#and nobody would willingly deliver there

[drifloonz]

Hiiiii hiiii love your Steven posts (chefs kiss) wonderful characterization of the world’s most mentally ill man lmao. But I’m sooo curious on how he would get to the point of dating someone cause that man doesn’t leave his worn down house so he ain’t meeting someone hallmark style. No rush to answer this!

thank you!!1 awuahghrh. but to answer ur question

i had an ask exactly like this but it was one that got sent to Draft Hell bc tumblr refused to save the draft and like. killed all of my writing for it and i lost motivation to complete it entirely ( it was like an Actual writing/headcanon mix too ). So this wont be a request but the extremely short and simple of it is:

thunderstorm. run in the forest near route 1 out of panic and need for cover from the rain. Go in house that you think is abandoned. Steven Event ( but hes out of his manic s!3v3n era so he just kind of stares at you and then things happen. what things depends on who u r and how youd int w him obviously but unless you piss him off he'd let you stay i imagine itd just be very awkward. )

this is also how i started my oc/canon w him that i have .. it is deeply self indulgent . mocha ( my oc ) made that man food as an apology ( and he makes fucking amazing food god bless ) and then they just kind of naturally went from there and he kept visiting bc he thought steven would want someone to check up on him at least since he has Nothing else.

in any x reader or dating situation i think if you kept visiting him bc he obviously gives off the energy that hes very alone and isolated 24/7 thats mostly how itd start .

[pickingupmymercedes]

Boy from Stevenage - Lewis Hamilton

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

warnings: none, tooth rooting fluff, Lewis being vulnerable

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Felt like fluff was due, so totally self-indulgent nonsense I wrote after hearing bits of his speach for his GQ Awards.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

You leaned against the doorway as Lewis moved restlessly across the room, his brow furrowed with concentration. A braid kept falling into his face, and he kept tucking it behind his ear. He muttered to the reflection in the mirror, his expression serious as he practiced his speech for the GQ Awards ceremony, rehearsing it with the same intensity he would study race tracks.

A smile tugged at your lips. It was endearing, this nervous energy that usually only manifested before a race, and that so few got to see, filling the master bathroom of his NYC apartment. Tonight, however, the only race was against his stubborn desire to perfectly deliver his message.

When he finally sighed in frustration, you decided to fully enter the room. He caught your reflection in the mirror, and his face softened, the tension momentarily lessened.

"Hey," you tilted your head, offering a small smile.

He straightened, taking a deep breath. "Hi. How long have you been there?"

You shrugged, reaching for the fingers that gripped the marble. "A minute or two. Just… watching the master at work."

He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "More like a nervous wreck."

He gestured vaguely to the crumpled paper clutched in his hand. "Do you think it's alright? I don't want to sound… pompous."

You reached out for him, turning his face to look him in the eye, your fingers smoothing the worry lines on his brow with your thumb. "Lewis," you started, your voice soft. "Nobody's going to think you're pompous. They're going to be captivated."

His eyes, the warm brown that stole your breath every time, met yours with a glint of nervousness. "You really think so?"

A soft smile and chuckle spread through your features. It was a challenge, putting your admiration for him into words. You weren’t one for grand gestures or over-the-top declarations. It was in the quiet moments, the shared understanding, the unspoken language that existed only between the two of you that you showed him how much he meant to you.

"They'll all be in love with you," you finally said, a loving spark in your eyes. "Just like I am."

He chuckled, a hint of relief washing over him. "Smooth, (Y/N)."

You took his hand, gently pulling him away from the mirror. "Come on," you said, urging him towards the plush armchair in the bedroom nestled by the window. "Let's forget about speeches for a while."

He followed willingly, sinking into the chair with a sigh as he dragged you down with him. You settled on his lap, pulling your legs comfortably on top of his on the stool. The city lights became a shimmering backdrop to your comfortable silence.

"I’m really proud of you," your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers danced on his chest and he looked out the window.

His hand automatically sought yours. You squeezed gently. "More than you can imagine," you admitted.

"Sometimes it all feels a bit overwhelming," he confessed, his voice raw. "The platform, the attention, the expectation to be a voice for everything."

"You don't have to be a voice for everything, though," you countered, your voice firm as he locked his gaze on your intertwined fingers. "But what you do choose to speak up about… that's what makes me so proud."

He looked at you, his eyes searching your face. "Even the stuff that makes some people uncomfortable?"

You let out a proud smile and a knowing giggle. "Especially those. You use your platform to speak when others won’t."

He squeezed your hand, gratitude evident in his tone and his eyes. "Maybe you should be writing the speeches after all."

You laughed, a soft sound that filled the room. "You just need to be reminded that you're Lewis Hamilton, not a nervous rookie on his first podium."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, his arms embracing you as he turned his head, placing a soft kiss on your temple. "Thank you, love. But we really need to get going," he whispered, just before he picked you up and put you back down on the armchair, heading back to the bathroom.

As Lewis got in the shower, you couldn't help but steal a glance at the crumpled speech in his hand. You knew he wasn't one to brag about his achievements, but a part of you yearned to understand the weight of the words he was struggling with.

Carefully, you reached out and picked up the paper. It was filled with Lewis's handwriting, edits scrawled across some lines. You scanned the opening, your heart swelling. It wasn't about self-praise or glorifying his victories. It was a heartfelt dedication to the countless individuals who had supported him on his journey, from his early days karting in Stevenage until now.

He spoke of his family, the unwavering pillar behind him, their sacrifices paving the way for his dreams. He mentioned his mentors and heroes, those who had nurtured his talent and those who had inspired him to push to be his best. He even acknowledged his rivals, the competitors that had honed his skills and fueled his relentless pursuit of excellence.

But then, there was a section that was heavily underlined, a paragraph riddled with question marks and crossed-out phrases. It was about the kids that he hoped to have inspired.

He wrote about the grounding effect they had on his own path. He spoke of how he, too, was an impressionable young boy, wishing for something greater.

You knew sometimes Lewis struggled to express his emotions openly, yet here he was, trying to articulate the depth of what it meant to him to be put on the same pedestal as his heroes.

It was the written proof of how much this award, how much this entire platform, meant to him – a chance to not just be Lewis Hamilton, the champion, but Lewis, the boy who had aimed for the stars and received the moon as a gift.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. You pictured the faces in the opulent ballroom, expecting a typical self-congratulatory speech from the motorsport legend. The surprise on their faces when Lewis poured his heart out, his voice thick with a vulnerability they wouldn't have anticipated, would be priceless.

He may be a titan on the racetrack, but here, in the quiet intimacy of the apartment, he was simply Lewis, the man who might fumble with expressing his emotions but whose actions spoke volumes.

As you two rode in the backseat towards the gala, the city lights morphing into a mesmerizing dance of colors, you snuggled closer to Lewis, his steady breathing a comforting rhythm.

"Hey," you whispered, tracing a finger across the back of his hand.

He jolted out of his thoughts, his eyes looking for yours. "Hmm?"

"You know," you began, searching for the right words, "you don't need to win over that entire room tonight. You just need to make that brave boy from Stevenage proud."

______________________________________________________________

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[draconic-desire]

THE NAIVE DARLINGGGG

I can imagine darling crying into Sunday.. at first refusing going to home, expressing her insecurities. So when Sunday drags her back, she just pleads with Sunday. All darling wants to to serve at least some purpose to Sundays life. She begs Sunday to let her cook for him .. or in her sobbing fit shr muttered how even having Sundays baby would serve some usefullness.. Darling didnt want to seem like a burden to Sunday..

At the mention of babies, Sunday gets the idea of how sweet little children will tie darling to him forever

The baby will come out a lil skrunkly , in a cite way of course <3 a fat plump baby who looks like a dumpling with chicken wings attached to the back of its ear :"(

sunday would 1000% babytrap his darling at some point, you cannot convince me otherwise. but if YOU came to HIM about it? girl bye you’re done for

Yan!Sunday x Fem!Reader

warning: nsfw thoughts from sunday, mentions of pregnancy

After Sunday leads you back home, it doesn’t take long for your thoughts to spiral again.

Walking through the halls of the spacious pavilion, eying the grandeur that is Sunday’s home, pondering his status as the head of the Family…you start to wonder what you bring to the table.

He claims he loves you, that you are unique and irreplaceable, but what does that really mean? You have no money, wealth, or fame, no notable skills that could contribute to the Oak Family lineage.

Well, except…

Your hand falls to your abdomen. It’s something Sunday has mentioned in passing, the need for an heir, the desire to expand his family, but you never thought he meant doing so with you. But perhaps…?

Your head shakes violently, and you turn to wipe away a stray tear. How foolish of you. Sunday doesn’t keep you around for that sort of thing. His hier will be delivered from a queen, befitting of the same status as him, and not some nobody like you.

Like always, Sunday is more attentive than you give him credit for.

He thinks it’s cute, how naive and oblivious you are sometimes. Except when he notices that this time, you are attempting to hide your crying behind the palm on your hand.

“(Y/n), my love, what troubles you?” He gently pulls your hand away from your face and instead turns you to face him.

Seeing him like this, his tender gaze trained on your form alone, suddenly makes you burst into tears.

“S-S-Sunday,” you sob, “please let me help! I’ll do anything!”

He blinks, confusion written across his features. “Help? With what? (Y/n), it’s been a long day, let me take you to bed—”

You clasp his hands in your own, looking up at him with (e/c) eyes brimming with tears. “Please, don’t throw me aside for someone else. I-I promise I’m not a burden. You need an heir, right? So please, let me carry that responsibility.”

He inhales sharply, his amethyst pupils dilating.

…Did he hear you correctly?

You want to have his child?

Sunday momentarily forgets how to breathe.

Oh, how he has fantasized about this very scenario; it has taken all of his willpower to hold back, to fool you into believing his charming, domestic mannerisms, when he truly wishes to claim every part of you, to brand himself upon every inch of your flesh. Lovely, beautiful, naive little you would never expect the dark desires hidden beneath the surface.

In reality, the thought of you begging for his seed permeates his waking and sleeping dreams. He’s lost track of the amount of nights spent with his hand around his cock, picturing your tight cunt wrapped around it instead.

Never would he have imagined you in this position willingly, practically on your knees for him, desperate for his cum, for his child growing in your belly. The idea arouses him more than you can ever know, and he has to shift to hide his growing erection.

Instead, he scoops you into his arms and nuzzles his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent. Oh, how lovely you’re going to smell when you’re glowing and round with his heir! He imagines how adorable his Halovian child will be, and how he wishes to pin a pair of wings behind your ears as well—a matching set for father, mother, and child.

The wings are, of course, the very ones ripped from your own back—you’re just too entranced by Sunday to notice it was he who plucked them from you to begin with.

And now, Sunday is through with holding back. You’re going to be fully and irrevocably his, tied to him forever. Like a fly landing on a venus trap, your own actions seal your fate. You don’t have a moment to react before the jaws of the predator swallow you whole.

“How could I deny you, my angel?” he coos, pacing towards the bedroom as he begins to pry at the buttons of your top. “And what better time to begin than the present, hm?”

[cubffections]

( ꣑꣒ ) 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐖𝐎 — scaramouche.

𑄸 ₊ ࣪ ㅤ cw. nsfw ( 18 + ) afab, sub! reader. oral. subtle body worship, occ ? obsessive scara, dubcon somnophilia, orgasm denial, ( scara ) song and world building credits to VIVINOS ! ♥︎

the mechanical thrumming of the platform muffled the obnoxious roaring stadium that scaramouche rose into, a crowd that was still high off the thrill that was the last round.

as scaramouche stood beside his blurred-face opponent gripping the fretboard of his guitar as he faced the crowd blankly, not fazed nor moved by the loud cheers of impatience that surrounded the stage.

his empty void he called a heart already knew what it craved, and it was sitting backstage brokenhearted and miserable.

he raised his guitar pick up into the stars before strumming the guitar’s frets once, effectively silencing the stadium and scaring the nobody of an opponent that stood next to him. not missing a beat, he walked up the stage and played the chords that only he knew. If these monsters wanted a show, he'd make sure to show them one.

( c’mon! ) the instrumental's backtrack rallied, the yells of the aliens soon resonating through the crowds. he wondered if these flashing blue and white lights showcased the disgust he had for them. he turned to check on you once again, his heart twisting to see you still hunched over and sobbing your eyes out. an expression he never thought he’d see on your once bright and vibrant face. scaramouche glared at you as he glanced back at the crowd to deliver his verse.

nothing was my everything. the melody that filled the empty me, it’s you, alright.

( my feelings are error : no better options. )

he couldn't remember when these longing feelings for you started, he just knew that every time you gave him that cheerful, carefree smile those same feelings would immediately fester and inflate his desolate heart. leaving it restless and yearning for your attention.

he could count the number of times he watched you from afar. behind bushes, behind trees, behind the garden’s tall leaves, scaramouche hid away just to watch you— no, admire you to an obsessive extent. unlike you, he was labeled the class’s problem child, always held inside solitary confinement due to his rash nature. it soon became something that he held as a badge of honor whenever he saw how incredibly brainwashed the rest of his kind was. like seriously? willingly being a pet human? sing and bring glory on stage to the great anakt? what a load of bullshit.

he wishes he could say he would rather die than do any of that, but then again— dying would mean separation from the only good thing that was brought into his life, which was you.

deep down he knows you’d never look at him, too busy looking at the one you’d declared your beloved universe. but with the fact that the one that had held that title had just perished on stage, scaramouche couldn't help but entertain the idea of taking his place.

a shaking paradigm, i don't care if my world turns upside down. i wanna know all about you.

( no more taking it slow, the edelweiss of my feelings that blossomed because of you. you’ll never know. )

“i don't wanna stop.” scaramouche sang out, his violet hair hiding his eyes as his fingers danced between the frets of his guitar as his voice echoed throughout the stadium. oddly enough, his mind still wouldn't entertain the thought of anything else but you. was losing him such a big deal? would it be so selfish if he asked you to move on right away?

and even if it was, why let that hold you back?

he could take such good care of you, help you forget all about what had happened, if only you looked at him. why won’t you? even as he was screaming into the microphone like this you still sat over to the side, crestfallen.

don't even think this time’s enough, cause you baby still it’s not enough for me, alright

( don't leave me, la li da da da .. )

his mind couldn't help but wander. soon he was no longer on stage, but besides your soft snoring sleeping figure as you laid in nothing but his baggy shirt. your face serene and void of any sadness as you clinged beside him.

“you awake?” he’d coo into your ear, scaramouche’s hands already traveling themselves up your bare tummy with love struck eyes. massaging your nipples slowly in circular motions before latching his lips onto them through your shirt, his hands moving downward to grip your hips and steady himself.

his eyes would watch your adorable sleeping face scrunch and wince slowly as your back curved against his mattress. "what a sensitive baby. i could give you so much more, just wake up wouldn't you." he'd mumur, brushing his lips against yours while his cock would stir at the soft drowsy whines and mewls that leave your soft lips.

"those cute noises can't save you." the guitarist sighed, detaching from your now perky nips and kissing down your thigh and leaving darkened hungry marks on your skin. scaramouche nibbled and licked the inside of your thighs possessively but adoringly, worshiping you silently.

as he laid into the crook of your thighs, you would soon feel his firm grip the squeeze into the flesh and push them apart to adorn you clothed clit with clumsy kisses. his bruised fingers sinking into your delicate skin as he pulled even closer, only guided by his inexperienced need to pleasure you. even if the smell of your dripping cunt made his cock yearn to sink himself into you, he could never prioritize his pleasure over yours. even if his poor dick has to twitch and throb in restraint, you squirting all over his face could happily send him into the afterlife.

"basically dripping into my mouth, have you no shame baby? shit." scaramouche groaned, pressing his nose into your heat with a obsessive glint in his eye.

after urgently tugging off your soaked panties and stuffing them into his pocket, scaramouche would sit you down on his face as his tongue played with your cunt sloppily. your half awake sluggishness wouldn't be able to keep up to his insatiable pace, rendering you weak and defenseless against his onslaught as his stiffened cock's pleads only being sated by desperate thrusts against the mattress. regardless, it'd be sheer bliss... well until you'll fully wake up, calling the name of the another man.

cause baby still is not enough, how dare you think this time's enough?

ain't nobody but you're the one i'm feeling, it's love.

scaramouche's jaw ticked as he sang out those last lyrics, ultimately ruining the dream-like escape his mind had made for him. as he played the last few chords with nothing but you in his mind, his stayed eyes shut as the points behind him calculated solely for him.

it isn't until he hears a desperate singing attempt from shit-brained moron behind him, that he snaps. immeadiately raising his guitar and crashing into his opponent's head with no remorse, causing the crowd's cheers to dissipate into confused gasps and concern all over, clutching their pet-humans beside them even closer.

even when the marching footsteps of the of the alien soldiers surrounded the stage and the jumbotrons brodcasted his win to the masses, a crazy smile stayed plastered on his face. cause all he could see was your shocked tearstained face finally looking towards him.

a mad laugh left him as the soliders apprehended him with a strong headslam against the cold bloodstained stage, his vision went spinning and slowly going black as his grinning lips mouthed a simple one word.

"overdose."

[uc1wa]

my song rec of the fic

tags: soft baby jason

at last, the day you had dreaded every week had finally come once more. the day pronouncing the beginning of the week filled with classes, exams, homework, and actual work. the day that would sometimes consist of meal prep, if you were caught in a better mood than usual, and the day that your sweet boyfriend, jason todd, had patrol, just as every other weekend went.

today, though, you rolled over in bed—and while nobody was there, the spot that your lover laid was strangely warmer that you’d expected. your eyes glaze over to your alarm clock which reads that it’s ten o’clock in the morning.

jason had never told you that he was leaving for work later than usual, so your brain is up and running at a faster pace than it should be for just gaining consciousness. he was never late, nor did he ever miss when he was needed.

throwing a pair of sweatpants on, you open and creep around your bedroom door to the kitchen. a scent of breakfast and coffee flooding your senses immediately, and you’re already smiling wide.

"good morning, princess," jason smiles, one hand on a pan, the other outreached for you to close the space between the two of you.

"why didn’t you tell me you were off?" you ask while making your way to your boyfriends side, wrapping both arms around his abdomen while his pulls you close to his warmth. gratefulness enveloping both of your bodies in the form of a tight embrace.

he was wearing a plain white tank top, the ones he always wore to sleep and under his vigilante uniform, and a pair of basketball shorts that were comically long, even for his tall stature.

"wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed," he smiles, "didn’t cook fast enough to reach the bed part," he laughs a sweet and gentle laugh, one that fills your chest with warmth.

you shake your head as you close your eyes, breathing in the mixture of scents that is the breakfast being cooked in front of you and the natural smell that’s always glued to the man beside you. it was comforting, woodsy, but not overwhelmingly so.

jason’s plating the last of the pancakes he had made beside the plates of already cooked bacon, sausage, and eggs. "i don’t have to go in at all today," jason smiles, grabbing two plates for the two of you, and beginning to give you a portion of everything he’s cooked while you rest your back against the counter, watching him.

"so it’s just me and you, pretty lady," he assures, grabbing a handful of the berries he had washed, piling them on top of your pancakes in no special fashion.

despite jason’s schedule that is only fit for a vigilante, he was the best boyfriend. even when the man had patrols for hours that would go in the double digits, he was checking in on you. he’d text, and sometimes call when he’d get the chance to ask what you had for dinner, always making sure he said goodnight before it hit the later hours in the night. and, he’s still come home to you, whispering a soft, "i love you, gem, goodnight," before wrapping an arm around you and sleeping in the bliss that was the warmth you both shared.

if he knew you had a busy day, he was bringing lunch to wherever you were in the city you lived, writing 'from jason' even though he was hand delivering it to you with a sweet kiss on the cheek apart of the package.

he was always showing you off at galas that his father was making him go to, struggling to find the silver lining that ended up always being able to see you in a pretty dress, hands interlocked as he was forced to greet those who walked in the door.

jason gave the care to you that you gave to him when you had met. when he was heartless and could care less about having a significant other, when you showed him that loving somebody wasn’t all that bad, and that somewhere in him, he had the ability to love back.

and you gave the care to him that he had grown up without knowing, excluding when he was taken in by bruce, of course. the care that only somebody who willingly chose to be in his life, would care to give.

"i vouche for staying in pajamas all day," you smile, as he sets the plate down in front of you, both of you taking your spots on the sofa that was in front of your coffee table. "you read my mind," he grins, beginning to eat alongside you.

once your stomachs were full and plates cleared, you both laid back on the sofa, jason’s arm wrapped around your shoulders while your body burrowed into his side, a movie that you both had picked playing on the television in front of you.

"i wish we could have weekends together more," jason frowns at that, making sure that you don’t see the way his lips changed by continuing to look up at the tv screen. "i do too," he says, hint of sadness in his voice.

redirecting his emotions to now, jason’s bringing a calloused hand to your chin, his touch gently tilting your eyes to meet his. "we have all of today, and we’re gonna spend it being lazy and eating, okay?" he says with a small laugh which instantly pulls your lips upwards, leaning in to press a kiss to his.

and just as promised, you and jason filled the day with movies that filled your list, homemade cookies that gave your shared home a cozy smell, and kisses pressed all over one another.

[mslanna]

Can I ask for Raphael having a 'Wait, why am I jealous?' realization of his romantic feelings for Tav? (For the record, Tav is romantically interested in him, too, because I can't handle angst right now 🥲)

Ask and you shall receive. 🥰

Served Cold

(Served Cold on AO3) enby Tav without body configuration cold and comfort hot devil is hot Karlach cameo

Conquering all nine hells was a lot of work for one devil. Even with his armies and followers, Raphael had few subordinates he trusted. So asking Tav to join had been only logical. After all, they had delivered the Crown of Karsus to him willingly.

He had been right, too, as Tav greed easily to his request. They helped him conquer the hells and he, well, there was a certain uncertainty about his part of the deal. Just make sure I don't die seemed like a sensible request. It was not much of a prize, though. The exchange seemed barely equal.

But he wouldn't look a gift Tav in the mouth. It was also to be expected that Tav would enlist the help of their friends. The tiefling should not have been a surprise, especially since she could not return to the material plane with her hellfire heart.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his human to get the job done, despite the biting cold of Cania and the wide icy plains. But this was his father's domain. Mephistopheles knew he was coming for him and his security was increased.

Tav was smart for taking the circumspect route to his palace even if that meant several weeks of trekking through the cold. The entrance wasn't secret as much as unexpected. A place as big as Mephistopheles court had a whole system of venues to accept or remove wares and services. A place as old as his father's had also gone through several system changes. Dead ends happened.

And Tav knew how to talk to servants and debtors. As a paladin they exuded and air of trustworthiness. The time they spent undercover in his father's realm had not gone by easily. Raphael had worried every day. So much of his plans rested on Tav's success.

But they succeed as he knew they would. Tav was reliable, more so than many of his subordinates. Subordinates who were making a lot of noise under the command of Yurgir right now. Mainly to keep Mephistopheles attention on them and allow the small group to slip in through a discarded and ignored back entrance that should have been decommissioned and closed centuries ago.

Raphael considered standing with the armies. But the prospect of seeing the expression on his father's face when he turned up in the centre of his secure home was a strong argument for travelling with Tav.

He was accustomed to the burning cold of Cania. The storms of blade-like winds and freezing snow were inconvenient but manageable. The tiefling was doing fine with her hellfire heart as well. It kept her warm under the layers upon layers of clothes.

Tav on the other hand suffered miserably. It didn't matter how many layers they put on, the result was a shivering heap of furs that moved slowly through the cold landscape. The view was pitiful, but Tav didn't complain once. Their dedication to his cause was admirable. And when nobody watched, not even his own inner devil, Raphael allowed himself to admire them.

Not now, of course, as the human sat huddled up like a shrimp at the small fire. They shook violently and stuck their hands almost into the flames. If he didn't know better, Raphael would have thought them a blemish, worth no note. His thought were of a very different nature though.

There had to be a way to help Tav. It was not the most devil-like thought but it was well founded. Tav was a valuable asset, a tool well worth protecting. It was only natural that he considered his options to keep them at peak performance.

The problem was how to get warmth to his mouse without attracting attention. A bigger fire was out of the question. That left very limited options. But, for the success of his campaign, he was willing to make sacrifices. Even personal ones.

He was still mulling over the best way to phrase his idea so it would not appear to be personal, when Karlach moved. She rounded the fire and came to sit next to Tav, worry engraved on her face.

"You'll catch your death, soldier." The tiefling nudged Tav who moved towards her unthinking. Drawn to the warmth, no doubt. "Yeah, that's more like it. Gods, you're cold."

Despite her words, Karlach wrapped Tav into their cloak. And his little mouse, leant into it. Raphael took a deep breath. The way Tav softened and their body slowly ceased to shudder. It was a good thing. There was no reason for him to be mad about it.

Yet the anger simmered in his stomach, bitter and bubbling. That had been his offer to make. A sacrifice for the greater good. Yet the tiefling offered it as if it was nothing, a small act of friendship and care. He should be grateful for that. His dignity stayed intact.

But his dignity was not rumbling dangerously low in his chest. To think that it could have been his arm around Tav's shoulders, his arm they leant against, grateful and content. The fury surprised him, as did the pain. What did it matter who kept Tav warm?

But it did matter, and it mattered that it wasn't him. Raphael carefully avoided putting a name on the rage. The last thing he needed now was complications. The fight against his father was difficult enough without worrying – uselessly – about one fragile mortal.

It was not worry he felt, looking at Tav who dozed off in the sudden warmth. Trenches dug by the cold over the last days softened. Their mouth relaxed and opened slightly. They looked at peace. Peace he should be giving them.

"If it proves too much of a strain on your infernal engine, let me know." Raphael was proud of the nonchalance of his tone. "I am willing to carry my share of the burden."

"Tav is never a burden." Despite her cheery tone, the threat in Karlach's voice was clear. "And I'd rather freeze to death with them than burden you with them."

Raphael sat back. "If this is how you treat offers of help-"

"If you want to offer help, offer help. Don’t style yourself as a martyr for the most minuscule act of decency."

Looking at his little mouse – eyes closed, breath soft and regular – Raphael wondered if they were indeed asleep. What would Tav think, listening in on this conversation? And what did it matter to him? He was a devil! He did not care what mortals though of him.

Except for Tav.

The realisation was uncomfortable and unwanted. It was true nevertheless.

"Don't mind him," Tav murmured, adjusting their position against the tiefling. "He's just jealous."

Jealous. The word stunned Raphael. He was not jealous. He was a devil! He stared at the lips that uttered such blasphemy. Lips that were once again of a soft pink instead of pale blue. He had a pretty good idea what he'd like to do to them, traitorous, insolent lips.

Unfortunately, his ideas supported Tav's claim. Ridiculous. They were an asset. A tool for his victory. Nothing more.

Yet.

"Well." Karlach pulled Tav closer. "Even jealous devils have to behave themselves. Maybe a 'please' wouldn't go amiss."

"If you think I will beg, you are severely mistaken," Raphael huffed and folded his wings closer around him.

"Do as you please. But I don't think Tav is a burden and I know how it feels to have them breathe down my skin when they sleep – and drool a little." The tiefling dropped a sloppy kiss onto Tav's forehead.

"Devils are not to be drooled upon."

"I'm sure you can make them lick it off again." The tiefling delighted in teasing him.

Still Raphael could not deny the appeal of the vision her words conjured. "Oh, hand them over already." He gestured impatiently.

To his surprise the tiefling actually obeyed. "You know I will kill you, if you hurt them," she smiled as she draped the mortal against his side.

Raphael snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"I don't," Tav murmured and turned to press their face into his arm.

A surprisingly efficient argument. Raphael dragged his little mouse into a comfortable position, resting their head against his chest and wrapping them both in his wings. At least tiefling couldn't see his face any longer that way.

"You are mine," he murmured into Tav's rear. "Mine alone and don't you forget it."

"Jealous," they replied sleepy, but with a smile touching their lips. "I like it."

Raphael growled and dropped kiss onto their head as he had seen Karlach do. What an insolent little creature he held. It would be impossible to pry them from his grip.

[xxlady-lunaxx]

i do this thing where I randomly hyperfocus on one character or ship and obsess over them for a bit before moving on (sometimes i don't move on but whatever) and right now it's shinobu... so!! lil tw btw

Sanemi was worried. He had been keeping an eye on Shinobu ever since Kanae's death. The change in her was very easily noticeable but not out of the question—people delt with grief in such a large abundance of ways that almost any reaction was reasonable—so when she abruptly changed her personality entirely, he didn't pay too close attention to it. It was concerning, of course, especially when he realized it seemed to be a mirror image of Kanae's. But he let her be, not wanting to press her or make her feel any more overwhelmed than she must be. She would go back to how she'd been before eventually, right? The feisty, impulsive girl she used to be.

But she didn't. And even then, this wasn't what worried Sanemi. She could take her time dealing with everything. She had a huge responsibility on her shoulders as a Hashira and a nurse, and so much more, so if she kept up like this Sanemi couldn't really judge. What did worry him was what she had told the Hashira one day. She had stopped them from leaving after one of their biannual meetings, though she didn't include Giyuu, and told them her plan. It was, all an all, a horrible plan.

Okay, no. It had merit. But it was suicide. Willingly giving her own life up—knowing full well that it might not work, that her sacrifice could be in vain? Sure, the Hashira basically did this every day. Every Demon Slayer did. But fuck. What was she doing?—mixing poison into her blood? What the fuck?

And the fact that nobody could really stop her at this point. She told them that it had been nearly a year since she'd begun the process. She told them to not even try stopping her—because she was set on this decision, because she would not let over a year's worth of planning go down the drain, because this was already a matter of life or death and there was no room for hesitation anymore.

Nobody liked it. Not Sanemi, not Gyomei, not Mitsuri, not anyone. Even Muichiro seemed mildly in touch with reality, gazing at her uncertainly. He didn't speak, but his unease was clear. Some of the Hashira tried reasoning with her—Mitsuri tried the tactic of mentioning Kanao, Obanai asked what would happen if she died beforehand, and so on—but their arguments were met with a wall, falling flat to the floor. She would not budge. Sanemi, however, kept quiet. Of course, he had lashed out immediately after the words "I'm going to let Uppermoon two eat me" had been delivered, but then had stood back, watching.

He noticed how tense Shinobu was. She probably hadn't planned on sharing the strategy she had devised, no doubt she'd figured she'd do it alone. But with a war creeping so closely at their heels, she wanted to enlighten them. Or maybe prevent them from going after her prey.

After Shinobu shot down the last bits of objections to her plan, the Hashira slowly filed away, drained by this meeting. Sanemi pulled Shinobu aside as the last of them left. She raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms.

"Come to lecture me?" she asked, clear irritation written in her tone. For a moment, he reveled in her anger, glad to see her mildly like her old self. Then he went back to the point.

"Basically."

"Listen, I'm not going to change my mind. I already thought this through a dozen times per day for over a year—you really can't stop me at this point," she said, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

Sanemi's lips tugged into a frown. "What about Kanae?"

"What?" She stared at him for a moment, blinking.

"Kanae. What about Kanae?" he repeated patiently.

She appeared confused, momentarily. But then her expression contorted, mirroring his frown and she glowered up at him. "What about her?"

"She wouldn't like this. She wouldn't want you to do it. For her, or for yourself," Sanemi said slowly, as if speaking to a child. Because fuck, maybe she was a child! She was only 19, she had no right to be throwing herself into death's arms simply to avenge her sister.

"Speak for yourself," she scoffed, though she averted her eyes, one hand tightening on her upper arm. "Whether she wants me to do this or not, I'm going to go ahead and continue. Why do you even care?"

He gave her an incredulous look, though she still wouldn't meet his eye. "You're basically my sister, at this point. Like it or not, I'm going to look after you."

"Well there's no need!" she snapped, turning to glare at him, amethyst eyes flaring. "I'm an adult, I can care for myself, I can make my own decisions. Stop treading on glass around me as if I'm still a child—because I'm not! I never asked for your help!"

Her fury made Sanemi take a step back, eyes dilating by a fraction. He scowled. "I can't let you do this. It's not even just about Kanae. I couldn't let you just skip off and-"

"You don't get it! It is about Kanae! It's only ever been about her! That demon—that son of a bitch!—absolutely wrecked every-fucking-thing! Your protection isn't anything I asked for. I'm doing this for Kanae!" Shinobu snapped, stepping forward and tilting herself up on her tiptoes. Her finger was jabbed into his chest, pressing hard.

"And what—I'm not? I don't care if you want to avenge her, do that! But not like this! Not in a way that completely guarantees death! Stop sounding like a suicidal maniac, this is insane! Deliberately feeding yourself off to some crazed demon?? Who's to say this will even work? Who's to say you won't die from the poison yourself? This is idiotic, you can't do this!" Sanemi's voice was growing in a crescendo. He didn't mean it, but she was being enfuriating! What the fuck was going on in her mind?!

Shinobu's eyes narrowed. "What do you take me for? Some dumbass who saunters into battle like it's a ball? No! I'm not some ditzy little girl in need of a big strong man to swoop in and save me—I never was. I thought about this. I did my research. I'll say it now, and you can't change the fact that I'm not going to do anything else. Like it or not—I'm doing this. I'm fucking doing it," she said firmly.

They glared at each other for a long second before Shinobu huffed and turned away, marching out of the Ubuyashiki Estate garden. Sanemi stood there as a turmoil of emotions swept through him. He swore under his breath, running an angry hand through his hair and stomping out after her.

Fuck.

i got carried away 💀 i had no plan so idk what i just wrote

[invenuos]

my favorite thing abt sqh is how much he just..lies. not even out of any malice or at times even necessitated discretion. he promises u everything, reliably delivers it—half bcs you'll have his head otherwise, half bcs he's an unwilling people's pleaser(..and terrified for his life)—and yet still. there's a genuine complicit sort of understanding within him, that all he says, he means half heartedly. everything in his life is so precarious, either physically, or in mental house of cards, that to give a word, a statement, a sentiment, with an internal genuineness would mean to put on stakes feelings that he has full faith in himself to never deliver on. its a constant form of lying that comes from self doubt, a house where nobody is there to listen to u in the first place to account u for it, a stage where everything is a demand and urs is a performance you think will cost u ur life if u fumble it once. the only promise he had ever intended to fulfill faithfully was to his king, and it was bcs he'd written it so. there's original goods sqh who'd betray his king for ambitions and purposes for his own gain and then there's our author god airplane, perfectly possessing the demeanour of the most snivelling, sycophantic-appearing man alive, never having one thought to betray his king, who, apart from being his favorite creation slash wet dream ofc, was also the keeper of the only role in sqh's life whom he offered himself to willingly (by not killing mbj) and then worked that position never intending to be anything else

[kiigan]

settling dust prompts @3katanas requested: [ TEARS ]:     having finally found the receiver, or having finally been found by the receiver, the sender breaks down in tears of relief, fear, and many other emotions as they officially reunite.

ㅤAnd here they were, either out of cruel sheer coincidence or because whatever gods existed above clearly did not think either of them had endured enough agony yet.

What was Zoro to him, now?

ㅤStill a best friend? Why not, after all... Zoro did nothing to participate in the treacherous betrayal that was orchestrated, did nothing to deserve punishment for it. Yet, last time they'd spoken, it was Itachi pretending everything was absolutely fine and asking if said best friend could do him a favor. Go out of the village and fetch some medicinal herbs their ANBU team would need for an upcoming mission. A complete and utter lie, used only as excuse to keep Zoro away from the Uchiha compound for the day. Away from Sasuke, lest he interrupt the transformation of pure love into unadulterated hatred that must happen.

And all this for what?

ㅤFor the sake of a corrupted council that held a passive village under arrest, that's what. For the sake of loyalty and self-sacrifice rewarded with physical, psychological, emotional torture. But Zoro wouldn't know about that, would he? Surely, he'd been fed the same convenient narrative that spread; this much, Itachi had nobody to blame for but himself. He allowed it to happen. He willingly fell for the venom disguised as honeyed words. Now the only thing left to do was to never let it happen again, and to deliver to all culprits the reckoning that was due.

One day.

ㅤFor the time being, and listening to his friend/once friend/perhaps still friend babble words of tear-stained relief, Itachi remained mostly concealed by the shadows of the tall, imposing tree nearby. Allowing only a glimpse at the dark coat with red clouds that fluttered gently along with the forest breeze.

«All that for me, Zoro? To think you are such a softie.»

[letrune]

Everyone is a revolutionary until the trash has to be taken out.

Let me explain: most people who want the status quo AND a giant revolution with blood think the system will benefit them. However, the moment they have to do the annoying minutae of society, they suddenly refuse to engage in it.

This is because most people are under the assumption that they will benefit more in the new order, not that they will be the ones required to run it or do the dirty jobs nobody wants to. Some happily tell about having servants and the strong to rule and to kill the rich, ignoring that they may be the servants, the weak, the rich. They believe that their life will improve, not worsen.

Which is what oh so many revolutions fail at. They get the depose-replace part, but then fall into the same traps the old system had, or worse, create brand new traps and willingly charge into them.

Imagine, we go to a free buns party. 500 people can get free buns! Yum! However... there are a 1000 people. How should we solve it?

Give to the first 500? Great, and- oops, sorry, you are the 501st...

Oh, tickets. You can buy a ticket, get a bun. But it is not a free bun then... but alas. Oops, sorry, you can't buy a ticket, guy before you had more money.

Redistribute. Okay, give me two hours. And also service fee, one bun for me... got to get people to carry... my buddies in the council... oops, sorry, you JUST missed it. I mean, you look like someone who could use some less buns, you get me?

Free for all? Ok. Oops, sorry, those guys are bigger and faster than you. Sorry.

Oh, sharing! Lovely idea. Half a bun for everyone. There. It is solved, as long as we only got 500 buns for 1000 people.

Now... imagine it not being about free buns. It is about housing, plumbing, mass transit, jobs one can do, water, food, etc.

But let us imagine tomorrow we find out the Utopian Edict. It is suprisingly easy to implement and comes free! It even solves the resource problems all across the globe, and SOMEHOW none of us becomes a selfish jerk by political, national, emotional, sexual, racial or other identities we have. A true utopia, where happiness is free for everyone and nobody leaves unsatisfied.

Who will take out the trash?

Come on, you know we can recycle them, but someone still has to take out the trash. Someone has to deliver the mail. Someone has to put the buns in the oven and take them out, with the right time between the two. The books have to be printed AND written by someone for us to read. Someone has to make sure there are schools, libraries, hospitals, buses, trams, buns and so many more.

In the Utopian life, we won't just point to someone else. It ought to be either volutary - the people who like doing these - or rewarded well - so people do these and not much more.

Taking out the trash is not as glamorous as being the Hero of the Great Cause, but have you ever considered that after the Great Revolution wins, you have to build a new world, right? What world would that be?

Consider this: you are asked what should happen to the worst members in society. When you say the answer, a random roll is done to determine if you get the worst member role or not. Will your answer change?

In the Utopia version, you will be asked who should take out the trash and what we should give for them for doing such a job. "Nobody" wants to do it, but it has to be done. Surely, we find volunteers but it won't be enough...

So. In this utopia we fight for, we should consider what world we build. Not just shout for guillotines and firing squads and "we figure it out eventually"; not just "we can fix this all", and ignore the minutea like taking the trash out. Storming a palqce qnd blowing bridges up is the stupid eaasy part of a revolution, building houses and bridges and making sure there are trains and running on time is the hard part. Almost all revolutions failed on these when they started. Wwe will need logisticians, planners and people who are willing to take out the trash more than people good with bombs and guns.

Even in Utopia, you will need someone who does it. Except in Utopia, it would be a job that is not treated as trash.

[sc0tters]

blurb of max taking his first steps ?

At first I wrote him walking to Lillian but then this was way funnier 😭

The boys all sat in Will and Baileys apartment as they caught up “can you believe she’s dating Jim!” Ryan complained as he had just been delivered the news through a video of his sister in his national teammates jersey.

Gabe couldn’t help but laugh as he had been swore to secrecy by Jamie when she learnt about it two weeks before “hey just be grateful you know the guy.” Will pointed out noticing that Max was trying to grab onto Cutter’s shorts “you still tryna stand bud?” Cutter asked with a smile offering his hand to the younger boy.

Max took it as he looked up at him. It made Bailey freeze as she walked back into her apartment to see Max willingly with Cutter after all that he had heard from the gossiping sessions that the girls had calling him an ass. But what nobody expected was that Max would leave Cutters side as he took the few steps to get to Will’s “Bails you see that!” Will called out as he had heard the door open.

She is literally rushing over as she smiled “our baby is walking!” Bailey cheered making the boys laugh as Will picked Max up “you think they do that every time he does something?” Drew whispered as his eyes went wide “yeah but they love that child so it’s cute.” Jacob nodded as he made the mental to catch Ivy up about it all later.

[coffinseas]

Xue Yang wasn't sure why the old woman insisted on him putting up a market stall when no one came around, and most likely never would come around, these parts. As if putting it near the entrance of the town would make any difference! The fog was thick and bothersome, fog that had only reappeared when he had, and the land was marked as cursed as a result; nobody would come here willingly.

And besides, who would want to buy talismans from a place like this? They would surely only bring bad luck— yet the old bat had said it would give him something to do, and had insisted he leave her alone for a while and busy himself with this instead.

Said it would drive more commerce if he advertised her shop, too.

What was wrong with how they'd been doing it before? Why did people have to come here, instead of him delivering the goods to any nearby towns? Surely she was just having him do this to laugh at him later. Get back at him for... Well, everything, really.

And yet, despite all these thoughts, he saw someone move within the fog. Taken utterly by surprise, he would've laughed if he hadn't thought it was most likely because they were lost, and he was about to call out to them...

When the fog dispersed enough to give him a glimpse of who they were.

Breath caught in his throat as his heartbeat spiked, he stepped away from the comically placed stall and let the swirling gray engulf him.

@legendwrote

[unlimitedhorsepower]

if i posted my newest ryanyuri fanfic chapter everyone would know that heracles was allegedly the only person ever to (successfully) cheat death by wrestling with thanatos.

he didnt do it for himself though, he did it for a queen who died bc her husband the king was immortal in the way he could prolong his life by having other people die for him and she had volunteered and then the king was megasad. and heracles showed up like whoohoo i hear this place is party city! and was despondent when nobody wanted to party as he had imagined so the king threw a party anyway

then heracles heard the queen had just died and he was like oh no... committed a huge social faux pas............ embarrassing....... i better go to the queens crypt to wrestle thanatos and promise to release him when he restores the queens soul!

he succeeded and then everyone continued doing their things. but usually when someone tries to best thanatos they get punished (severely).

just a fun fact ive thought about a ton ever since i started my fanfic LMFAO.

im too busy to make it rn but imagine a JPEG-artifacted infographic with a red arrow pointing to ryans winged lion hero suit like "the golden pelt of the nemean lion that heracles wears" and another pointing to the equally artifacted pic of lunatic going "hear the voice of thanatos". thanatos is circled and theres more arrows

makes you think now doesnt it? this story is a surprise tool for later delivered by young yuri (i had a greek mythology phase when i was young at least. anyone else. when you dont have friends so you read a shit ton)

and the queen who willingly forfeited her life for someone she cared about no matter how high the cost? yuri and him doing the lunatic thing. the king who took her life and then immediately regretted it? yuris family kinda. yuri himself kinda. my vision

also unrelated but the chapters been basically finished ever since the last chapter bc i wrote it ahead bc this chapter interested me so much. unfortunately its in the rewriting pits as usual

[writer59january13]

Norwegian bachelor farmer days I never lived

Woebegone and egg foo young on you meaning me of course sidestepping a crucial positive

electric kool aid battery acid test

prior to pledging troth, and tying Gordian knot to strangulation point,

never fending for myself, nor being disaster about to happen. I did house/pet sit when parents went away on their time sharing vacation minimally satisfyingly jump/

kick starting, placating, compensating

for dashed unwed state offering smattering of taste regarding all those unrealized golden (gated) opportunities.

Case in point conducting, honoring, liberating unstinting pyromaniac kindling burning man within me

continuously aggravating, enraging, and inflaming Lower Providence fire department.

When roaring towering inferno crept frightfully close to nearby houses, yours truly banked on his guardian angel

rescuing me as smoldering tinder spread like... what else wildfire.

The dolled guise firewoman incarnate none other than Mary Poppins,

who still appeared rather gracefully slick (especially during rainy weather)

at 17 Cherry Tree Lane, London England

could pull off cheap trick

or think super tramping Glinda protagonist courtesy film Wizard of Oz

Good Witch of the North

ruler of the Quadling Country

South of the Emerald City,

and protector of Princess Ozma

riding her reo speedwagon

at light speed in nick

of time (in case of flat tire)

she will travel on her

state of the art broomstick,

but unfortunately said

courteous wonder women

long since retired though the former

still residing in her dotage

at the Banks residence, nevertheless in an emergency

either one or the other

willingly avail themselves providing freelance capering

constituting steep consulting fee services

while comfortably holed up

in their respective bailiwick.

After extinguishing blaze, she and her sidekick The Cat In The Hat,

who just showed up out of thee blue (flame) briefly secretly conferred

before delivering merriment to drudgery of housekeeping chores training, loosing, and applying

their joint secret powers both as domestic facilities managers.

They gingerly launched, pitched,

tackled traditional domestic disaster, with collective snap, crackle, and pop of handy dandy magic fingers before disappearing themselves.

A sudden whoosh rectified messy living quarters

overflowing with countless generations

well fed healthy energized dust bunnies automatically relegated and swept into dustbin suppressing urge to boastfully brag to nobody in particular.

Whistling while I worked yours truly simultaneously

cooked gourmet cuisine excelling serving culinary house special of the day, qua charcoal brisket ala burnt offerings, potchkying, scalding yours truly courtesy untimely uncovering pressure cooker, or weathering comedy of errors flipping upside down

all's well that ends well, or experiencing severe irreparable psychological trauma, vis a vis creating hell's kitchen house of horrors, mortal mishaps, world wide webbed series of unfortunate events, or shenanigans deemed rite of passage including indulging sybaritic life

linkedin with living single

fancy free and footloose,

thus imperative for this bard

to compensate aforementioned loss postulating poetically prevaricating potschking

as chef boyardee

envisioning, speculating, ruing laundering with excess detergent feigning enjoying drowning, actually playfully wallowing within sea of bubblicious sudsiness,

Spongebob Squarepants would die for (unless he happens tubby in Darfur,

no particular rhyme nor reason),

while there purchasing for this unassuming devil who wears prada mine surprise constituting red badge of courage

surviving helter skelter welter

trials and tribulations

knowing I got true grit (courtesy powder milk biscuits)

accruing commensurate

valuable salient raw bits self survival skills unexpectedly apprenticed with a book deal.

[apalestar]

Why lie on such a matter of fact? Without her assistance none of what he had now would be possible. Karlach aided him when no one else did. The Orthon’s death. Raphael’s information concerning the sigil. Believing he could become more. Her affection. Her admiration. Once. Yes, she had given him everything. One wicked turn deserved another. Her heart returned a meager price for what she did.

Astarion pressed his cheek into her show of affection. Too long since it’d been willingly given. He was still the man she fell for. The methods for his ascension unsavory to her moral compass, but he was still Astarion in every bit that mattered to him. His hand rose to join hers, clasping over it. “I do mean it.” He affirmed.

He luxuriated in her affections. Arm draped loosely around her waist. Resisted the urge to pull her into his lap. Her change of heart he reasoned came from the news he delivered to her earlier. A token of his affection as he had been seeking out the information for her. The hells possessed their charm. Nobody cared whose body littered the ground. Whose blood was spilled for everyone was sinners here. Yet, Astarion desired more. He wanted Karlach’s heart restored. At the very least the engine modified enough to give her the life she deserved. One on the surface of Toril at his side.

Oh, the cities he’d conquer with her at his side. “I forgive you. It’s a simple mistake to make. Don’t you worry. Soon you and I will share everything once we secure a new heart for you.” He wondered. Luck pressed a bit further he closed the distance between them to brush his lips against hers.

Unable to keep her gaze on him for long, for the horrid twisting feeling in the pit of her stomach kept getting worse. Instead, she played with the string of the bag of holding. Pulling it closer as consequence for curling the string around her finger. Though the fiddling soon stopped.

She froze for a moment. Her skin seemed to run cold despite herself. As if she had dived into the shadow cursed lands all over again. She recognised that tone. Had heard it before, if only on occassion. But to hear it now of all times... She had expected him to be smug, to claim she should have known better than to doubt him.

Despite the sick feeling she held, she looked back over. "Gods... You actually mean that, don't you?" Karlach spoke in a rather hushed, overcome tone. For a brief moment it was as if the seven thousand souls had not been sacrificed, as if they were both just slaves seeking freedom once again. But she had to remind herself that wasn't the case anymore. It probably never will be again, no matter how this ended.

Sliding herself along the tiles slightly, not entirely sure how he'd react, she reached over and cupped on of his cheeks, thumb brushing against his skin lightly. Is this how Gortash felt all those years ago? It wasn't in the same context, but Karlach had said nothing but great things about the man back then. She was selfless in aiding his endeavours. Left her own life behind just to help him. Much like he had done for her... Did Gortash hesitate? Did he spend nights debating whether or not to go through with the terrible plan offered to him? Was there a moment where he wished it wasn't her on offer? Did he feel like she does right now? Or was he completely emotionless? Oh how she wished she was able to ignore these internal debates, then this would be so much easier.

Taking advantage of his lapse of conceited attitude, she leaned in to press her forehead to his. "I misjudged you... I'm sorry...for everything." Again, she meant it. And again, grateful a beating heart was absent for him to suspect, she only had to keep it all contained for just a little while longer.

[pathomannia]

Related to B, though I don't have her bio up yet. Astryn! More or less a mother figure to Bianka and Hallen, but never fully lived with them and their father.

Silas and Astryn were longtime friends, and on and off had a fling. But, Silas had his focus on other things so it never became serious. After Silas was kicked from Spagkos, Astryn gave up her life to follow him. And to be honest, she enjoyed the newer and simpler life of helping Silas settle himself. She ended up becoming a messenger if anyone wished to speak with him, as nobody would willingly enter the Gradon forest.

Later in life, once Bianka happened, Astryn helped Silas raise her, and later on Hallen. She lived only briefly with them, and once Silas became more comfortable in his care for the girls, she went back to living on her own and only occasionally visiting to drop off or pick things up.

She did end up moving on, but she still keeps up with delivering food and things to Bianka even after Silas' death.