even do anything to make you that mad.” You nearly choked at these words.

“Tom.” He hesitated. “Do you think I’m that dumb to fall for your words? Move out of the way.” But he just stood there without a change.

"Don’t leave. I was just... I was afraid I’d hurt you," he whispered as he clutched onto you. "I was afraid of my own plans, of my own thoughts. But please, promise me never to leave, even if I change. I won’t hurt you, just stay by my side. I never expected to fall in love..I had everything planned ahead in a neat way, but you came in like a surprise. Yet, here we are, and it's you. There's no turning back now" You never saw Tom being so vulnerable, and you could do only nod. You cupped his face.

"Hey, I’m here. Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll be here," you softly reassured him, not noticing how easily he drew you right back.

Mattheo Riddle

You had hard time absorbing everything Mattheo said. It was already dark outside, but you didn’t care to turn on the light or illuminate the wand with “Lumos”. You sat on the bed and went through the box with a glossy eyes. You couldn’t believe that he saved every gift, every letter, note - even those that you gave him before dating. Quiet sobs escaped your chest upon finding the promise ring at the very top. Why does it feel so awful when you believed you made the right choice?

As if on cue, your roommate entered the dorm room. "Hey, look what everyone’s talking about in school- oh, are you okay?" She turned on the lights and noticed your teary face. Quickly wiping everything away, you pretended to be busy, gathering everything back into the box. "Yeah, my eyes are sore from reading in the dark," a lame excuse, "what were you gonna tell?"

She knew you disliked having your privacy intruded upon. "So, three students were caught for an outrageous duel and a series of mobbings in Hogsmeade! Surprisingly, it was two Gryffindor students and one Hufflepuff. That fits into the ‘don't judge a book by its cover' narrative. I wonder when the stereotypes about the houses will end. Remember when everyone didn't doubt that it was Slytherin?" she sighed.

As if it weren't enough of a heartbreak, you discovered that everything you had ever suspected Mattheo of was all filthy lies and gossip. Suddenly, you felt dizzy.

You didn’t care about decency or dignity as you rushed to Mattheo’s dorm. He, too, was struggling. Despite everything, he regretted speaking harshly and leaving the memory box. What if you never returned and tossed it away? His heart clenched at the thought.

Feeling too irritated and unwilling to join others in the common room for a card game, he was all alone for now. In futile attempts to fall asleep, he heard a light knock on the door.

"Who’s that?" he groaned, too lazy to open the door.

"Hey, can we talk?" His muscles tensed upon hearing that familiar voice. Rushing to the door, he unlocked it immediately. "Oh, hi," you blushed and stopped mid-sentence, staring at his torso. He glanced down, realizing he forgot to put his shirt on.

"Shit. Sorry, one second," he shut the door in embarrassment and put on a random sweater. "What do you want?" he still held a grudge against you.

"I wanna... apologize. You have every right to shut the door, but I wanted to tell you that our relationship isn’t a joke to me. I love everything about you. I was just so stupid to believe all the gossips floating around Hogwarts, but that doesn’t matter. I came here to tell you how insane you make me feel. I mean, these days when I tried to collect my thoughts and was avoiding you, I was thinking of you non-stop. Mattheo, I’d fight the world to be by your side." As you rambled on and on, his gaze softened, and he pulled you by the waist.

"That’s my girl. I felt terrible when you acted the way you acted, but I hope it won’t be the same in the future?... I also apologize for saying unnecessary things."

"That’s okay, you had every right to be mad. What about I’ll order the food and we’ll watch a movie?"

“Gladly” he was grinning now. It wasn't necessary to tell him that you were also ordering a new broomstick, the perfect one for the perfect boy to make it up. It was the least you could do now. As you scrolled through the list of new films, Mattheo coughed.

"So, uh, can I get my box back, please? You didn’t go through it, right?" a light blush covered his face.

“Actually, I did, Matty. I didn’t know you are so sweet” he groaned at this comment “but I’ll return it to you. Sure.”

Lorenzo Berkshire

The moment Lorenzo received his numerology exam back, he couldn't believe the mark he saw. 70, satisfactory. Many would pray for such a grade, but he had studied and sacrificed too much for this.

As he walked to breakfast, he scanned the Great Hall but couldn't spot you. The previous day's argument flared up in his memory, and he wrinkled his nose as he sat down to eat. As predicted, a white owl sat on his shoulder, delivering a letter with Berkshire's family logo.

He run his eyes over the text. “disgrace..wasting time..bad influence” and blah blah blah. Nothing’s new, except the threat that ordered him not to come home until he got back on the track academically. He's been following his parents' wishes for too long; he was too afraid to ruin the perfect son image that he completely lost hold of his priorities.

Oh, how he wished to be in your embrace now, to listen to your soothing voice and nuzzle up to you in the dark. But he ruined it single-handedly.

He stood up and went to lessons, scratching an apology note for you in the meantime. At DADA, the only class you two took together, he tried to sit next to you and apologize, but that place was taken by a Hufflepuff girl, to which he could only frown. Throughout the lesson, you felt his gaze on you, but never once did you turn your head back at him. If he needed a break that much, he could get one. After all, you got tired of constantly begging him to relax and spend time with you and felt like a total fool.

After the lessons ended, you were the first one to leave the classroom, but he's not an idiot either. You felt someone gently taking hold of your wrists and pushing you into the empty classroom. The door closed behind.

"Can we talk and communicate like grown-ups?" Lorenzo inquired.

"You said everything you wanted last time. I have to go, Hermione's waiting for me in the library," you blatantly lied.

"Oh, really? Because when I last talked to Hermione, she told me she would be with Ron," he calmly stated, stepping closer. "I don't really remember things I've said, but-" You didn't let him finish.

“Enzo, you needed break and I’m giving it to you” his jaws tightened in frustration at your unwavering stance. “You told me I was a burden and you know what? I think you were right because lately, that’s what I felt like in relationships with you. It’s like I’m begging you to spend time with me. Maybe it's best to return to being friends” you mumbled. But he just shook his head, moving nearer once more until he stood right in front of you.

"I'm sorry I made you feel this way. It's not an excuse for my behavior, but I've been stressing about..something," he sighed. "You don't deserve to be treated like that, but trust me, I'll be better." He gently reached out for your arm. "I need just another chance. The only one. I've already written back to my parents, and I hope they will get off my back. I've also told them about us," his voice got quieter. "I hope you won't mind." Your breath hitched. He had always been postponing this, even if you wished for it. There was a minute of silence and apprehension before he wrapped you in a hug. "I hope you can forgive me, sweetheart. How about we go to the cafe you like this weekend?" he mumbled, peppering your face with kisses.

a/n: I apologize if it's not the way you imagined, but hey, I tried my best. Also, I think they were super careful and sweet afterwards!

taglist: @lilanxietysstuff @nopedefe @marina468

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

batfam as fanfic tropes pt 2

ft bruce, dick, and jason warnings: i continue to give jason all of the angsty stuff but i promise i do it out of love, some suggestive jokes lol pt 1

bruce

not to keep pushing my superbat agenda but that may or may not be what i'm doing

only one bed trope let's go

likeeee yknow imagine they're on an undercover mission with the league or whatever but then they end up stuck in rockville, known for their slightly weird rock

and there's a single motel that only has one room left and of course there's only one bed

to add insult to injury, it's a queen bed and they're both like 6'+ guys so there's absolutely no way they're not gonna at least accidentally make physical contact (it's not gonna be accidental by the end of the night)

something about clark seeing bruce in pj's just seems so funny to me, i don't even have anything else to add

imagine they didn't bring pj's bc they didn't think the mission was going to take that long so they go to the motel's gift shop and they're forced to get cringey tourist shirts

"Rockville may not have much, but we sure rock!"

"Rock on over to Rockville"

we all know bruce technically doesn't haveeeee to sleep for 8 hours straight (and ig clark doesn't have to either? but i haven't read enough superman stuff to know how true that is) but i like the idea of him just sleeping anyways

and clark doesn't know any better so he's like yeah ok makes sense that he would need to sleep, he is human after all

bruce may act like he's bothered by this but like he's fooling nobody

i think it would be so funny if clark actually does manage to fall asleep but because bruce almost never sleeps for this long unless he's critically injured, he's just like lying there in the dark freaking out over being in the same bed as clark

bruce discovers fanfic of himself but it's not even in our universe, it's just gothamites writing fanfics about him

there's bruce wayne x reader, bruce wayne x oliver queen, bruce wayne x lois lane (clark is not happy about this), bruce wayne x nightwing??????, batman x every member of the justice league, and of course bruce wayne x batman

babs probably knew all along but she decides to wait until she finds something particularly scandalous before showing it to bruce

and let's just say some writers sure have creative imaginations when it comes to uh what bruce and batman would be doing behind closed doors

i'm just imagining one day he's on patrol and saves some random person from getting mugged and then they're suddenly like, "wow i never thought i'd actually get to meet you. i'm a big fan. can i ask you some questions?"

and yknow, this happens sometimes. sure he'll entertain the questions, but he probably won't answer

"i actually write fanfic but i was having some trouble with your characterization. do you think you're more of a top or bottom?"

bruce.exe has stopped working

wait until he finds the fan art

dick

your siblings are best friends

hear me out, you have a younger sister who happens to be in the same after school art club as damian

and of course, being the good older sibling you are, you come to pick her up

but it certainly doesn't hurt to see dick grayson every week, waiting for his younger brother

at first he's just some handsome stranger who happens to be around the same age as you

and you're trying to figure out if he's here for his sibling or if he's just a very very young parent

thankfully, your sister introduces you to damian and by proxy you properly meet dick so you know he's not taken

and it's hard not to fall for him because he's just so funny and charming

and he's good with kids, as evident by how he handles damian but also one day when your sister comes out of art club sobbing because some kid messed with her artwork and he's able to calm her down in record time

he offers to get her ice cream as consolation but he's weirdly making eye contact with you as he says that and maybe you're just delusional but between this and the flirting you can't be blamed for feeling a certain way about the whole thing

but things frustratingly don't progress any further (mostly because dick thinks he's been pretty clear with the flirting and decides to back down because you don't seem to be reciprocating, whereas you're completely oblivious to the whole thing) so it's up to damian and your sister to take things into their own hands

cue the random playdates where they insist that you and dick both come for supervision or something while they draw and banish you and dick to another room because they need "pure artistic energy" in the room or whatever

and funnily enough the other room just so happens to have a candlelit dinner for two set up! wow, what a coincidence!

you guys have a very well cooked steak and talk things over (read: your siblings both yell at you from the other room to just confess already)

honestly, they're both pretty done with your antics but at least you're together now!

if you don't mention both of them in your wedding speeches there will be consequences

jason

who else would get hanahaki disease if not jason todd

for those who were not in the trenches of 2010’s anime fanfics, hanahaki disease is a fictional disease where you cough up flowers if your love is unrequited or like you think your love is unrequited

i just know this loser wouldn’t even realize he likes you until he starts coughing up random flowers and he’s like wtf????

it does not take a tim drake to figure out who he likes so ofc the last people to notice are him and you

also you just know he’s the type to suffer in silence instead of confess bc he thinks he’s burdening you with his feelings or like he doesn’t lead the type of life that can allow him to have a relationship or whatever emo edge lord stuff he does

also i think he is incapable of flirting LMAO

honestly, even if you confessed i can see him being like "how can you possibly love me, you must be confused"

normally the confession scene is where the sick person gets cured and like they get together

but nope! jason just straight up refuses bc ofc he does

good luck trying to convince him that you do like him, flaws and all

GET THIS DUDE HIS COLLEGE!AU

not to be dramatic but i desperately want him to have a happy and normal life so this one might be a bit of wish fulfilment on my behalf but like

once again i feel like he would actually want to go to college/uni

like will he complain about his assignments and exams? yes but don't we all?

i feel like he would just take courses he would like, so probably a lot of literature stuff

i think it would be very funny if he took one of those psychology courses, think like PSYCH 21XX: The Maladaptive Mind or smth and he's like "wow these trauma responses sound awfully familiar. wonder where i've heard about this before"

anyways i'm thinking about him being a humanities guy and then he meets you, a stem student who has to take this one english class to graduate

and he's also in a similar boat and is in your biology class for the science credit

so you guys decide to just study together and help each other out

and he may or may not catch feelings but it's hard not to when you have similar taste in books and can talk about a random poem you read in class for an hour

jason todd who gets rizzed up by your annotations

but then like halfway through second semester he realizes that you've hung out just for fun more often than you've actually hung out to study

and ofc there's a dramatic confession scene at graduation and he's stumbling over his words and god he might end it all because his family is there and freaking dick grayson is watching him confess to his crush

but like it's hard not to figure it out when he basically acts like your boyfriend on your "study dates" and honestly you already kinda figured you at least had something sort of going on and this confession is not shocking in the slightest

so that was super embarrassing for him but at least he's got a date next week?

hear me out...if you got into an accident and then developed retrograde amnesia

he's already stressed enough about the fact that you got injured in the first place

like what is the point of all of his training and patrolling to keep gotham safe if he can't even keep the person who's the most important to him safe?

then you wake up and he's so relieved he could cry

he thinks you're just a bit disoriented as he pulls you into his arms, promising he's never going to put you in a situation like that ever again

only for you to stare blankly at him

"i'm sorry, who are you?"

he thinks he would rather die and reincarnate again than live with the way you're looking at him

you're not even mad at getting hurt. you don't even remember that. you're just...looking at him like he's nothing more than a stranger because right now, that's what he is

i think his insecurities would be amped up to 100x after this, even if you did agree to come home with him and try to regain your memories

he's constantly praying that this is some messed up nightmare because he doesn't even know why you agreed to date him the first time around

so how is he supposed to make you fall for him again?

it's even worse because you are trying and you feel bad about it, but anytime he gets too close, he can see the way you flinch slightly

honestly he's going to start spiraling, like questioning whether he even deserves you or what he's doing wrong

is it because you don't know him? is he scaring you in some way? he would never hurt you, but that's all he's ever known. it was nice to live in this fantasy, but maybe all he was doing was delaying the inevitable

he starts to wonder if maybe he should just let you go now, while you don't remember anything. just thinking about it makes him want to claw his heart out but if it would keep you safe, he'd be willing to give you anything

< prev | m.list

[a-very-tired-jew]

More JVP Shenanigans

TLDR; JVP's Haggadah was put together by goys and their tax filings show they have no intent to help and/or represent Jews. We all know JVP is the Autism Speaks of the Jewish community. They exploit Jews and try to present themselves as a Jewish organization concerned with systemic discrimination, Palestinian rights, antisemitism, and much more. Hell, you can go look at their core values on their website and a lot of us would agree that these are good things.

JVP uses all that as misdirection. It uses Judaism as set dressing for its own agenda and exploits people’s ignorance. However, if you have just a little bit of knowledge you can tell that JVP is not only exploiting Judaism, but it is an organization that has wholly embraced Jew face and does not know what it’s doing.

Take a look at their Haggadah.

Their Haggadah was clearly put together by goys who didn’t know what they were doing. Many of the translations for their blessings are wrong or were clearly put through google translate. Other blessings are slapdash put together or grabbed from other Seders. Take a look at this blessing:

Baruch atah adonai eloheynu melech ha’olam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel (Shabbat v’shel) yom tov. Blessed is the spirit of freedom in whose honor we kindle the lights of this holiday, Passover, the season of Freedom.

Do you see the issue? For those who don't know, there is no mention of Passover in the blessing at all. So why is it in the translation? They also didn't include any of the extra words for Shabbat in the translation as well. If you have the patience, go through and read it. It omits the story of Passover, dismisses the importance of the holiday, and just changes the entire thing for their agenda. Edit: Above is about last year's haggadah as someone pointing out in the replies. Below is the link to this year's and it's just as bad, but this time they have a lot of tokenization to justify why they change the entire holiday to support their agenda. It literally asks you to write to the NY Times at one point...

“But it’s a Jewish organization, I swear!”

Well let’s look at their tax filing where they as a 501(c)3 have to describe what their organization is and their intent.

That's weird. A Jewish organization that states it fights against antisemitism and is committed to Jewish communities has nothing on their filing about Judaism or Jews in any capacity. It's mission is regarding education about Palestinians. Some of you might say "what's wrong with that?" There's nothing inherently wrong with that mission statement. What is wrong is that JVP hides its intent, bigotry, and antisemitism behind a veil of Jew face. It claims to be a Jewish organization, but it can't even get basic translations of prayers right. It omits, misleads, and misinforms about our culture, history, and traditions in such a heinous way that it's downright disgraceful. JVP does not represent the Jewish community and at this point it's clear that they're Jewish in name only.

[ghostboneswrites2]

Safer

Summary: After the fall of the prison and a brutal assault, Daryl cares for you.

NOTE (please read): A mutual requested this a while ago. Took a long while to write, and tbh I considered turning the req down given the premise and my firm stance on writing graphic SA which you can find here. However, they explained to me that they are a victim of a violent s*xual assault, and they expressed it would be healing in a way to have a story where they were cared for by their comfort character. After some consideration, I decided to go for it. I'm sure a lot of us have been victimized by people who couldn't control their urges, or those who lacked respect for our boundaries, bodies, and consent. Myself included. So, this story is for us, to those of us that can stomach it. 

DISCLAIMER: There are no scenes of graphic SA, only the aftermath. While I will not be telling any descriptive scenarios of being assaulted, I do want to clearly express that this is a generally heavy story and it may not be suitable for all audiences. Please consume responsibly.

**I will not be tagging anyone on the taglist due to the content of this story**

18+MDNI ||  WARNINGS: non-graphic allusions to SA, violence, mild nudity descriptions, generally heavy content so I can't say it enough: TW!!!

Banners credited on my masterlist!!

        Daryl's vision was blurred as he blinked himself to consciousness. It took him some time to gather his thoughts and recognize his surroundings. His wrists and ankles were bound together, his mouth gagged with a cloth that tasted of sweat and filth. He stared up at the treetops towering over him. It was dark outside, save for the dim light of a dying campfire a few feet away. He lifted his head from the forest floor and looked down past his feet. Lumps of sleeping bodies under raggedy blankets and torn sleeping bags rested around him. His heart raced as his memories crept back in; of you, screaming his name, of him fighting off the group of men who caught him off guard, of twigs snapping and a searing pain over the side of his head. Was that why his face felt so sticky? Was it dried blood?

        His eyes strained in the fading light of ember and ash. Where were you? He noticed a crumpled form at the foot of a tree. Her breathing was shallow and her clothes were torn, pants not even pulled up over her bare behind. That much, he could see. His throat tightened. His eyes watered. What the hell had he let them do to you? How could he have let this happen? He had to get you out of there, and fast. If they hadn't killed him yet, that was surely on their agenda.

        He began to squirm and writhe against his restraints. Whoever tied him up had experience. Just as hopelessness began to set in and cloud his judgement with fear -- real, genuine fear -- he noticed a reflection in the leaves. Just a few feet past his boots, a man was curled up on his side, snoring lightly in the calm breeze. His back was turned to Daryl, and behind him set a grungy backpack with a blade sticking out of the smallest pocket in the front. He glanced back  to you, shivering on the ground, unsure if you were awake or unconscious or simply passed out from the exhaustion of prior events. 

        The sight of you in your disheveled mess was all her needed to kick him into gear. Carefully and hastily, he scooted himself down toward his only chance at redeeming his status as a loyal protector of the weak and vulnerable. Ideally, he'd be able to accomplish this in silence, but he was not in an ideal situation. His circumstances were heavy, laced in sweat and angst. The leaves beneath him rustled as his back slid across the ground, twigs snapping or moving to the side as he made his way closer to the large hunting knife. He'd pause between each scoot, studying the sleeping men around him for any sign of movement or wakefulness. When he'd decide the coast was clear enough, he'd resume. It felt like an eternity, but he made it there. 

        His core muscles strained as he sat himself up. He realized how sore he was. He must have taken a good beating. Seemed fitting, though. He was never one to go down without a fight. He left that sort of weakness in his past.

        He guided his shaky, bound hands over to the bag. He slowly slid the knife out of the front pocket. His heart raged against his ribs. He didn't dare take a single breath until it was secured. 

        Slow. Slowness. Slowly. He repeated every variation of the word in his mind as he positioned the knife between his palms and dragged it back and forth until the rope finally severed. A silent breath of relief escaped him as he ripped the gag from his lips and worked on the rope tied around his ankles. When he was free, he stood and counted the sleeping bodies beneath him. Excluding you, there were four. 

        He considered waking you up and running for the hills, but he couldn't leave any loose ends. No, he thought of it like when your t-shirt has a loose thread. You could leave it to keep unraveling, or you could burn it at  the base and extend the lifetime of your clothes. He decided he needed to burn this string before it could unravel any further.

        Starting with the man closest to him -- the one who so graciously left his knife in plain sight for the archer -- he krept over and crouched down, plunching the blade into the base of his skull. Then, he moved on to the next, and the next one, and the one after that, until they were all a problem of the past. Until that pesky little thread could do no further damage to the rest of the shirt.       

        When the dirty work was behind him, he dropped the knife and rushed over to you. Your wrists were tied like his, but you were tied to the tree so you couldn't run. He eyed you over and gulped. With your pants not fully covering you and your shirt all ripped up, he could see the finger-shaped bruises littering your skin. There was blood on your inner thighs. Your lips were swollen and cut. His blood heated until it hit a boiling point. His hands trembled as they hovered over you. Touching you  felt like a crime, but he had to wake you. He had to get you out of there.

        "(Y/N)." He whispered as he laid a hand on your shoulder. You were shivering in the cool air, but a thin layer of sweat blanketed your exposed flesh. He gave you a gentle shake. "((Y/N), c'mon. We gotta go." He pleaded softly.        

        Your body jerked and you jolted awake. You gave him no chance to explain as you scrambled to your knees and cowered away against the tree. 

        "(Y/N) it's me. It's Daryl." He attempted his most soothing tone of voice. "C'mon, let me get ya cleaned up."        

        He outstretched his arm, offering you his  hand. Without making eye contact you made a move to take it, but you were stopped by the restricting force of the rope that kept you anchored to the tree trunk. He moved quickly for the knife he tossed to the side earlier and returned with it. Without the pressure of remaining silent, he had your hands free in seconds.

        He wasted no time helping you to your feet and averting his gaze as he slid your pants up where they belonged. He found he had a hard time keeping his mind straight and focused as your weeping filled the quiet campsite. 

        "Shh.." He cooed, keeping one hand on your upper back as he ushered you along with him to gather his things and yours. A smart man would have rummaged through the belongings of the ones he killed, too, but he wasn't concerned with making a smart call at that point. He was only worried about you.

        "It's alright. C'mon. Let's get ya somewhere you can rest. It's alright. C'mon." He felt useless as ever, repeating the same generic words of comfort as you limped along beside him. He never urged you to up the pace, he didn't drag you along or have you carry your own bag. He felt like the least he could do was shoulder the weight of survival on behalf of you both. He couldn't get the image out of his mind of ou laying there,caked in blood, sweat, and bruises. A girl like you should have been caked in perfume and makeup. You hair should have been done up nice for a Sunday brunch, not matted with leaves and dirt. Your clothes should have been pristine and well fitting, unlike the filthy torn clothes that were beginning to hang off your frame like tender meat falling from the bone. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve any of it.

        Eventually he found an acceptable spot that looked like it could have been a den for a hibernating bear. It was a big shrub by a little stream, perfectly indented to give you both enough room to crouch under its foliage. He gently set you down, dropping his bow and your bags beside him. He crouched down in front of you and scanned you, worry written articulately over his features. 

        Your eyes remained glued to the ground. Your nose was upturned in disgust but your eyes told a different story; one of pain and despair and mourning for the person you were before that night. Your frown was deep enough to leave a scar. 

        "(Y/N)..." He breathed. Your eyes slowly found their way to his and welled with tears all over again. Of all things you had -- meaning, being alive and away from those men -- there was nothing you were more grateful for than his blue eyes staring back at you. You hated the way he looked at you with defeat and pity, though. You hated that he had one more thing to worry about. Still, he was there, and he was welcome. "Let's get ya cleaned up, okay?"

        You nodded once, if absentmindedly. Your thoughts were elsewhere. You couldn't pinpoint their location, though. They were scrambled, swarming all around you, like gnats you couldn't swat away.

        He pulled an old shirt from his bag and leaned over to the stream, getting it nice and wet before wringing it out. He turned back to you and brought it up to your cheek, gently dabbing and swiping away at the dirt, grime, sweat, and blood. He moved on to your neck and hands, then he paused. You both looked down at your jeans. You knew it needed to be taken care of, and he did too, but the question was really about which one of you would be brave enough to work on the gruesome scene between your legs.

        One look at your expression and he knew it couldn't be you. But, how could it be him? He couldn't put you in such a vulnerable position. No, not him.

        That's when the lightbulb went off over his head. The stream, of course.

        "Here." He offered you a hand. You took it slowly and he led you to your feet. "Wanna get in the water?" He asked. You stared down at the serene flowing water, trickling just before your feet. He cleared his throat. "I don't gotta look."

        You almost could have laughed. After everything that had happened, Daryl seeing you bathe wasn't really a concern. Still, you had to maintain some shred of dignity, and washing those men off of you was a much needed stride toward leaving that horrid night in your past. So, you nodded, and he turned away to start a fire where you could warm up after rinsing off.

        The button was busted off of your jeans. You guessed they couldn't waste their time with something as simple as undoing a button. You let out a shaky sigh and gritted your teeth. You moved to bend over and slide your jeans down, but a searing pain shot through your insides. You whimpered. "I can't." You barely managed.

        "Huh?" He asked over his shoulder.

        "I can't." You spoke up with a tremble. "I can't get them off. It hurts."

        His throat tightened up. Had they really been so cruel to you?

        "Ya want me to..." He trailed off.

        "Please." You whispered and shut your eyes. He stood beside you and pulled your pants down to your ankles, kneeling down as he did so.

        "Grab my shoulder." He instructed softly. You did. "Left leg." He said. You pulled it out. "Now the right." 

        With your jeans off, he stood up and looked down at your face, which you his from him, avoiding his gaze. 

        "Your -- Uh.." He glanced down at your underwear. You nodded, not needing to see what he meant. He followed the same process with those and turned away as soon as he was done. You cleared your throat. 

        "Can you help me sit?" You whispered. He sucked in a breath. It wasn't that you were annoying him. Anything but that, actually. He was glad to help you in any way you needed. It was the simple fact that you needed the help that was eating him alive. The thought that those guys could hurt you in this way, to this extent, was infuriating and heartbreaking. 

        He turned back to you and hovered behind you, placing a hand under each arm to support you while you lowered yourself down into the water. Once you were sitting on the creek bed, you adjusted yourself and sighed.

        "Just, uh, watch for snakes, okay?" Was all he could say before turning his attention back to the fire finally.

        Your frown deepened as you stared down at your bloodied thighs. A plop beside you startled you before realizing it was just the old shirt he was using to clean you up.

        "Figured ya might need it." He mumbled.

        You gripped the cloth in your hand and stared at it. Blood and filth stained it. Your lip quivered as you ran it over your inner thighs, scrubbing your own dried blood away and watching it disappear in the gentle current. You hissed and winced as you cleaned yourself where you were really injured. 

        When you were done, you peered over your shoulder, where Daryl stared at the small flame. He felt your eyes on him and he looked up at you. 

        "Need some clothes?" He asked.

        "Please." You replied. He nodded once and rummaged through your bag. He could only find a semi-clean shirt, but no more pants. He pulled his own bag forward and searched for the new two-pack of boxers he'd scavenged awhile back. 

        "I, uh, didn't see no more pants, but... You can have those." He said, holding your shirt and the fresh boxers out to you.

        "Thanks." You pressed your lips into a thin attempt at a friendly smile. 

        He turned away again so you could change your shirt, but you needed his help with the boxers, which he did without you needing to ask, and without a single peek at you.

        He helped you back over to the den where you could warm up by the fire. You kept the blanket in your bag, so he made sure to wrap it around your shoulders while you sat.

        "Ain't got no food." He broke the silence after a little while. You nodded.

        "Not hungry anyways." 

        "Mm." He hummed. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

----

        By midday, you were on the move again, trailing right behind him as he stomped slowly over the underbrush so you could keep his pace. He'd stop every now and then, and though he didn't say it, you knew it was because he didn't want to overwork you. 

        By late afternoon, the sun was on the far end of the sky, casting an orange glow over the woods. 

        Daryl had barely been able to look at you, and you couldn't exactly claim any different. You two had taken a break again, sipping water and scanning around for any game or edible plants.

        "I want ya to know.." He cleared his throat, shattering the thick silence that glazed over you both all day. "I want ya to know I didn't see it. None of it."

        "I know you weren't looking." You deadpanned.

        "Nah, not at the stream. I meant -- I didn't see none of it." He clarified. He had a sneaking suspicion the reason you couldn't bare to look at him might have been the possibility of him seeing what had happened to you. He, however, just hated seeing you look so broken, knowing had he been more vigilant yesterday, none of those guys would have been able to sneak up on him. You looked at him finally.

        "I know. They hit you over the head 'cause you were fighting them."

        "Mm." He nodded. "I just... I need to tell ya I'm sorry." His voice cracked as he looked down at his hands and back up to you. His leg was bouncing anxiously and his gums must have bled from how hard he chewed at them.

        "Why?" You pushed your eyebrows together.

        "I shoulda been lookin' out. Shoulda protected ya. Shoulda--"

        "You were. You have been." You cut him off. "You've looked out for me every day since the prison. You've been protecting me since the quarry. You protect everyone. That wasn't your fault." You insisted. He just looked back down at his hands and sniffled, blinking back tears. He scolded himself for being the one to cry, when you were the one who got hurt. "Hey." You pressed on. "Listen to me. You got us out of there. You took care of them. You saved me. Then, you still took care of me. If we were still back there, they would have killed you and robbed you by now. And, if they hadn't killed me yet, I'd be wishing I was dead. I wouldn't be here without you. I would have never survived even before last night without you, and I wouldn't be sitting here telling you that today if it weren't for you."

        He looked you in the eyes as you spoke every word. It was a great relief to him that you weren't angry with him -- that you didn't blame him. Still, he felt so uneasy.

        "Can we camp here?" You asked suddenly. He shrugged.

        "Yeah. We can." He agreed. His voice was still broken.

        "Can I sit with you?" You asked. He looked confused but he still nodded, even if he was unsure what you meant.

        Ignoring the aches all over your body, you crawled over to him and sat in front of him, between his legs, leaning your back against his torso. He was stiff, unused to being so close to someone, but he didn't resist. As you settled in and got comfortable, he rested his arms by your sides.

        "You didn't fail me, Daryl. Nobody makes me feel safer."

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[natsglorifiedsimp]

Something Changed 2

A/N: You guys asked for it.

Taglist: @queen2234 @pipsipey17 @casquinhaa @natashajumpinoff @natsxwife @dark-hunter16 @i-lovescarlettjohansson @mrsrushman @tropicals-things @alianovnasposts @nova-kyle @jusnough @splzq @yellowthingsstuff

Part 1

Tasha's POV

"Hey, Maria!" Natasha called.

Natasha noticed the subtle eye rolling of Maria. She squinted her eyes. It was unusual for Maria to act like that especially cause she's been helping her get to date you.

"What do you want Natasha?" she grumbled.

Natasha was taken aback by this. "Jeez, I'm just asking about Y/n." another eye-roll was given to Natasha. "Have you seen her? I haven't seen her on campus."

"Glad you noticed, Natasha" she sarcastically said. Maria feigned a thinking posture and started to glare at Natasha, "Let's see hmm" Maria said with diction.

"How about the fact that you've been ignoring her since you and Wanda dated and now she's gone off to Los Angeles leaving us behind because of you!" Maria gritted her teeth trying to contain her anger because you were in the hallway where students were passing around thinking Natasha and Maria were doing a secret drug deal.

"W-what?" Natasha stuttered. "I-I haven't ignored her."

"Save me the drama, Natasha. All you think about is yourself." Maria said.

Natasha was so confused. She didn't know what she did to you. She hurriedly texted you, hoping you'd give her some explanation but all was left delivered. That's not usually you. You always reply as soon as you see the message pop.

Natasha back reads you guys' conversation. Seeing if there were any clues on when are you going to LA or something that would hint at anything.

But all she saw was how she neglected you. She could see in every message how much you needed her. She missed your rants, your rambles, and everything that you guys would do when you hang out.

She broke her promise.

Y/n's POV

LA was different. The school was fine so far. No one dumped milk on your hair yet. No one made fun of you yet. And you were hoping it would stay that way.

The new environment was hard for you. It is hard to start a conversation with people when you don't know who they are. Natasha always does the talking. But somehow in this world, you are the one who needs to adjust.

Even if the people were friendly, throwing a smile at you or saying hi, somehow you still felt timid and awkward. You were scared to make friends.

Cause you know they will leave again.

Natasha did. What could any of these peer's differences be?

You cried every night knowing you had no one cared. That even if you consider them your best friends they will never think of you the same way. You were an option. You are a pawn to someone's real agenda.

You cried because you knew how much you cherished friendships. You knew to yourself that you would care and love people and go out of your way just to be there for them.

But somehow with you, it was always the opposite.

You are left alone, and when you thought someone cared...

She never really was.

Natasha's POV

She tried calling you a million times, even called your parents just to have a chance to talk to you. To apologize. But you were too far gone.

She may have found the love of her life but she left you. She left you feeling like she didn't care. She disregarded your feelings and put herself first. She took advantage of you.

Natasha regretted everything that she did. Everything that she broke. She knew how much you value friendships and she also knew how to break it.

There were no more Y/n. The laughter you shared is now a glimpse of memories that she wished would last forever. Love may have come her way but she didn't have to run you over just to find it.

You were her person.

But i guess...

Loving involves losing right?

[jangmi-latte]

‼️ CHAPTER 7.6 SPOILERS

idk man but maleficia's extremely suspicious to me right now because what have you been doing all these years? let's say even before meleanor was born, what kind of ruling has she been doing? when meleanor died, what did you do??? if you're so focused and busy with briar valley's affairs to even look after your own grandson, why is there barely any progress in the kingdom's ideology and the issue between humans and faes took CENTURIES to be solved?

with how the senate handled lilia, malleus, and meleanor's case, i highly doubt maleficia still has control over the country. because if you're the queen, the highest ruler, why do you have to request an exiled former general to look after YOUR grandson behind the senate's back? there's something extremely wrong. then you just let the senate take back the said grandson knowing very well how much lilia matters to him.

malleus said before that, while he's part of the top 5 most powerful mages in twisted wonderland, he can't surpass his grandmother's. but then we learn that maleficia can't even surpress malleus' magic barrier while HE WAS STILL IN THE EGG????? then you hid the truth from him for years for WHAT???? what are you trying to achieve????

briar valley is WAY behind the modern world's evolution. while they excel in magic, the civilization is SMALL. maleficia what are you, or rather, what have you been doing? and may i add. levan, who has a lower title is trying (and i dare say successfully) to make ends meet between fae and human. like okay there has been humans living in briar valley now but at what cost?

IF crowley is indeed levan then he's been really successful in his agenda. species of different kind and capabilities all under one establishment and working together.

yeah. malleus has all the right to be really fucking angry.

[osamucide]

⊹ LOOKIN’ FOR THE ONE THAT WANTS TO MAKE MY NAME A TATTY!

cw: multifandom (bsd+jjk), suggestive, name tattoos!!! all around questionable? feral and whipped and lovesick and possessive and stupid stupid hot men

reid: down bad for this concept and these mfers anyways stream aggy by coco and clair clair

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Who would get your name tattooed on them?

This SCREAMS GOJO. He’s so shameless—he’d get your name tattooed on his asscheek if you asked. He’d let you do it. He’d let it be Comic Sans for the meme. Not because he doesn’t take you seriously—quite the opposite, actually! His six eyes know he won’t ever regret this—he loves you so much and there’s hardly anything in the world he wouldn’t do to put a smile on your face even if it’s dumb. But really, tell him to be for real—suggest along his bicep in a pretty script font and consider it done <3

SUKUNA’S probably going to do this under one condition—he gets to mark you as his too, and this does not necessarily mean you also get a tattoo. But let’s say you do! I think he wants yours between your tits on your sternum running vertical, and he’ll probably get his in the exact same place—exact same font, exact same color. . .there, or down his spine, or if he’s feeling especially soft the day of the appointment, across his Achilles tendon, for obvious reasons—don’t make him say it.

If this screams anyone else on this list, it’s TOJI. He won’t even hesitate; he’s not exactly the most responsible guy around, but you like him, and he thinks you’re perfect—why the hell shouldn’t he have your name wrapped around his upper arm like a cuff, especially if it means your eyes light up and you flash him that gorgeous smile? Just don’t be too surprised when you find his baby mother’s name haphazardly covered up/half removed somewhere else on him.

I can see NANAMI doing this a few years into marriage, maybe, but doing it nonetheless. Look at him—he’s the dictionary definition of a keeper, and this is hardly any different to him than never taking off his wedding ring (and believe me, once you’ve got him on lock I mean he never takes it off). Matching ones would be especially alluring to him—you’re his one and only, and he hardly gives a thin and subtle sans-serif tattoo of your name on his upper thigh a second thought. What’s more is he’s enamored with kissing the spot where you get his name <3

This may or may not be me pushing my tattooed CHUUYA agenda but whatever. I think he’d be SO down for this. He’d probably make a little date out of it—drive you to the nicest tattoo shop in Yokohama under the guise of wanting to pay for whatever piece you want on yourself—tattoo or piercing—and sit patiently while you get it done, and then ‘decide last-minute’ that he’ll get one too, what the hell, and tell you not to look until it’s finished. Some elegant, masculine script font behind his ear that’s visible when he pulls his hair back <3

TACHIHARA is so grounded in what he loves. I’m 100% willing to bet he has a tattoo for his brother. Your name, too, tattooed on the outside of his shoulder, is like a badge of honor to him—everything he does, he does with you in mind. His only regret is how every uniform he wears covers it; he truly would’ve gotten it on his neck just above his shirt collar or on the back of his hand if it wouldn’t make him so easily identifiable. I can see him liking a traditional calligraphy font—only the prettiest for the love of his life <3

Funny how the man who knows nothing he desires can be permanent gets your name tatted on him. I think the prospect of having your name in his skin forever is just so hot, so romantic to DAZAI—there’s poetry in it however your relationship ends up unfolding. He knows he’s in love with you. In some way or another, no matter how he might end up driving you away, regardless of if you end up hating him for the monster he really is, even if you end up dying hand in hand like he hopes for, you’ll always own a piece of his heart and it’s evident in the pretty serif font he got buzzed across his hipbone <3

I include NIKOLAI in every one of my unhinged headcanons but I just can’t see him being anything less than ENTHUSIASTIC TO BOOT in a relationship. He is all in! You put up with his crazy, you drive away his sadness, you hold him so sweetly—the way you love him truly makes him feel on top of the world. And in true Nikolai fashion, I think he has your name in a font of your choice tatted right over his heart. Kiss it, bite it, trace it, lick it—he loves letting you know he’s all yours <3

[tragedy-of-commons]

GWEN POOKIE POOKIE IM SO PROUD OF YOU !!! CONGRATS ON GETTING 200 💥💥💥 YOU DESERVE SOSOSO MUCH !!

as for your prompt, can i get a "that was but a moment of weakness. think nothing of it." with dan feng? romantic please bc lord im starving of dan feng content

AGAIN, CONGRATS ON 200!! HERES TO YOUR FOLLOWER EVENT GOING BOOM BOOM BOOM <333

"That was but a moment of weakness. Think nothing of it."

Dan Feng's words echo into an ensuing chasm of silence. You're getting real tired of this whole back and forth, but you have to hold your tongue - the High Elder would not like to be called out on his lie so easily.

...even if his tail is wrapped snugly around your waist, and his austere countenance is plagued by a tinge of pink.

"Really? You're not known for being weak," you jab, unable to help yourself. Being 'your roguish self' in his presence is inevitable.

Dan Feng's tail unhands you, lashing side to side before stilling. His quarters are unlike anything you've ever seen, really; opulent cushions and fabrics making up the (multiple) chaises, a vanity littered with vibrant lotus blooms, and a subtle air of cloudhymn magic buzzing about each nook and cranny.

Even though you've been let in here at least a dozen times, it still feels like you're trespassing on sacred ground.

"A lapse in judgment, then," he supplies, taking a few purposeful strides towards the highlight of the chambers themselves - the vanity. "It happens to the best of us, despite what you may believe."

You watch as he sits down, ramrod straight. When he starts to tap his foot impatiently, you groan and slink over.

Dan Feng, Imbibitor Lunae, High Elder of the Vidyadhara, Guardian of Scalegorge Waterscape... is utterly enchanting. Your own reflection fades into white noise in the image of the mirror, subdued by his presence alone.

Without making him wait any longer, you pick up the familiar hairbrush within reach, beginning to comb through his tresses delicately. Whenever you snag on a minute tangle, he stiffens in warning before you curb the knot.

You hum. "Well, then I'm glad it happened to you, Esteemed One. Without your 'lapse in judgment', I'd have been doomed to my next incarnation much earlier than I would've liked."

You're referring to the incident that took place earlier today. On a stroll with the High Elder himself, a banditry of rebels and mutineers attempted to assassinate Dan Feng, and by extension, you as well.

It went by in a flash; one second, you were holding his hand and chatting about something as mundane as the scenery - the next, you were shoved behind his back as four Vidyadhara, your own kind, jumped out of the shadows, hungry to further their agenda.

The speed at which he ran Cloud-Piercer through them all was unbelievable. Seconds had gone by, not a hair on your head out of place, yet the enemies lied vanquished on the ground. Finally, Dan Feng had turned to you afterward, scanning you for any signs of injury with a pinched brow.

He almost looked panicked then. No high and mighty quips, no diluted sarcasm, no nothing! It was strange, to say the least.

News had spread like wildfire, and after rushing through the appropriate procedures, Dan Feng stuck to you like glue. He often says that he likes to keep you close so you don't fall into a crevice and perish, but this is different.

He protected you and your honor with his life. He pulled you close with his tail during the following hours - an intimate act usually reserved for lovers, neurotically monitoring anyone who got too close to you, baring just a hint of fang.

You know he cares for you in his own way, but this is dizzying.

"...you are exempt from referring to me by formal title," he sobers you from your thoughts, likely sensing your distress. After all, healers such as him are constantly attuned to other people's wavelengths. "It was nothing. There is no need to be grateful."

That response also strikes you as odd. Usually, Dan Feng basks in your praise and gratitude. Now, he's almost humble, whispering so only you can hear him.

Perhaps, in the depths of that statement, he's leaving an underlying message for you to pick up on. Something possibly along the lines of:

Don't be grateful. I could've lost you.

Your grip on the silver handle of the brush tightens. "If you say so."

The remaining knots are lightwork, Dan Feng's hair pooling around his pointed ears, now silky and smooth. His eyes are closed, posture relaxed and statuesque. When you do get to see him like this, it's always healing in its own right.

Experimentally, you brush your fingers over the nape of his neck. Sparkling teal scales adorn the skin there, responsive to your gentle touch. They flare at the intrusive sensation before calming, passively granting you permission to continue.

"That was the first time you were with me when an attempt on my life had been made," he cracks open his eyes, gazing at your reflection instead of his own. "I can't guarantee it won't happen again."

"I'm aware."

You set the hairbrush back onto the vanity, task completed. At this point in the routine, you'd normally excuse yourself to go about your own obligations.

But now? You remain rooted behind a man that you desperately want to love, just a little bit more.

"Something is on your mind," Dan Feng cuts in, "I suggest you voice your concerns."

He knows you just as well as you know him, even if he acts above vulnerability and the baggage that comes with it. Ghosting your fingers up the slope of his skin and through his dark locks, you sigh. Translating your turmoil into words has never been an easy feat.

Your hand now rests in between his regal horns, unsure. You've never so recklessly tested the waters before - but you need answers. You want to know, desperately, if he views you in the same light that you bestow upon him.

"Dan Feng," you whisper, admiring the appendages and their luminescent glow. They match the rest of him perfectly, and you've always imagined what it'd be like to touch them - to revere them. Gentle sea green, molded into branch-like coral.

"May I?" you hope.

When the Imbibitor Lunae's response comes, it's sweet, chased by a resigned sigh that tells you all you need to know.

"If you so wish."

Initially, you feel the telltale vibrations of him shuddering as you make yourself known as his lover. Today, in some other universe, Dan Feng might have lost you. But in this one, where you're both intertwined in the best possible way?

There is not a chance he can get rid of you so easily.

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: your wish is my command, miss illu :3 your support brings a tear to this old clown's eye... but thank you, really! almost done with all the requests, and i hope you enjoy what i did with dan feng. never written for him before, but your writing served as inspo ^^

event post here

[blakeswritingimagines]

Yesterday Seems So Far Away

Summary: Tactics and Whims in the midst of an impending war don't quite work out unless you're a throuple.

Word count: 8.3k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Rhaenyra is sitting by a room window, staring out into a dark night, lost in her thoughts. She is clearly troubled. Her heart had been hurt countless times, and she felt like her life was spiraling out of control. She heard the door open, and she turned her head. She smiled but quickly realized that it was not one of her advisors coming to visit her with news of victories across the Seven Kingdoms. It was you and Daemon. Daemon looked at the woman before him, the two he had given his heart to and was willing to do whatever he could to protect his wives. His thoughts were in a mix as he witnessed the troubled expression and wondered what was wrong. His eyes followed her gaze, and he saw nothing but the darkness of the night outside the room. He was curious as to what had her troubled and asked softly as he sat by her side. “What is troubling you, my love..?” He asked, placing his hand on hers. “Dear, tell us what’s bothering you?” You softly asked.

Rhaenyra slowly sighed and looked at you both, her eyes were full of unshed tears. "I am worried about everything." She whispered quietly. Rhaenyra couldn't really put her feelings into words. The world seemed so fragile, and the weight of her responsibilities was overwhelming her. She was trying to make the right choices and keep everyone safe, but it just seemed like everything was falling apart. She felt like she couldn't trust anyone, and that everyone had a secret agenda. Her heart was heavy with stress and fear. The prince listened to her speak quietly. He could already tell that her stress had her mentally and physically exhausted. He was beginning to understand her thoughts, but he didn’t wish for her to feel that way. The crown was a dangerous thing that could easily swallow a person, and he could tell that was what was about to happen to Rhaenyra. “Shhh, quiet now..” Daemon whispered, stroking her soft blonde hair. “Do not let the world get to you.” He said, gently taking her into his arms. Daemon placed a comforting hand on her cheek and looked at her with eyes full of love. It was one of the worst things to see either of his wives troubled by stress. The last thing he wanted was for you two to have to suffer. “My love, listen to me, you’re doing everything you can to keep the kingdoms safe, and I’m so proud of you for that. We are always here for you, no matter what may come.” You told her softly with a reassuring smile, your hand still placed on her cheek.

Early the next morning, you were sitting on the edge of the bed, having just woken up next to Rhaenyra and Daemon. You yawned and stretched but didn't move too much so as not to disturb your partners. The events of the previous day were still fresh in your mind and you couldn't help but worry about her. Rhaenyra was always a strong woman, but you could see that she was carrying so much weight, and you hated seeing her like that. You knew that the crown must be heavy, especially now during the dance of dragons. Rhaenyra was sitting at her desk, trying to focus on the map of the Seven Kingdoms laid out before her. She was tracing her fingers across the coastlines of the Realm, studying it and trying to plan out their next move. She was clearly still consumed by her worries and responsibilities. You could see this and came up behind her, pressing a hand on Rhaenyra's shoulder.

Jacaerys and Lucerys entered the room, giving Rhaenyra a small bow. As they approached her, she could see that they looked nervous and worried. They didn't say anything, as they waited for her to speak. She immediately felt their anxiety but tried not to show it. "Is there anything you would like to tell me?" Rhaenyra asked with a soft smile. She tried to hide her own worries and fears and to be strong for her sons. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look before Lucerys spoke to her, his tone was nervous yet sincere. "We wish to volunteer to go and gather more allies…" Lucerys gulped, hesitant to say the next words. He held his breath and waited for a reply from her. Jacaerys and Lucerys looked at each other nervously again, before turning their attention back to their mother. Jacaerys spoke up finally, his voice steady as he was confident in this choice. “We have decided to go and forge alliances on our own. We have discussed it between ourselves, and we have decided to go to Storm's end and the North.” He said, speaking quickly and nervously. His eyes were fixed on everyone, waiting for a reaction.

You could feel something about Lucerys going to Storm's End, like a premonition or a bad feeling. You couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but something about it just felt off. You decided to trust your instincts and speak up. You walked closer to Rhaenyra, wanting to pull her aside and speak with her privately. You whispered in your wife’s ear, “I have a bad feeling about Lucerys going to Storm’s End. Something just doesn't feel right about it.” Your voice was soft, yet filled with a mixture of worry and concern. You didn't want Rhaenyra to overreact, but you also felt like you had to speak up and say something. "I trust him," Rhaenyra whispered, giving your hand a squeeze as she leaned in to speak. Something about going to Storm's End just didn't feel right, but she tried to push those thoughts away. She had always taught her sons to be strong and confident, and she didn't want to undermine that by showing her own doubts. She also trusted Jacaerys to look out for his brother, and she was confident in their abilities to forge the alliances they needed.

Rhaenyra slowly turned her head to stare at Lucerys. Her face was solemn she knew that you had a good gut instinct, and she also knew that she shouldn’t ignore your concerns. She spoke carefully, trying to choose her words carefully. “But if you really feel that Lucerys shouldn’t go, then you have a good reason. Tell them. I will make adjustments in our plan.” A few more months had passed, with the tide of war slowly shifting in the Black's favor having intercepted the supplies to the Green capital. The news that came through the reports filled the couple with a sense of relief, knowing that the efforts were paying off. Rhaenyra can't help but allow herself a small smile as news of the victories comes in. The war is still far from over, but the tide is slowly turning in her favor. Having managed to intercept the supplies going to King's Landing, preventing them from reaching the Green base of operation. This means that the Green forces are stretched thin and they have a disadvantage on both land and sea. The Queen feels a sense of relief wash over her, knowing that everything is making progress. She can only hope this continues.

"I'm glad to hear about our victories. But I must admit, I'm worried about the common people. I know that we're fighting for the Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, but I can't help but think about all those people dying. And all those who lost their homes and loved ones… It breaks my heart. Do you have any idea what we can do to help them… to alleviate their suffering?" You ask your partners with a genuine concern in your voice. Rhaenyra sighs deeply as she hears your genuine concern. She understood the concern about the innocent lives caught in the crossfire of the war, it breaks her heart too. She knows that there is little that can be done now, but once winning the Crown, she intends to do as much as she can to rebuild the kingdom and help those who have suffered. "I wish there was more we could do, but for now we have to focus on fighting this war. We will rebuild when it is over, I promise." The Queen replies solemnly.

Daemon paused as he listened to your words, and a solemn expression quickly covered his face as he thought about the innocent people suffering the most from the war. He listened to you, his hands clasping your shoulder as he stared at you with a thoughtful look in his eyes as he spoke. "We have to win the war, that is the only way to stop the suffering of our subjects, that's the best way to help them." He paused for a beat before a pained expression crossed his face, "We cannot allow the Greens to win." Rhaenyra looks at you thoughtfully as you suggest doing more than their part. She appreciates the concern but also the initiative taken to help the common folks. The Queen sees the value in your efforts. Despite the war they are fighting, the Realm is still their responsibility and they must look out for the people within it. Despite not being able to act on it currently, Rhaenyra is open to exploring possible ways for them to help the common people during times of war.

Although the war has brought about great losses and suffering to the people of the Seven Kingdoms, you were determined to help them in any way you could. Over the next few weeks, you dedicated yourself to providing aid and support for the common folk, who have been hit hard by the conflict. You arrange for food and supplies to be sent to villages and towns throughout the land, providing relief for those who have been struggling as a result of the hostilities. Your efforts gain the recognition and appreciation of many of the locals and even win some of them to Rhaenyra's side. Daemon was glad to hear the news of how you were helping the common people, they were the ones taking the brunt of the war and needed all the help they could get. He had heard of how the locals were praising your actions and felt pride swell in his chest as he watched his love doing good for the people. In the weeks that followed, Daemon would join you in some of your efforts, doing all in his power to help the innocent people of the Seven Kingdoms. Both of you making sure not to let a single person go unhelped.

You paused as your thoughts were interrupted by a sudden feeling ill and your stomach had a sharp pain. This sudden sickness had struck you by surprise, and you could feel the nausea overwhelming you. You felt weak and felt the room begin to spin around you as you gripped your stomach. Both Rhaenyra and Daemon were immediately concerned when they noticed your sudden illness. Both were quick to your side and taking your hand, gently stroking it as Rhaenyra looked at you with worried eyes. "My love, what is it? Are you feeling alright? Rhaenyra said with a concerned look on her face, clearly worried for your well-being. You groaned as the nausea became overwhelming, and you gripped your stomach tighter while letting out a small cough. You managed to raise your head to look at both of them, your eyes were heavy and you looked washed out. A small sweat on your forehead, you attempted to smile at the two of them, but your efforts was in vain as you felt more ill. Daemon was by your side watching closely, his eyes filled with concern for your well-being. He placed a hand on your forehead briefly, and could feel your body burn up. "I-I'm fine."

The Queen was quick to notice the symptoms that you were experiencing. Your body temperature felt hot to the touch, along with the sweat and cough were signs enough that you weren't well. She glanced over to Daemon, their worried faces were telling enough. They knew you weren't okay. "My love, you are not fine," Rhaenyra said with concern in her voice. "Let us go see a maester about this." You nodded weakly, as you grasped tightly onto Rhaenyra's hands for the support you needed. You could barely stand up on your own, your legs were shaky and you felt as if you would faint. Despite your weakness, there was no denying how ill you were, and a maester was the only answer. Daemon supported you on one side, his hand tightly grasping yours. Rhaenyra gently wrapped her arm around you, while Daemon supported you on your other side to hold you up while they walked her to the maester's quarters. Both of your partners were concerned to see the state that you were in, it was clear that you were very ill and needed medical care. In the moments it took them to travel there, the Queen spoke softly to you. "My love, stay with me. I am right here, nothing will happen to you."

Daemon's hand grasped yours tightly as they led you through the halls, taking you toward the Grand Maester's office. As they reached the office, the Grand Maester stepped towards you, his expression concerned as he observed the condition you found yourself in. "What seems to be the problem, my Lady?" The Grand Maester asked, his eyes scanning the three of them, before narrowing at you. "Our wife has fallen ill, but we don't know with what," Daemon said, his voice serious as he watched the Grand Maester's expression. He could tell that the man's concern mirrored their own, the expression on his face was enough for him to know. You remained quiet next to him, letting out a small cough, while still clinging onto the Queen's hand. You smiled weakly as the maester approached, Rhaenyra's grip on your hands had given you some form of comfort, you were thankful that you could be able to lean on Daemon and Rhaenyra when you needed it most. Daemon's presence by your side was also a comfort, knowing that he was beside you, keeping his presence close. The maester's words alerted all of them in a quick motion, and Daemon spoke up again. "She doesn't feel well, she is nauseous and feels like she couldn't stand on her own," Daemon explained for you.

"I see." The Grand Maester's expression remained serious, observing your demeanor as you clung to your partners. His eyes darted from you to Daemon. When Daemon explained the symptoms you were experiencing, the Grand Maester sighed, before nodding to himself, as if something had just fallen in place. "May I speak with her in private, please?" The Grand Maester requested. Daemon and Rhaenyra both looked at you with concern, yet neither said anything as they awaited your response. Despite the feeling of nausea, you forced yourself to nod as the Grand Maester asked to speak with you privately. Your lips curved upward, and a weak smile was still possible on your face. You had a feeling of what the maester was going to say but decided to let him say it, you would not deny any help you were offered at this point.

The Grand Maester led you to a secluded room, away from Rhaenyra and Daemon. They all sensed the possible nature of the subject the Maester might bring up but remained silent as the two entered the room. The Grand Maester motioned for you to sit on one of the seats in the room, his look was sympathetic. "Now, dear Lady, I must ask you some questions." The Maester began, his tone was kind and patient. You sat on one of the chairs, feeling even more dizzy and ill than before, your mind was a blur and you could barely think straight. The room seemed to spin once more, and you thought you might faint. You gripped the sides of the chair, to keep still, and glanced up at the maester, feeling yourself getting tired. "Of course." You said to the maester in a small voice of your fatigue, your breath coming out in shallow rasps. The Grand Maester studied the condition you were in, with signs of nausea, weakness and fatigue. He sensed the possibility of one specific diagnosis given your symptoms. It was a diagnosis that they were all hoping it wasn't true right now, but deep down, they knew it could possibly that. "My Lady…" The Maester began again. "When was the last time you had your moon's blood?"

You paused for a moment, struggling to recollect your memories, it was all a bit of a blur to you due to the large fight taking place. You were exhausted at this point, even thinking was taking a toll on you. But you remembered, it had been a while since you had last had your moon's blood, far too long than it should have been. "I don't remember exactly, but it has been some time. Why?" You asked the maester with a faint look of confusion, feeling the weakness wash over you. The Grand Maester knew that he had his answer. His expression turned somber and his voice lowered to a somber tone. He didn't want to deliver the news, but someone had to. The Maester could only see the sorrowful and concerned faces when he revealed the truth. "Dear Lady," He began again. "My guess is that there might be a possibility that you are with a child. Do not lose hope, however, my Lady, my examination was not definite. I shall perform some tests and will confirm it."

When the Grand Maester emerged from the small room when the tests were done, his expression was grim, and the faces of Daemon and Rhyraena were also somber. Daemon was watching the maester with a keen eye, he was still on high alert, but he knew deep down the maester would confirm what he already feared. "The Lady of Dragonstone is pregnant with a child." The Maester spoke, and both Daemon and Rhaenyra remained silent as if they were still unable to accept it. They had suspected as much, but the confirmation made it even more real for them. The tense atmosphere remained, as they remained with the silent news for a few moments. Daemon took the lead again, as he took a step toward the Grand Maester. "How far along is she?" He asked with a solemn expression, his eyes fixed on the Maester. The Grand Maester looked back to Daemon, he saw the genuine concern and care for his partner in his eyes. Despite the severity of the situation, he had a sense of understanding that Daemon and Rhaenyra wanted to be there for their wife during the pregnancy. The Maester was quick to give your partners the information he found of your pregnancy. "She is about three months along, we can say she is halfway there." the Maester answered in a serious tone that matched Daemon's as he kept his gaze low.

The two of them entered the room with a sense of quietness to them, both of them were filled with concern and worry, and their steps were gentle as they walked towards you. You were no doubt in a fragile state of your pregnancy and their presence could only be a form of comfort to you at this point. Their eyes scanned the room as they approached, the room was quiet except for your soft breathing. You were still seated in one of the chairs in the room, you were clearly in a fragile state given your exhaustion and nausea. You kept your breaths slow and deep, you could still feel some nausea, but the feeling was slowly beginning to lessen. You could hear Daemon and Rhaenyra slowly approaching, their presence alone was enough to calm you down. Your eyes met theirs as they approached, you took note of the worry in their eyes and the gentleness with which they treated you. You were grateful for their presence. Each of you was filled with worry and concern, the pregnancy felt more real than ever - which was a blessing, but the thought of bearing a child under such circumstances was both a blessing and a curse. Your thoughts were mixed, and your mind was still foggy from the news. "I don't wish anyone to find out yet."

The two of them could feel the fatigue and discomfort that which you were facing, and so they remained a good distance from you, trying to avoid causing you any discomfort. Daemon understood the concern about the news being released to the world, so he did not want to rush into releasing the news so soon. He knew you were still in a delicate place, and wanted to ensure your well-being. Rhaenyra spoke gently to you. "We understand, no one shall learn the news until you are feeling better, we will tell no one our news." She said with a reassuring smile. "We would never tell anyone about this, your secret is safe with us," Daemon replied to you, your concern was evident through your expression and his voice held a level of kindness as he spoke, Daemon knew the stress and exhaustion that came with the news and decided to try and calm you down. The Greens were bound to know the news, after all, the Grand Maester could not keep such a thing hidden for long. This news had been leaked to the Greens, and then it had spread like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms, and the Green faction had all the more reason to oppose you now. The people loved that you three were having a child, especially in this situation. Your pregnancy was seen as a blessing by the little people, the Greens hated it, but the small folks were praising it.

The small folk praised the pregnancy, not only for the reason that it was a blessing for you, Rhaenyra, and Daemon's marriage, but also because it symbolized the new era and new hope that would come with the child. The small folk would stand by the Black side, for you were the ones offering hope and prosperity to the common people. You were aware that Greens would oppose your pregnancy, but they could not deny its potential and the possibility of a new hope it brought with it. The child carried within you would change the entire scope of the conflict. The Greens are clearly dissatisfied with the news, in fact, the Greens find themselves completely appalled at the news. The knowledge of a child only made it more certain that they would oppose the Blacks, for this would be an outright declaration to crown Rhaenyra as Queen.

Otto attempts to sway the people back to their side, he tries everything to sway them away from the Blacks. However, the people were unwavering in their devotion to your pregnancy, and the Blacks, did not heed his words and simply ignored Otto. The Black supporters would have their devotion to the Blacks further confirmed, and would find themselves even more set in their choice to defend your pregnancy and support the Blacks. Larys would mention that he had a possible spy named Ada, which was no secret, as everyone knew about his network of spies across the seven kingdoms. He would go on to further mention how he was able to influence the thoughts of people and alter their views possiably, using this method to his advantage he would propose using the spy to sway some of the people's favor. He would offer his services to Otto as the two planned on how to combat the growing support for the Blacks and the unborn child.

Ada had infiltrated one of the inns near Dragonstone where the Black's supporters would often gather to exchange information and show their support for the Black's cause. The spy observes the people of the inn, noting down the conversations and thoughts, and listening to the concerns and what the perceptions of the Greens were. Particularly watching out for any whispers or conversations concerning your pregnancy, and how the common people felt about it. She would report all the findings back to Otto. During the next few weeks, the spy worked late into the night in the kitchens, before slipping some poison into the tea secretly, she managed to do it discreetly, slipping it inside the cup of tea that she had learned was part of your nightly routine without anyone suspecting anything. Delivering it to you before being dismissed for the night just to quickly leave without a second thought. You were feeling quite a bit better after resting for a while, you had no more nausea and the feeling of exhaustion was slowly beginning to lessen slightly. However, you still felt a little weak, the fatigue was still evident in your expression. You were currently sitting on one of the chairs in your shared room, trying to remain comfortable as you did so. You were not feeling as terrible as before but were still in a fragile state.

You had drank the tea given to you, unaware of the poisonous properties, and slowly you were suffering from the effects of the poison slowly spreading throughout your body. You began to experience discomfort and nausea again, with chills beginning to set in. You began to feel weak and lightheaded, and your fatigue became more profound. Rhaenyra and Daemon would find you sick and in an almost unconscious state, the pregnancy had weakened you already, and now the poison made things worse. Rhaenyra and Daemon's faces both turned grim, and their expressions grew solemn as they saw your fragile state of health when they entered the room. The exhaustion and fatigue were evident within you, along with the slight nausea and chills that were setting in. Your weak and lightheaded state caused greater concern for both of them, the pregnancy had already been taking its toll on you, and they feared what might happen to you and the unborn child. "We have to get the grandmaester right away," Daemon spoke firmly, taking note of your state. He could see the sudden sickness taking root and growing stronger and stronger, and the more time it had, the worse the effects would become. His words seemed to indicate that he had a gut feeling about how serious this could be, and a sense of urgency began to manifest in him.

They both knew they needed a Maester, to examine and attend their partner. Both Daemon & Rhaenyra frantically ordered a Grandmaester to come immediately. It was their worst fear realized, but they had to act quickly. You and the unborn child were suffering from the effects, they could not afford to lose you both. The order for a Maester had been heeded, and the Grand Maester soon entered the room and moved towards you. Daemon and Rhaenyra remained aside as the Maester examined you, they were both still in a state of panic, they prayed the Grand Maester would have good news for them, that he would be able to save you and the unborn child. Their hope remained that a maester would have knowledge that could cure you without harming the child. Both you and the baby meant the world to them. The Grand Maester examined you, observing your symptoms of fatigue, exhaustion, weakness, nausea and chills. The poison was slowly taking hold of your body and was the most likely culprit of your current condition, the poison was spreading in your system at rapid pace. The Grand Maester, in all of his knowledge, knew that the poison was not an easy matter to deal with, but he had to find a way to cure it without harming you or the babe. Knowing your safety and well-being was foremost in everyone's mind, most importantly in the minds of Rhaenyra and Daemon.

The Grand Maester worked immediately to counteract the poison, attempting to find an antidote or remedy that could neutralize it enough without harming you or your child. The curing process was risky and difficult, especially given the fragility of their partner and the pregnancy, so the Grand Maester had to be extra cautious to not make the effects worse. Rhaenyra and Daemon watched in silence, their eyes were fixed on the Grand Maester with intensity as the process took place. Their expressions were stoic yet worried, trying to keep strong for not only you but also their unborn child. The Grand Maester's efforts to counteract the poison continued for what seemed like ages. He worked tirelessly, monitoring both you and the unborn child's health to ensure the safety was not further compromised. After a significant period, he finally managed to find an antidote that effectively counteracted the poison's effects. He proceeded to administer the remedy, carefully observing your condition and waiting to see the impact it had on your health and the baby's.

The Grand Maester managed to find an effective antidote that helped counter the effects of the poison, allowing you to begin to recover. It took time, and the Grand Maester had to monitor your condition closely, making sure the antidote did not have any adverse effects. Daemon and Rhaenyra remained present in the room, watching intently as you began to show signs of recovery. Rhaenyra's expression relaxed, her tense demeanor from before had eased somewhat and she seemed more hopeful. As your condition improves, Rhaenyra realizes the need to find out what happened and how the poison ended up in your tea. She looks at Daemon and quietly speaks to him. "My love, we need to find out how this happened. Find out who put poison in our dearest's tea. The culprit must be found and brought to justice. Daemon nodded his head, knowing the gravity of the situation. He understood the need to get to the bottom of it.

Daemon nodded in agreement as he listened to Rhaenyra's words, he knew she was right. They needed to find out what happened and who was responsible for putting poison in their partner's tea. His expression hardened as he considered the gravity of the situation. He knew what needed to be done…the culprit needed to be found and brought to justice, and he was determined to do just that. "I'll find out who did this," Daemon said sternly as he locked eyes with Rhaenyra, his determination and anger were evident in his voice.

The atmosphere was tense as the Black Council gathered, the events that had taken place left an uneasy feeling over the group that lingered in the air. No one could deny the gravity that loomed over them as they all assembled, some faces looked tired, some still held an expression of anger and some showed relief. The Black Council had gathered amidst the storm of chaos, their conversations now held an air of importance. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the Black Council table, her expression stoic and filled with a sense of authority. She surveyed the group and the faces of her trusted council members, she could see the varying emotions on their faces as they sat before her. From the tired expressions to the ones full of anger and relief. Her eyes flicked between each and every one of them, waiting to hear their reports on the current situation.

As you made your entrance into the room, the atmosphere was immediately filled with an air of solemnness and tension. Though you were supposed to be resting, you couldn't stay away as you were compelled by guilt for what happened. The coldness and detachment in your expression didn't go unnoticed as you joined the Black Council, and Daemon and Rhaenyra, despite being relieved that you looked better, were concerned about your behavior and well-being. Despite your exhaustion and the recent events that had taken place, was present and sat between Daemon and Rhaenyra at the table. Your expression was cold and distant as you looked over the other members of the Black Council, your eyes lacked the warmth that was usually present. Your gaze was firm and determined, but there was a sense of pain lingering beneath the surface.

Daemon moved toward you, his expression filled with concern. He knew you were supposed to be resting, but here you were, showing up to the Black Council meeting and acting cold. He could tell you felt guilty for what had happened, and it was clear you needed rest and time to recover, but he knew you felt compelled to be here as well. He gently took hold of your arm, attempting to pull you aside for a moment. Seeing the cold expression on your face and the firmness in your eyes, Daemon couldn't help but immediately go to you, he reached out and gently grasped your arm, his voice filled with genuine concern. "Darling…you should be resting," he said gently, looking at you as if pleading with you, trying to persuade you to let them take care of things. You looked up at Daemon for a brief moment, your gaze softening for a moment. You understood his concern for you and the baby, you could see it in his eyes. Despite the firmness on your face, you couldn't help but feel the need to be here in the Black Council meeting even in your weakened state. You nodded your head in acknowledgment of Daemon's words of concern, but you gently placed your hand on his, silently reassuring him that you wanted to be here before you sat down. Your tone filled with a fierce sense of determination to be in the meeting. Your words were sharp, leaving no room for debate. "I will rest when the matter is handled. Until then, I will need to be here. Please do not fret over me, my love," you said firmly to him, your voice filled with a certain authority.

Daemon looked back at you with a mixture of concern and a reluctant acceptance. He could see the determination in your eyes, and he knew that nothing would change your mind. He nodded to you, reluctantly at first, but then with a sense of understanding. "Very well then," he said with a sigh, his eyes softening slightly as he took your hand in his. He understood how important this was to you, and he didn't want to add to your stress. Later on into the night as you lay there, sandwiched between Daemon and Rhaenyra, you could feel a mix of emotions swirling within you. The events of the day had been a rollercoaster of anxiety, concern, and uncertainty. However, being close to your partners, their bodies providing warmth and a sense of security, made you feel a little more at ease but couldn't seem to quiet your mind like normal causing you to get up carefully and step closer to the window. Daemon and Rhaenyra were both sleeping peacefully, oblivious to your turmoil. They seemed content, but you were too worried to sleep like they were, you had a weight on your shoulders, and it was keeping you up at night. Daemon stirred slightly as you stepped closer to the window, his eyes flickering open for a moment before he saw you standing alone. He silently sat up in bed, watching you with a look of concern.

Seeing you standing alone by the window, Daemon could feel the tension emanating from you. He slipped out of bed and approached you, his movements gentle and deliberate. He stood behind you with a sense of concern and understanding, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder. "What's troubling you? Why can't you sleep?" Daemon asked you gently, his voice tinged with worry. He hated seeing you so troubled and wanted to help alleviate your pain if you'd let him. The feeling of Daemon's touch was grounding. You leaned into his touch, feeling a sense of comfort in his presence. You took a deep breath and turned your head slightly to look at him as you responded to his question. "It's the incident, the poison that was put in the tea… the thought that someone could do that to me, to us… it's troubling," you admitted softly, your voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. His expression darkened as you explained your worries about the incident and the poison. Daemon gently drew you closer to him, wrapping his arms around you in a protective embrace as a sense of anger and protectiveness took over his features. He hated it as much as you did, and he wanted nothing more than to shield you from any harm. "I know…I know," he said, holding you close, his voice filled with a mixture of sympathy and anger. "But I will not let anything come to you. Neither will Rhaenyra. We will keep you safe, I promise."

You allowed herself to be enveloped in his embrace, finding comfort in his protective hold. You nodded in understanding, knowing that Daemon and Rhaenyra's support and protection meant a lot to you. However, there was a flicker of a small, wry smile on your face as you responded softly. "I don't doubt your determination, my love," you said, your voice filled with affection, your eyes glinting with a hint of playfulness. "But… you do understand I'm not a damsel in distress. I can protect myself too, you know." Daemon couldn't help but chuckle at your words, his expression softening slightly as he felt a sense of admiration for your determination. He grinned as he replied, a note of affection in his voice. "Oh, darling, I know you can protect yourself. You're a force to be reckoned with, but let us take care of the problem, yes?" He reached out to caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and respect. "We just want to keep you safe. You and our child." Daemon couldn't help but chuckle softly as you spoke, acknowledging your determination and strength. He knew you were no damsel in distress, and he recognized your ability to take care of yourself. "I know you can protect yourself," he said with a wry smile, his eyes gleaming with admiration. "Yet I will always want to guard and protect you. Our enemies will rue the day they ever threatened you or our unborn child," he said, a touch of steel creeping into his voice.

A small smile tugged at your lips as you heard Daemon's reply. You reached up to place your hand over his, holding it against your cheek. "You do love being the knight rescuing the fair lady," you teased, your voice filled with affection and a hint of teasing. "Thank you, my love. I am lucky to have your protection," you added, a flicker of sincere appreciation shining in your eyes. Daemon chuckled at your remark, enjoying your teasing banter. He gently pressed a kiss to your cheek, a soft and tender gesture. "Aye, rescuing fair maidens is just one of many of my talents," he responded with a wry smile. His expression grew more serious as you thanked him for his protection. His eyes held a gentle and caring gaze as he looked at you, his hand squeezing yours softly. "And I'm always here to protect those I love. You and our unborn child are my priority." The atmosphere in the room suddenly shifted, becoming more intimate and serious. Your eyes locked onto Daemon's, a flicker of regret and sincerity shining through. "Daemon," you started, your voice low and sincere. "I want to apologize. For earlier, for distancing myself and being cold. I should have let you in more, and I'm sorry for not considering your feelings. You're more than just my lover; you're my partner, my confidant. And I value your support immensely."

Daemon's expression softened as he listened to your words, his gaze filled with a mix of understanding and affection. He could sense the sincerity behind your apology and the regret in your voice. "Darling…I appreciate your apology, and I accept it. I understand that you've been under a lot of stress and going through a lot. But please, from now on, let me in. Share your worries and thoughts with me. You are never a burden to Nyra or me, and I want to be there for you, just like you are for Rhaenyra and me," he said, his voice gentle and sincere. You felt a pang of guilt in your heart, knowing that your distance had affected your partners as well. You reached out and gently took his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I will. I promise. I'll try not to shut you out and keep everything inside. From now on, we'll face everything together, as a team."

The months had gone by, and your pregnancy proceeded smoothly. As the time drew closer to your due date, you were constantly checked and monitored by the Grand Maester, given how risky the poison had been for you and the baby. Rhaenyra and Daemon never left your side; their constant presence provided you with comfort and reassurance. As the day of childbirth approached, your contractions grew more intense, and soon enough, you were ushered into the birthing room by the midwife and Grand Maester. In the birthing room, the atmosphere was tense as the midwife and Grand Maester prepared you for childbirth. Daemon and Rhaenyra stood by your side, their hands tightly clutching yours as you went through each contraction, offering their support and doing everything they could to try and soothe your pain. He whispered words of encouragement, his voice filled with love and worry. You squeezed Daemon's hand tightly, your grip almost painful but he did not flinch. Rhaenyra took a wet towel and wiped your forehead gently, whispering words of encouragement and support as well. “You’re doing well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra's voice was steady and calming. “Just breathe through it, just like we practiced.” Daemon winced slightly as you squeezed his hand tightly during the contraction but held strong, his gaze filled with a mix of worry and admiration for his love's strength.

"You're an absolute warrior, darling," he said to you tenderly, his voice filled with awe and pride. Rhaenyra continued to wipe your forehead with the warm towel, her whispered words of encouragement filling the room with a sense of reassurance and love. She whispered soothing words and guided you with her words, supporting you through each contraction. You took deep breaths, feeling the pain and contractions growing more intense. You gritted your teeth as you shook your head, your grip on Daemon's hand never faltering. "I… I don't know if I can do this. It’s too much…" you managed to gasp out, your voice filled with a hint of despair. Then, you let out a low groan as your body tensed with another painful contraction. As the contractions grew more intense, Daemon tightened his grip on your hand, his heart clenching in worry and solidarity. "You can do this," he spoke firmly, his gaze locked onto you. "You're one of the strongest people I know, and you've got this. Just a little bit longer," he said, his voice filled with determination and belief in your strength.

The Grand Maester observed your condition closely, the pain and exhaustion evident on your face. The contractions were growing in intensity, and he could tell the childbirth would be difficult and dangerous. He turned to Rhaenyra and Daemon, his voice filled with concern and caution. "My Queen, my Prince, I fear the baby is in distress and the contractions are growing too painful. We may need to consider a cesarean section to ensure the safe delivery of both the mother and the babe," the Grandmaster said cautiously. Hearing the suggestion, your eyes widened and flashed with a mix of fear and defiance. You vehemently shook your head and protested against it. "No... No, I refuse," you gasped out, your voice a mix of pain and determination. As the Grand Maester spoke, both Daemon and Rhaenyra immediately tensed, worry etched across their faces. Rhaenyra's grip on your hand tightened, Daemon's heart filling him with dread and anxiety. He glanced at Rhaenyra before turning back to you with a mixture of worry and understanding. "Darling, the Grand Maester only wants what's best for you and the baby," he said softly, his voice tinged with concern. "Please, darling. Let's consider all options to ensure a safe delivery."

After refusing the c-section, you insisted on giving birth naturally. You ordered the Grand Maester out of the room and had the midwives fill a warm tub with water. Once everything was prepared, you let yourself be helped into the water, your body finding a little relief from the pain as the water gently cradled you. You reached out for Daemon's hand, your grip tight, while Rhaenyra remained by your side, ready to support you. Daemon turned to you, his voice filled with love and worry. "My love, do you truly want to go through this without the Grand Maester's assistance? The risk…" Once you finally allowed yourself to get into the water, you felt a slight relief from the intense contractions as the warm water enveloped you. Your grip on Daemon's hand tightened further, squeezing it firmly as though seeking his strength through your own. Rhaenyra stayed by your side as well, her presence a silent comfort and support for you. The midwives had left the room, leaving the three of them alone. Daemon's voice, laced with worry, rang out as he questioned your decision.

You nodded your head resolutely, your eyes filled with determination and resolve. "Yes, Daemon," you said softly, your voice betraying your pain. "I want to try to do this without the Grand Maester's assistance. I trust you and Rhaenyra to help me through. I know the risk, but I have faith in us. We can do this together." As the hours passed and your contractions intensified, the pain becoming almost unbearable, you began to waver in your decision. "I… I don't know if I can do this, my love…" you gasped out, your voice filled with despair. Yet, you steeled yourself and shook your head, your expression determined. "But… I have to." Daemon squeezed your hand, his expression one of love and encouragement. "You can do it, my love. Just a little more. You're almost there." After what felt like an eternity, the room filled with the sound of a wailing baby. Rhaenyra carefully placed the newborn baby, a healthy baby girl with tufts of blonde hair, in your arms. Tired but relieved smiles spread across their faces as they witness the arrival of their child.

Daemon stared down at the newborn child in your arms, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe, wonder, and a profound sense of overwhelming love. He reached out, gently cradling the baby's head in his hand, his touch filled with tender adoration. His gaze flicked between the baby's face and yours, his heart swelling with an unquantifiable amount of love and pride. As the sound of the newborn's cry filled the room, a wave of relief washed over Daemon and Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra looked at you and the infant with a mixture of love and wonder in your eyes, your own exhaustion mixed with the radiant joy of a mother. Daemon's eyes widened in awe and pride, his fingers tracing gently over the baby's soft skin. "You did it, sweet girl," Daemon whispered tenderly to you, his voice filled with admiration and love. "She's…. perfect."

Tears streamed down your face as you held their newborn daughter in your arms, your expression filled with a mixture of exhaustion, joy, and awe. You looked up at Daemon and Rhaenyra, your voice filled with overwhelming emotions. "She's here… she… she's real." You whispered, your voice choked with tears. You held the precious baby girl in your trembling arms, feeling a well of love and joy, unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Rhaenyra's heart swelled with pure joy and love as she watched the tender scene unfolding before her. She gently placed a hand on your shoulder, her voice filled with tender contentment. "Yes… she's real, and she's beautiful," Rhaenyra spoke softly, her gaze flickering between you and the tiny bundle of joy they had brought into the world. Daemon's eyes softened as he watched the scene unfold, his heart filled with an inexplicable love and gratitude. He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of damp hair away from your forehead, his touch tender and filled with affection. "She is real. She's ours," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of warmth and a hint of awe. Rhaenyra leaned in closer, her own eyes gleaming with adoration and love as she gently wrapped her arms around you, creating a tight embrace.

As the three of them embraced, cherishing the precious moment together, Daemon leaned in close and whispered in your ear. "I am in awe of you, my love. Your strength, your determination… you're a force of nature. And now we have this beautiful, miraculous girl, all because of you. I will forever count myself lucky to have you ladies in my life." You leaned into the embrace, letting the exhaustion and joy wash over you. You were overwhelmed by the love and adoration that filled the room, the feeling of your family surrounding you creating an indescribable sense of fulfillment. You looked down at the newborn daughter, your eyes filled with love and wonder. You gently caressed the baby's soft cheek, your touch filled with a mother's tender adoration.

"I love you, sweet girl."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Tell me, tell me, tell me

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your husband doesn't handle change well and falls into old habits.

This is one of my birthday drabbles. Of course, little lies had a lot of votes and has earned it's own little add on. Thanks again for your input :) Enjoy.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

A birthday drabble for Little Lies 

You sit up and smile as the man exits Loki’s office. He looks content but your husband looks less than as he appears in the doorway. He crosses his arms and watches the candidate leave. You’ve gone through this routine at least two dozen times this week. 

“How was it?” You ask. 

He hums flatly and stares after the man’s departure. 

“His resume was great. What’s wrong?” 

Loki pouts and looks at you. He stands straight and crosses his arms. “He’s not you.” 

“Oh, I know. I’m so talented at keeping your agenda,” you retort dryly. “You can’t keep doing this. You have to hire someone.” 

“Don’t you understand?” He strides forward and stops just on the other side of your desk. His hands drop to his hips. “You’re asking me to replace you. That’s impossible.” 

“Ha, when did you get so sentimental?” You ignore him for the email on your screen. 

“Since the day you broke your leg, actually.” 

“Shut up,” you snip without looking up. 

“Truly. As worried as I might’ve been, I do miss those crutches. You were... manageable then.” 

You shake your head. “Well, you never are, but I’m hoping you can find an assistant that can do a somewhat decent job of it.”

He huffs and slithers around the desk. He sits on the corner, crowding you. “It won’t matter. I’ll be a mess without you, darling.” 

“I screened him. What was wrong with Peter?” You challenge, leaning back in your chair to face him. 

“Little upstart. I don’t need him flirting with my clients,” he harrumphs. 

“As if you don’t.” 

“On my honour,” he puts his hand to his chest, “I’ve changed my ways. You know it. I gave my vows.” 

“Uh huh.” You tut and check the time. “Well, who else? Jacqueline was good. She has a great CV and she’s very warm and welcoming.” 

“But I adore the way you snarl at me. It makes me...” Loki trails off and touches his belt. 

“You’re looking for an assistant,” you remind him. 

“Yes, but I will be losing my wife.” 

“That’s dramatic. It’s not like you can’t come see me. I can come back too between terms.” 

“School. You’re leaving me for school,” he mopes and shakes his head. 

“I’m trying to better myself, Lo. I don’t want to be your secretary my whole life.” 

“Personal Assistant,” he corrects. “Prized Asset.” 

“Ugh, you are so--” you put your hand up in exasperation. “This isn’t about the job. You’ll just call the temp agency, huh? So, you don’t have to pay benefits.” 

He shrugs guiltily as he examines the wall behind you. 

“What is this really about?” You insist. 

“Nothing.” 

“Tell me.” 

“I swear, I’ll miss you--” 

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll miss you too. Blah blah blah,” you flutter your fingers at him and push yourself to your feet. You go to him and he looks at you with those sparkling green eyes. You put your hands on his shoulders and he instinctively frames your hips. “What is bothering you so much?” 

He stares at you then looks down. His lips thin and he tilts his head one way then the other. His gaze flicks back up to you. A grin creases his face and he laughs, “it’s foolish. Stupid! I shouldn’t worry.” 

“Loki,” you warn. 

He sighs. He peeks over at the door and his mouth slants. “You’re going to meet a lot of young men. Like that Peter.” 

You narrow your eyes and frown. Then you smile and scoff. You grab his chin and make him look at you, “you’re worried I’m going to meet some young gun and ditch my old man?” 

“Old? I wouldn’t use that word,” he winces. 

“You really think I would run off with some young hunk? With big burly shoulders and a nice chest...” Your let your tone drift into a dreamy drone. “Oh and thick hair and stamina like no one’s business...” 

“Hey!” He pokes your side and you cackle. 

“Loki, I’m not going to do anything like that. I’ll be far too busy studying and I’m too old for all that. Those twenty-year olds don’t want me. Now, hire a replacement so I can deal with all this nonsense.” You caress his cheek and give a smile. 

“You underestimate those twenty-year old cads. I once was one and I would've pounced on you at once.” 

“Oh really. Because you’re like forty and took years.” 

“Eh, let’s not toss around numbers here.” He sniffs. “I’m just saying that you are a beautiful woman, obviously. I married you. And those young ones, well, they like the allure of an older woman.” 

“Alright, alright,” you pat his shoulder. “Let it go.” You exhale and look him in the face. He stares back at you and squeezes your hips. “I’ll miss you.” 

His cheeks dust with pink and he smirks, “I'll miss you too, darling.” 

“You better.” 

His eyes fog and slowly crawl down. You squirm as he stands, crowding you, and his hands grazes along your sides. He walks his fingertips up and down and grips your waist again. He spins you suddenly, pinning you against the desk. 

“Let me be your young gun, eh? Show you this old man’s still got it.” He purrs. 

“Lo,” you rub his chest. 

“I can’t have you running off not thinking of me and how I’d put any of them to shame.” He winks and leans in, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Mm, Mrs. Laufeyson, is that what you want? A sweet young thing. I’ve not lost my touch, believe me.” 

“Lo,” you put your hand over one of his. 

“I feel you trembling, darling.” 

“Not here,” you tug on his hand. 

“Anywhere.” He urges you back until you hit the desk.  

He leans in until you’re forced to brace the desk. You strain backward and he reaches around to swipe the desk clear. Your monitor and laptop teeter dangerously near the edge as the rest of your things scatter. You gasp. 

“Loki!” 

“I’ll buy new ones,” he lifts you at once and puts you on the desk. 

“You can’t--” 

“I am.” 

He puts his hand under your chin and forces your head up. His thumb rubs along your cheekbones as he marvels down at you. He exhales and tickles your nose with his. You scrunch up your face and he presses a kiss to your lips. 

You push against his chest as his tongue glides along your lips. You murmur and try to resist. You never can. His hand brushes up and down your side then hooks up to your neck. He holds your head between his hands as he invades your mouth. He consumes you as he shifts and pushes between your knees. 

You clutch his lapel and part from his lips with a gulp. “Loki--” 

“Let me remind you who you married, darling. It was no old man,” he yanks his tie free as he clings to the front of your blouse, bunching it as he keeps you snagged. He tosses the silk and draws you back to him. 

You giggle, cheeks vibrant with heat, and shake your head. “Oh, I know who I married.” 

“And you will keep it in mind with those young lads.”  

He pinches a button, tediously undoing it with a single hand. He snarls and withdraws briefly to tear open his shirts. Buttons scatter as he snarls and steps up once more. He cradles your head in his hands and enshrines you in another fervent kiss, this one has you breathless. 

You put your hands on your chest, feeling the way his muscle tenses with need. He shudders as you drag your touch down to his stomach and the firm muscle clenches. He growls into you and bends you until your back is against the desk. He pins you there as he runs his hand down the length of your figure. 

He hooks his thumb beneath the hem of your dress and pushes the skirt up. You wriggle and feel blindly along his belt. He twitches as you latch onto his buckle. He hums and parts from your mouth, gasping against your cheek. 

His belt clinks open at your blind tugging and you pick open his fly. He growls and nips your ear lobe, laying a trail of kisses across your jaw and down your neck. He pants slacken and you push them down with his briefs. He springs free and wiggles his hips so his belt slides lower. 

He pulls your rear over the edge and flutters his fingers along your thigh. You curl your other leg around him as he tickles the front of your panties. He presses your clit through the thin fabric. You draw his mouth back to yours hungrily.  

Your tongues meet in a flurry of need and dread. You need each other right then and dread the separation to come. You’ve been outrunning that fact. That distance will not be easy, even so much as you’ve longed for it. 

He rubs you through your panties until he can feel you seeping through. He traces the trim of the lingerie and peels them away from your cunt. The satin bunches against your thigh as he flips your skirt up and moves closer. 

You know each other by touch. He finds you without hesitation. He slides into you in a single lunge and you drone in delight. Your turn your head as his wet lips smear over your cheek. He groans as your walls squeeze him. 

“Darling,” he drawls. 

You puff and arch your back, hooking your legs so that your heels press into the back of his thighs. You tilt your hips, goading him on as he takes his long, patient strokes. That pace he keeps when he means to torture. 

You snarl and grab his chin. You force his head up, “I thought you said you weren’t going to fuck me like an old man.” 

His eyes flicker and his lips curve into a devious smirk. He slams his hips against you and you cry out. Your nails dig into his jaw and you laugh through your teeth. He does it again, jolting the desk with you, and you quiver around him. 

“Oh, yes,” you grit. “You can do it, old man.” 

“Old. Man.” He chuffs out and rams into your again. 

You chuckle only to be met with another blunt rut. Your voice fizzles to a squeal.  

He traces along the top of your dress and drags the sleeve down your shoulder. He follows the cut of the bodice and uncovers your bra beneath. He quickly pulls the strap down and flips the cup inside out. He fondles you at once.  

His hips pump into you, harder and harder. His thumb flicks over your nipple, swirling around to tease. He hunches and dips down to take the bud between his teeth. He snarls and bucks faster. You hug him between your thighs and wrap an around his head. 

His other hand snakes down between your bodies. He pushes against your clit, the motion of his pelvis moving his fingers against you. The friction melds into the pressure inside. Your eyes roll back as you cling to his shoulder, your other hand on his lower back, beckoning him deeper. 

His harried grunts punctuate your soft moans, the slap of flesh and constant clink of his buckle adding to the twisted melody of your fucking. You roll your hips up into his. Just a little more. 

Your thighs shake and the swell in your core threatens to boil over. Your voice begins to crest and suddenly, he stops. You groan and clamp onto his side. You try to pull him down as he lifts himself. He keeps only his tip inside of you.  

Your eyes snap open as he flings his tussled hair back and looks you in the face. Your brows furrow. 

“Old man?” He challenges. 

“Lo...” you breathe, “please.” 

“No, no, that is what you said. So, allow me to prove you wrong.” He snickers and nips at your lower lip. “I can keep up, can you?” 

He dips into you slowly and you whine. Your head lolls and your lashes flutter. You bare your teeth at him and hiss. “I hate you.” 

“How can you hate this, darling?” He rears back and thrusts again. “Mm, I feel the way you’re clinging to me.” 

“Just--” You flare your nose and turn your head straight. “Do it. Old man.” 

His irises spark and he snaps his hips. You yipe and he twirls his fingertips against your clit. You shudder at the sensation. 

“Oh ho, darling, do you want to cum?” 

“Loki--” 

“Tell me you want to cum.” 

“Lo--” 

“Beg me.” He commands and pulls his fingers away. The coolness left in the shadow of his touch makes you squirm. “I did vow to serve you, darling, but I cannot if you do not say what you want.” 

Frustration, desperation, call it what you will. You whimper and reach for his hand. You guide it back to your clit and growl, “make me cum.” 

It’s his turn to shiver. He twists his hand away from yours to grab your fingers and pushes them to your bud. You gasp as he uses them to rub you instead. As he does, his hips fall into tempo. 

He fucks you so the desk scrapes the floor and his thighs hits the sharp edge. He raises himself as he spreads a hand across your stomach and watches himself delves into you, over and over. He guides your fingers in a frantic rhythm and the tension clusters beneath your own touch. 

You spasm and cry out, legs locked around his as you trap him inside you. 

“Oh, yes, make me cum, Loki, make me--” you descend into a stream of gibberish as you contort on the desk. You bite your knuckles to silence yourself, heaving wildly as your lungs burn and your skin tingles. 

“Um...” a knock sounds at the door and Loki halts mid-thrust. You share a startled look then slowly glance over at the open door. Shit. The last interviewee, Peter, stands dumbfounded as he peers in from the hall. “I, uh, forgot my phone in your office.” 

“Well,” Loki clears his throat and looks down at you with a sinister gleam. “Go and get it. Can’t you see I’m busy?” 

[lsofial]

Hiiii >_<

Could you write some SFW relationship headcanons for Sukuna please?

SFW Relationship Headcanons - Sukuna

- The King of Curses is a little bit oblivious to physical affection, therefore, he will not be the one to initiate it, most of the time. He is not opposed to you being affectionate towards him and would relish in the warmth of your embrace, the gentle touch of your delicate hands or the softness of your thighs, as he rests his head, looking into your glistening eyes, casting the beauty of a clear night sky.

- Despite being what we would consider as pure evil, sometimes, on very rare occasions, Sukuna would be soft with you. He would never say that he loves you, instead, he would praise you for your loyalty, your devotion and your unwavering respect, admiration and commitment towards him. He would pat your head, look deeply into your eyes and rest his hand on your face, admiring your beauty, earning a slight blush from you.

- He knows something as ephemeral and frivolous as love was never a priority to him, however, after you crossed paths with him, he knew you would become his only weakness. He tries to convince himself that if something happened to you, he would not be dramatic over it, because bad things happen to everybody all the time and it is just a part of the natural cycle of life. However, he obviously feels otherwise and if something happened to you, he would not approach the problem impulsively. Sukuna would be very calculated, not only to get you out of the situation alive, but also to make sure he spread as most torment, pain and chaos as he could along the way and make everyone regret attempting to lay a finger on even a strand of your hair. He may seem indifferent, but he loves you and is very protective of you.

- He gets jealous very easily. This stems from his possessiveness. If he catches a random guy staring at you in a shamelessly inappropriate way he would probably tell them something like "you certainly must be holding your head too high, to stare at my meal so shamelessly" and decapitate him on the spot. You will not know about the incident.

- He may not be open about his feelings but he trusts you with his ambitions, goals and plans and expects you to be there, supporting him, always. He wants you to be supportive not coddling.

- Sukuna would prefer you to call him "Lord Sukuna" or "Master Sukuna".

- He does not hate public displays of affection, but would prefer them to be kept on a very surface level, so as to not arise much attention from others.  He would prefer people to think you are just his maid, rather than his lover. After all, he does not want anyone to know you are his weakness, since that would put both of you in a position of constant danger.

- He is very lazy and would not help you cook or carry out the household chores.

- Sukuna does not want to get married. To him, if he is with you means he chose you, therefore, he does not need any external social validation to make sure you know his choice is final.

- He is neutral to the idea of having children. To him, it is a natural consequence of intercourse. Due to his personal agenda, he would be absent in his children's lives, preferring you to stay with them somewhere safe, away from everything and everybody, leaving Uraume behind, ensuring you are protected by someone of his trust. However, whenever he got to spend some time with them, he would be very strict and demanding, training them, so as to make sure they became strong and were able to honor their father's name and carry his legacy onwards.

- He is very blunt and straightforward when talking.

- He enjoys your praises, as it boosts his ego and makes him feel loved, accepted and acknowledged by the only being he deems as the most important.

- He is the type to grab your chin, tilt your head up a little bit, look feverishly into your eyes and plant a small kiss on your forehead or give you a quick peck on the lips.

- Most mornings, you wake up to an empty bed, as Sukuna has already left, to go about his day. However, when he feels like it, he will stay by your side and you will open your eyes to him sitting on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard, as he skims through a book (or a relevant piece of information that may contribute to whatever his evil plans are), stroking your luscious hair.

- He sleeps way below the average amount of a regular human and sometimes indulges himself and stays a bit longer in bed just to capture your beauty and hear your soothing breathing.

- He does not like to talk about his past and will feel extremely uncomfortable and push down the subject even more if you ask him about it. When he feels like telling you anything related to that issue, he will spontaneously bring it up, though he will only reminisce very specific moments out of pure nostalgia.

- He is very short on patience, but seems to extend it a little more when it concerns to you. He is very quick to lash out at everyone and looks like he is seething with rage all the time, however, with you, he looks intrigued and annoyed at the same time. He is very curious about you and your ways and eventually tries to understand them and that makes him annoyed because you are, indeed, very puzzling. "Why are you giving me the side eye, Lord Sukuna? I am not jealous!", you reply, after seeing a random woman almost drooling at the sight of him. "Why have you been looking at me with that angry face, over the past 10 minutes, without saying a word, then?", he answers, rolling his eyes.

- Definitely the type to pretend that he does not care about and will not remember meaningless little details about you (your birthday, your favorite food, your favorite flower, etc.) and your relationship (when you started dating, when and where your first kiss was, how you first met, etc.), however he, indeed, knows, remembers and stores all of this information carefully, for future use.

- He is able to predict your needs just by looking at you, however, he becomes rather frustrated to know you do not have the same sharp intuition as him. Sometimes, it can be a very demanding task, predicting what he needs, since he is not verbally open about his non-sexual needs.

- He does not care about makeup, perfume or fancy clothing. He did not fall in love with you just because you are stunning. He fell for you because you are strong, ambitious, loyal, intelligent, mysterious, eccentric and the only one who has ever been able to reach his heart, making him overflow with feelings he has been pushing down for who knows how long.

<3 Thank you so much for requesting <3

I am BACK!

[osmanthusoolong]

“Is porn addiction real? Less so than claimed, argues Lisa Hagen in a bombshell report for NPR. In this article, the journalist explores the ‘masturbation abstinence’ and anti-porn addiction movement in the US, finding a landscape filled with pseudoscience, reactionary rhetoric, and shame. “In one study,” Hagen notes, “among people who self-identify as ‘pornography addicts’, the average frequency of porn use was less than ten times a year”.”

…

“Meanwhile, sex acts outside the norm are often configured as things that only exist to hurt and degrade women or pollute their relationships, rather than as things women could possibly be interested in. Several of the women I’ve talked to have spoken about being into kink, and about how alienated they feel by discourse that kink is just a cover for violence against women, rather than something women themselves can desire and instigate.”

…

“The subtextual ‘threat’ behind ‘wrong’ porn gets very queer, very quickly. An interviewee for NPR describes a common set of anxieties on the forums he frequented: ‘‘The common themes were ‘porn is turning me gay’ or ‘porn is making me cross-dress’ or ‘porn is making me want to be dominated’ or ‘porn is making me like transgenders [sic]’.” It’s pretty clear that men are feeling drawn to the taboo thrills of getting topped, gender-play and gay exploration, whether as fantasy or as real possibility; men are also, I noticed, sometimes seeing straight porn and identifying with the woman. This opens up possibilities and anxieties that ‘porn addiction’ forums seek to close off. If you’re thinking about this stuff at all, they say, you have an addiction that is driving you to seek out ‘extreme’ material, and you need help. Reading this as a queer guy felt like hearing the Kill Bill sirens going off: it’s so clear that any erotic charge towards sex workers of any kind, gay men, trans women, or stigmatised forms of sex are seen as polluting ‘proper’ straight life.

If you read through anti-porn forums and programmes as someone who knows what conversion therapy looks like, you will find its tells in abundance. Heavy emphasis on shaming, while also promising that the programme will provide a way out of that shame; advice that new desires might not go away, but can be ignored and managed; unspoken assumptions that monogamous, cisgender, heterosexual, vanilla sex is the sexual ideal; heavy use of pseudoscience; intimations that the reader is being purposely corrupted by the porn industry or a wider, conspiratorial ‘agenda’. UK Rehab’s page on porn addiction advises that “pornography addiction can lead to changes in sexual tastes, desires and practices […] which can cause huge problems for addicts in relationships. The addict may begin to engage in different forms of sexual experience and expression, which may include risky sexual behaviour […] Even in less extreme cases, as mentioned above repeated exposure to hard-core pornography can lead to changed expectations of partners, which can make attaining a “normal” sex life increasingly difficult”. What is ‘normal’ here? What is ‘risky’? What are the ‘tastes’ in question?”

…

“Women, in particular, are taught that men’s excessive sexual desires are the root of cheating and disloyalty and sexual violence (rather than the misogyny that makes men disregard women’s boundaries, for instance), and that they therefore need to surveil and police their partners’ porn use. This is furthered by the assumption that any desire to use porn at all is a marker of unmanageable sexual vice and voraciousness, which you’ll particularly find in evangelical/religious circles.”

The fact that people will argue in court that this problem that, again, doesn’t exist, is responsible for CSA and other sexual violence and not the structure of society and families encouraging and enabling such…

…

“Most people who think they’re addicted to porn aren’t. What they’re addicted to is policing their own genders and sexualities, hoping that if they just do so a little more successfully, all their personal and relational problems will fall away.”

This seems relevant to the constant discussion about the subject here, especially given the politics of the people who think porn addiction/porn brain/etc is real

[shadowcanine]

NATALIE “SAMANTHA” RUPNOW, AND WHAT WE KNOW.

This post is for informational / educational purposes only, I do not condone her actions. What she did is horrific, but we must learn from it in order to stop it from happening again. If we forget history, it will repeat itself.

Natalie “Samantha” Rupnow is the 15-year old assailant behind the December 16th attack on Abundant Life Christian School in Madison, WI, which left 3 dead (including herself) and 6 injured- 2 of whom are facing life-threatening injuries, but as of today (12/17) seem to be, at the very least, in stable condition.

At 11AM EST, Samantha brought a handgun (believe it was a .9mm) into a mixed grade study hall, and opened fire.

The deceased include a teacher at ALCS, a student, and Samantha herself- though the victims have not been identified yet. In a press conference, the mayor was asked to identify them, and replied with “Why do you really want to know? Leave them be.”

The school, ALCS, has been described by students, locals, and alumni as “extreme.” It’s a Christian school that teaches that evolution isn’t real, and local politicians are hand-picked by God himself. According to current students at the school, bullying is an issue, but it’s not very severe. I recently spoke to one individual who said “Samantha wasn’t bullied. She was quiet, and didn’t fit into any of the friend-groups here, but she wasn’t bullied.” I have proof this individual attends ALCS, but I have no way of actually confirming these specific claims, so take them with a grain of salt.

Samantha was a part of the TCC, even owning a replica of Eric Harris’ “HELL YEAH KMFDM” shirt- the one that he wears in the cafeteria video. Samantha clearly drew inspiration from Columbine, but Sandy Hook may have also been a factor- this year, the anniversary of SH fell on a Saturday. Samantha committed her act the next possible school day.

Her manifesto was posted onto her X, @postalbrained, but it was done on Google Drive- and Samantha did not make the document public. Her account has since been made private by a friend, but Samantha’s boyfriend has released the full 6 page manifesto to an influencer- it can be found on the X account @slatzism . I will not post it here for sake of not wanting to lose my account.

I have very little to say regarding her manifesto- this post isn’t one for my opinions, so I’m trying to keep it factual. Despite reading and re-reading, I cannot figure out a clear motive. She did state that suicide without taking anyone with her would be “a waste”- which may be a reference to the Zero Day (2003) scene, in which Calvin Gabriel says.. basically the same thing. This isn’t confirmed, but it would make sense, as she liked a lot of Zero Day content on Tumblr.

As far as her family goes, Samantha claims she didn’t have a good relationship with either parent, describing her father as “verbally abusive” and sharing a memory in her manifesto in which her mother ignored Samantha’s crying, because her mother would rather “spend time with her boyfriend.”

A lot isn’t known, so this post isn’t very long- and I will be updating it as I discover more, but while I have your attention, I’d like to clear up some misinformation:

- Samantha Rupnow, 15, and her boyfriend, 17- are both cisgender. Samantha is not trans, and never was- anybody who tells you differently is trying to push an agenda.

- Samantha was not a misandrist or radfem. This comes from an alleged “segment of her manifesto” that was leaked, but the photo has been proven to have zero correlation to Samantha. If anything, she was incredibly misogynistic, dedicating an entire section of her manifesto to slut shame women.

Here are all confirmed photos of Samantha Rupnow:

* note that the first photo includes her edited photo (left) as well as the original photo (right)

[reasonsforhope]

"It was widely described as the week that India’s beleaguered democracy was pulled back from the brink. As the election results rolled in on Tuesday [June 4, 2024], all predictions and polls were defied as Narendra Modi lost his outright majority for the first time in a decade while the opposition re-emerged as a legitimate political force. On Sunday evening, Modi will be sworn in as prime minister yet many believe his power and mandate stands diminished.

For one opposition politician in particular, the humbling of the strongman prime minister was a moment to savour. Late last year, Mahua Moitra, one of the most outspoken critics of Modi and his Bharatiya Janata party (BJP), found herself unceremoniously expelled from parliament and kicked out of her bungalow, after what she described as a “political witch-hunt” for daring to stand up to Modi.

The murky and allegedly undemocratic circumstances of Moitra’s expulsion from parliament was seen by many to symbolise Modi’s approach to dissenting voices and the steady erosion of India’s democracy. She was among several vocal opposition politicians who were subjected to investigations by government crime agencies.

But having won a landslide re-election in her home state of West Bengal, Moitra will return once again to parliament, part of the newly empowered opposition coalition. “I can’t wait,” said Moitra. “They went to egregious lengths to discredit and destroy me and abused every process to do it. If I had gone down, it would have meant that brute force had triumphed over democracy.”

While he may be returning for a historic third term, many have portrayed the results as something of a defeat for Modi, who has had to rely on coalition partners to form a government. The BJP’s campaign had been solely centred around him – even the manifesto was titled “Modi’s guarantee” – and in many constituencies, local BJP candidates often played second fiddle to the prime minister, who loomed large over almost every seat. He told one interviewer he believed his mandate to rule was given directly by God.

“Modi’s aura was invincibility, that the BJP could not win elections without him,” said Moitra. “But the people of India didn’t give him a simple majority. They were voting against authoritarianism and they were voting against fascism. This was an overwhelming, resounding anti-Modi vote.”

During his past decade in power, Modi and the BJP enjoyed a powerful outright majority and oversaw an unprecedented concentration of power under the prime minister’s office, where key decisions were widely known to be made by a select few.

The Modi government was accused of imposing various authoritarian measures, including the harassment and arrest of critics under terrorism laws, while the country tumbled in global democracy and press freedom rankings. Modi never faced a press conference or any committee of accountability for the often divisive actions of his government. Politicians regularly complained that parliament was simply reduced to a rubber-stamping role for the BJP’s Hindu-first agenda.

Yet on Tuesday [June 40, it became clear that the more than 25 opposition parties, united as a coalition under the acronym INDIA, had inflicted substantial losses on the BJP to take away its simple majority. Analysts said the opposition’s performance was all the more remarkable given that the BJP stands accused of subverting and manipulating the election commission, as well as putting key opposition leaders behind bars and far outspending all other parties on its campaign. The BJP has denied any attempts to skew the election in its favour.

“This election proved that the voter is still the ultimate king,” said Moitra. “Modi was so shameless, yet despite them using every tool they had to engineer this election to their advantage, our democracy fought back.”

Moitra said she was confident it was “the end of Mr Modi’s autocratic way of ruling”. Several of the parties in the BJP’s alliance who he is relying on for a parliamentary majority and who will sit in Modi’s cabinet do not share his Hindu nationalist ideology...

Moitra was not alone in describing this week’s election as a reprieve for the troubling trajectory of India’s democracy. Columns heralding that the “mirror has cracked” and the “idea of India is reborn” were plastered across the country’s biggest newspapers, and editorials spoke of the end of “supremo syndrome”. “The bulldozer now has brakes,” wrote the Deccan Chronicle newspaper. “And once a bulldozer has brakes, it becomes just a lawnmower.” ...

“This was not a normal election, it was clearly an unfair and unlevel playing field,” said Yadav. “But still, there is now a hope and a possibility that the authoritarian element could be reversed.”

Harsh Mander, one of India’s most prominent human rights and peace activists who is facing numerous criminal investigations for his work, called the election the “most important in India’s post independence history”, adding: “The resilience of Indian democracy has proved to be spectacular.”

He said it was encouraging that an “intoxication of majoritarian hate politics” had not ultimately shaped the outcome, referring to Modi’s apparent attempts to stir up religious animosity on the campaign trail as he referred to Muslims as “infiltrators” and “those who have more children”.

“The past decade has seen the freedom of religion and the freedom of conscience and dissent taken away,” said Mander. “If this election had gone fully the BJP way, then India would not remain a constitutional secular democracy.”"

-via The Guardian, June 9, 2024

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy woodpanelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and amused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.