#and was told it was a mistake and exiled

[feykiller]

Something about Wyll always referring to himself as "the Blade of Frontiers" and never as Wyll.

[noira-l]

𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: You were a prodigy, destined for greatness, until one mistake cost you everything- your powers, your legacy, and your father’s pride. Now, powerless and adrift, you wait for your father's decision on your fate, unsure if you’ll face exile, servitude, or something worse. A shadow of who you once were, you push everyone away, drowning in the weight of your own failure. Then there’s Gojo Satoru. Your rival, your tormentor, and the last person you expect to care about your fall. But instead of mockery, his gaze carries something else - something you can’t bring yourself to believe.

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 — teen!gojo satoru x f!reader

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 — heavy angst

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 — mdni, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, prodigy!reader, reader is from clan, rivals with benefits, mention of sexual intercourse, hate sex, depiction of complicated relationship, loss of technique, hurt, mourning (pain, grief, regret), depression, self-doubt, changing body, depiction of loneliness, reader pushes everyone away, jjk clans are shit, family abuse, long term manipulation, smoking, drowning, failed attempt of self-destruction (gojo saves reader), reader goes no contact, reader becomes maiko/geiko later on.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 — 11 k

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 — this is the longest list of warnings I have ever written, congrats to me (kidding). I don't know if anyone will like it. I know it's dark, very unhealthy and absolutely depressing. It's not good, and I don't recommend anyone to act in the way depicted in this fic. It is possible that I will remove it in the future. If you are struggling with such issues, I would highly encourage you to talk to someone you trust about it. However, I want to thank everyone who chooses to read this.

𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

It really wasn't difficult to avoid.

You could've waited literally two seconds.

You could've let the assistant check the area as he should after the mission.

You could've not searched the area yourself.

You could've notified the assistant that you had found a cursed object, in the shrine debris.

You could've waited for the assistant to come up to check with you.

You could've not approached the cursed object.

You could've not picked it up. You could've been smarter.

Maybe if you were - you would still have your powers.

Your technique had been everything they claimed it to be. Rare, devastating, invaluable. It wasn’t just a skill - it was a mark of distinction, the proof of your place in a centuries-old legacy. The elders whispered of its rarity, marveling at the precision and control with which you teach yourself to wielded it.

They called you a prodigy, the one destined to elevate the clan to greater heights.

The weight of those expectations had always been crushing, but you bore it with a silent, unyielding resolve. You had to. You had no choice.

But there was another side to this. You wanted to bore it. You wanted to shush all the gossip, all the rumours that might suggest that you can't do something. Besides you found yourself enjoying this kind of powers

The whispers about your gender - about how being a woman might complicate your ability to lead, to fulfill the role they expected of you - only hardened your resolve.

You would prove them wrong, all of them, you told yourself.

But you also wanted your father's approval.

Your father was the only thing close to you. Your mother died in childbirth or left with a lover, you never knew which version was the truth. As a child, you never thought about it, the truth is, everyone around you only mentioned your father, how you should be his pride, his tribute and how you should do everything to make him feel content about you.

This propaganda worked.

And this mindset became an integral part of you.

His approval wasn’t just your goal - it was your oxygen, your sustenance. His rare moments of pride were your reward, and his disappointment - your greatest fear.

You could hear his voice in your mind, the way it would brighten ever so slightly when you succeeded "Good. This is good. Keep this up." those words had kept you going through grueling hours of training, through sleepless nights spent honing your skills to perfection. The bruises, the pain, the exhaustion - they were nothing compared to the glow of his approval, the fleeting light that told you you were enough, if only for a moment.

But his eyes also dulled with such terrifying speed when you stumbled, even slightly. A poorly executed maneuver, a delay in judgment during a sparring session, a lapse in control, all of it was met with silence, with the cold weight of his disappointment pressing down on you like a vice. It was in those moments that you became acutely aware of your imperfection, of how fragile his pride in you truly was.

This however had shaped you into a perfectionist, a creature of cold calculation.

Training became part of your life, your identity. You lived for the applause of the elders, for the murmured praise of the clan, but above all, for the fleeting flicker of pride in your father’s eyes.

He had once told you, long ago, when you were too young to fully understand his words, that you were his gift "Special, rare." he had said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it since "A gift I received at your birth."

You had clung to those words, replaying them in your mind whenever the pressure became unbearable. They were your anchor, your proof that you mattered, that you were loved - not as a daughter, perhaps, but as something far more valuable, something exceptional.

But in a perspective - you weren't the only exceptional thing in this world.

Even before you understood what rivalry meant, you had been told, over and over, how your birth ranked second in significance.

The second most talked thing.

The first? Him.

You had grown up under the long shadow of a name: Gojo Satoru.

A boy born with unparalleled power, eyes as vivid as the summer sky, whos very existence shaked the foundations of the jujutsu world. While your family whispered of your technique with cautious pride, his family declared him the strongest before he could even speak.

Comparison was inevitable. You were prodigies, both of you, but where your brilliance was honed through discipline, his was uncontainable, raw, and overwhelming. You were rare - he was the one.

You still remembered the first time you saw him. You couldn’t have been more than six, dressed in formal robes too heavy for your small frame, the silk scratchy against soft skin. The clan meeting was dull, filled with stiff adults exchanging words that meant nothing to you. But then, in the corner of the room, you felt a presence - bright, piercing, impossible to ignore.

When you turned, his eyes met yours.

Wide, unblinking, and startlingly blue, they stared at you like they could see through your skin, through your bones, through everything that made you, you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile or nod - just stared, like he was trying to decide if you were worth noticing at all.

Even then, something about him annoyed you.

As you grew older, the comparisons became sharper, louder. Clan sparring matches became a regular event, a spectacle for the elders to evaluate their bloodlines. You, Gojo, Kamo, that Zen’in heir, and a handful of others were pitted against one another under the guise of "training." But you all knew the truth. It was a game of dominance, of proving which clan held the strongest future.

Gojo made it a point to be insufferable.

"Chicken fights." he had once sneered, grinning as he sat perched on a rock like a king addressing his subjects. You had just beaten one of the Zen’in cousins, a victory that had left your father smiling faintly in the audience. But Gojo’s voice cut through the cheers "That’s all this is. You flap your wings, you strut around, but it doesn’t matter. None of you will ever beat me."

The others ignored him, too smart - or too scared - to engage. But not you.

"I’d rather be a chicken than a brat with a big mouth." you’d shot back, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

His grin widened, and for a moment, you thought he might actually take you seriously. But then he laughed - a loud, obnoxious sound that echoed through the sparring grounds "Cute." he said, hopping off his perch and walking past you like you weren’t even worth his time "Let me know when you’re ready to play with the big kids."

Now, years later, the rivalry had followed you into Jujutsu High, where it seemed impossible to escape him. The same classes, the same missions, the same suffocating aura of superiority that surrounded him wherever he went.

He was a little different. Not in the way you’d imagined someone "different" might be - quiet, mysterious, unassuming. No, he was loud, arrogant, and so assured in his strength that it bordered on unbearable.

The fire you’d felt as a child, that relentless desire to outdo him, to prove yourself, had cooled over the years. But it hadn’t gone out. Instead, it had transformed into something sharper, something a little colder - a blade honed not just to cut him down but to carve out your own space in a world that refused to see you as anything more than a shadow cast by his brilliance. It wasn’t just about beating him anymore. It was about standing on equal ground, forcing him - and everyone else - to recognize you as something other than second best.

You tried to take it slow, to ingore him.

Gojo didn’t make it easy.

He had a way of getting under your skin that no one else could. Just a glance from him could set your teeth on edge, that wide, knowing smirk playing on his lips like he was already ten steps ahead of you. He mocked you constantly, his words sharp and teasing, always laced with that infuriating arrogance that only he could pull off.

Every encounter was a contest, every conversation a challenge, every moment spent in his presence a battle for dominance.

You danced around each other endlessly, an intricate, unspoken rhythm that neither of you could break. One moment, he’d set the direction, leading with a cocky ease that seemed unshakable - the next, you’d outpace him, forcing him to catch up, to adjust to your steps.

The dance extended into every aspect of your lives. Missions became opportunities to one-up each other, to prove who was faster, sharper, more capable. Training sessions were wars of endurance, each of you pushing harder, refusing to yield until exhaustion forced a truce. Even on days off, when most people would relax or recover, you found ways to compete - whether it was sparring, aruging or something as mundane as seeing who could stack the most chairs before they toppled over.

His attention was relentless, his focus always sharp and unyielding. He discounted you with every other word, mocking your efforts, analyzing your achievements as if he were the ultimate judge of your worth. His words - arrogant and biting - were no better.

"Trying to catch up to me again? Good luck with that, shortcake."

"Don’t trip over your own shadow while you’re chasing me."

"Nice job today, small fry. Almost makes me feel like you’re worth competing with."

Each message was a spark, igniting the fire that drove you to prove him wrong, to show him - and yourself - that you were more than capable of matching him. To the point of beating him.

Neither of you ever held the upper hand for long - one day his victory, the next yours. The score didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that the fire between you never burned out, keeping you locked in this endless, maddening dance.

And maddening was pace of his hips that were thrusting into you every other day. The old floor, even with a layer of training mat, would creak under his powerful movements.

Both of you decided after some time that your dispute had to be settled by other means, so you challenged each other to a duel where there were no rules and all moves were allowed. It usually ended with the two of you meeting in the old training room after class, to resolve a conflict you were currently having. The winner was the one who first knocked his opponent finally to the ground.

Differently these encounters ended, sometimes he was the unbeatable winner, pounding you into the floor, bending you at every possible angle, whispering sweet nothingess and words of mocking encouragement to your ear, making tears drip down your flushed cheeks. Sometimes it was you who won, pinning him to the floor, bouncing off his hips in a frenzy, one in which you commented on how loud he was, how crying and pathetic he looked - words that were meant to degrade him, were just making his glimmering eyes roll back. Eyebrows raised and stupid handsome face twisted in a sigh so beautful that you would end up with the lost of insults after a while.

He won last week. Your asscheeks painfully pounded into the mat material, as your hands clasped tightly on his shoulders, creating scars that were meant to affect him, but only seemed to make him whine even more. Laughing breathlessly at your attempts to hurt him, as if he wasn't the one leaving rudely visible red marks on your neck that poke through uniform.

He'll probably laugh about winning his final match, too.

Because there will never be any again.

Everyone tried everything to undo the effects of what had happened - to remove the curse. When this proved impossible by the specifications of the object you touched, which could be called a trap, they at least tried to restore the flow of your cursed energy. This, too, proved to be a failure.

You’d told yourself, at first, that it must be temporary. That the connection to your technique would return, that this was just a setback. It had to be. Something so integral to your being couldn’t just vanish - it was part of you, wasn’t it?

That was you, right?

But each attempt proved fruitless. Every meditation session, every exercise, every attempt to summon even the faintest flicker of cursed energy - it all ended the same way: in silence, in emptiness.

The denial fueled your determination, pushing you into training sessions that bordered on self-destruction. You traded your technique for raw physicality, throwing punches at the training dummy until your fists bled, the skin splitting open as you struck again and again. And again. Sweat soaked through your clothes, mingling with tears you refused to acknowledge as they streamed down your face.

You screamed, raw and guttural, into the empty training field, but the sound brought no release, only exhaustion. You never shouted like that, never cried like when you fell on the ground and realised it was all pointless.

One conclusion came from your attempts.

You had been crippled.

"Maybe if I had a son, he wouldn't have made such a foolish mistake." the words clung to you, searing through the phone’s receiver like acid. Your father’s voice, sharp and cold, cut through the fragile thread of composure you had been holding onto. The regret, the disappointment, and - worst of all - the indifference. He didn’t even sound angry, just tired. Tired of you.

Your throat burned.

"Father, please..." but you didn’t know what you were asking for -mercy, understanding, or perhaps the impossible: forgiveness.

"You've squandered everything." his voice was steady, unaffected "Centuries of legacy, your birthright, your technique - gone. Do you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done?"

Do you? You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. Your thoughts swirled into a vortex of self-loathing, replaying the moment over and over again.

"We'll talk later when I decide what to do with you." and just like that he hung up.

That was it. No comfort. No acknowledgment of the years you’d given, the sacrifices you’d made, or the countless moments you’d bled and bruised yourself into perfection. The line had gone dead with a finality that echoed through your chest like a hammer strike. His voice - so cold, so detached - ingered in your mind, cutting deeper than any curse could.

You set the phone down on the desk, your hand trembling slightly as you withdrew from it, as though it might burn you if you held on any longer. The chair creaked faintly beneath you as you sat motionless, staring at the wall opposite you.

You wanted to apologise to him, to beg his forgiveness for your mistake, for your stupidity, you wanted to cry on his shoulder, to apologise - again - that you had let him down. But he just wasn't interested. He was no longer interested in your perspective.

You, simply didn't interest him.

That room was dim, the shadows thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint glow of a single overhead light. It wasn’t enough to fully illuminate the faces of the elders who stood before you, their disapproval palpable, their voices sharp and cutting as they dissected your situation. Each word they spoke dug into your chest, stripping away what little pride you had left.

You were stripped off the title of a prodigy.

They called you a dissapointment now.

You became an example.

A cautionary tale.

The damage has already been done.

People tried to reach you. Geto, Shoko, Nanami - even Yaga made an effort to draw you out of your spiral. But their words felt hollow, meaningless. What could they possibly say that would fix what had been broken? They didn’t understand. How could they? They still had their power, their purpose, their place in this world. You didn’t.

He was on mission overseas, so maybe the information about your state didn't quite reach him yet. Not that you cared if he made contact.

He would probably just laugh at you anyway.

Of all these people Geto, had tried the hardest, his presence quiet but persistent. He tried to be there for you. But there was no you inside.

He’d sat beside one day, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. His touch, once an unremarkable soft gesture, now felt heavy - too heavy. You realized then just how much strength he had, how much stronger he’d become while you had only weakened. His grip, once equal to yours, now dwarfed it.

"You’re still here." he’d said softly, his voice careful, measured "That matters the most."

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, but they couldn’t penetrate the hollow void inside you. Instead, you’d turned away, muttering some excuse to just leave.

You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t want anyone’s.

You didn't believe that anything else mattered to anyone except your gift. Not after everything that happends.

So you let yourself sink in that conviction.

Your own reflection became that a stranger. Each glance in the mirror revealed another part of yourself fading away. Your muscles, once taut and defined from years of rigorous training, softened, weakened. Your face, once bright with determination and pride, dulled, the light in your eyes all but extinguished. Even your posture changed, slouching under the weight of your defeat.

You avoided mirrors after that. It was easier not to look at yourself, not to see the person you’d become.

The thought of him haunted you. He was the only person who had not yet spoken about your situation. You could almost hear the laughter that would spill from his lips when he found out.

He’d won, hadn’t he? He will be happy that you lost.

Not through a sparring match or a test of strength, but through your own stupidity. He wouldn’t even need to lift a finger - your downfall was self-inflicted. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He’d probably make a joke of it, something biting and sharp, something that would leave you hollowed out even further. The idea of facing him, of hearing his voice, made your stomach twist - but you kinda wanted him to say somthing to you.

Although you were sure what his reaction would be.

By early autumn you became a ghost of the person you’d once been, a shell going through the motions. The world felt distant, muted, as though you were walking through a haze. The wind carried the crisp scent of leaves, the air beacme sharp enough to sting your lungs as you exhaled. Your student status was taken away by higher-ups, they decided that sending you on a mission was pointless. Just like you. The peak of your skill now was ability to see a curse, not to fight one.

You could do whatever you wanted, so you went to all sorts of faraway places.

You’d grown used to the isolation. It was easier not to see anyone, not to hear the pity in their voices or feel their lingering stares. Geto had tried, tried and tried. Staying with you whenever he could, but even his presence, as steady and grounding as it was, felt too heavy. He tried talking to you, but your mind seemed closed to his willingness to help and his affectionate tone. You weren't a person who knew how to accept help from others, no one ever taught you that. Even if you appreciated it, you didn't know how to show it. And the truth was - you couldn’t bear the weight of his concern, couldn’t summon the energy to reassure anyone that you were fine.

Because you weren’t fine. You were no longer yourself.

That was the only thing that had mattered.

You wanted to disappear into the nothingness that seemed to have taken root inside you. You wanted to stop existing in a world where you no longer had a place, where the purpose that had defined you all your life was gone.

But instead, you thought. And thought. Alone, in the dark, your mind was a relentless spiral, turning over every moment, every decision that had brought you to this point.

You never really faced your fears before, you realized.

This and many other thoughts stirred in your head like a swirl, twisting your perception of reality.

You were walking through the school gates, the crisp golden leaves crunching under your boots. The sun hung low in the sky, its light casting long shadows across the pavement.

You really didn’t expect to see him.

He was back.

Snow-white hair catching the sunlight, posture impossibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world didn’t touch him. He walked with that characteristic ease, the kind that could embarrass a hundred men without effort. His phone was pressed to his ear, and you could hear his laughter even from a distance - light, careless, the kind of laugh that had always annoyed you.

For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t notice you. Of course - why would he? You didn’t even have the faintest trace of cursed energy anymore. You were just a random person, a shadow of who you’d once been, just a presence walking aimlessly on a pleasant autumn afternoon.

You kept your hands buried in your pockets, eyes fixed on the path ahead, determined to pass him without incident. Without one stupid comment. Without one look into that judging eyes.

You realized you weren't ready to face him. A whole range of emotions came up in you: anger, anticipation, sadness, wanting, resignation, longing, but most of all - shame.

But then his gaze fell on you.

You could feel it before you even looked up, the weight of his attention, sharp and unmissable. His eyes flicked over you once, casual and dismissive, but then he froze. Head snapped back in your direction, and the expression on his face shifted so quickly it almost startled you. Satisfaction melted into pure, unfiltered shock.

You didn’t stop.

You didn’t have the strength to deal with him, with his taunts, his smirks, his cutting words, his blue eyes. Not now. Not ever. You moved past him without a word, steps steady and deliberate, though your heart pounded in your chest so much.

You will let him enjoy his win in your silence.

"Oi!" his voice cut through the air, sharp, insistent "Stop you - Wait!"

You didn’t turn around. In fact you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you reached into pocket, pulling out the battered pack of cigarettes Shoko had handed you weeks ago. You lit one with a shaky hand, the ember flaring briefly before the smoke curled into the air. You inhaled deeply, the bitter taste grounding you as you kept walking.

Gojo stood frozen, watching you disappear down the path. He tried calling after you couple of times, louder each time. But he didn't run after you. Six Eyes scanned your silhouette with dangerous precision, noticing every small detail that had changed. The slump in your shoulders, the sharpness of your cheekbones, the dullness in your eyes. The lack of a slightest trace of cursed energy.

What the hell happend to you?

He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the person walking away from him now was unrecognizable.

You weren’t just tired. You weren't yourself.

You came back hours later to pack your belongings.

The weight of tomorrow hung heavy in your chest, suffocating and inescapable. Your father’s decision loomed over you, its implications gnawing at your already fragile sense of self.

You decided to take a walk, one last time over the terrain you knew and loved so well.

You didn’t want to think about what he might have planned for you. You didn’t want to imagine the hollow life that awaited you, stripped of your identity and power. But the thoughts were relentless, swirling in your mind as you walked, each step taking you farther from the dormitory and deeper into the forest.

Would he make you a servant? Marry you off to someone important, someone who could salvage what little value you had left? Would he exile you to the far corners of the clan, where you would live out your days in quiet obscurity?

The possibilities churned in your mind, each one heavier than the last.

For weeks, you’d been coming here, searching for something in that reflection. Searching for the person you used to be, the prodigy who had stood tall and proud, who had been her father’s pride and her clan’s future. But all you found was a ghost, a shadow of what you once were.

The night was quiet, perfect for the last one here, the air heavy with the crisp scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. A pale moon hung in the sky, its light casting silvery ripples over the world, softening the edges of reality.

You crouched down, as you approached the edge of the water. Your hands brushing against the damp grass, and stared into the lake’s surface. For a moment, the sight of your reflection startled you, as it always did now.

You closed your eyes, for a brief moment, the quiet of the forest enveloping you. A faint rustle of leaves, the distant call of nightlife and the soft lapping of water against the shore - it was all so achingly peaceful. And yet, it offered no comfort.

The lake held no answers, no revelations. Just the same distorted reflection, the same fractured image of yourself.

The reflection there was faint, distorted, but still recognizable. You could make out the curve of your jaw, the hollowness of your cheeks, the dim light in your eyes that once burned so brightly. You stared at yourself, unblinking, searching for the person you had been.

But you were gone.

...

What is the point of all this?

The question came unbidden, as it had so many times before. It's not like you're usefull to anyone. Your whole life has been based on being a sorcerer, the next clan head also, but not being just a human. You don't know how to live a normal life - you don't know if you even want to live one.

You thought about the weight of your father’s expectations, the years you had spent chasing his approval. You thought about the countless hours of training, the bruises, the exhaustion, the fleeting moments of pride that had kept you going. And you thought about the emptiness you felt now, the void left behind by the loss of your technique.

It's all been bringing you to one conclusion for some time: you are nothing without your technique.

This is a painful truth that you had to accept some time ago.

You had the feeling that the water was looking at you - offering a hideout.

You moved, taking one hesitant step forward.

It won't be that bad, right? Everything is better than facing the consequences of your own stupidity.

Another step joined the previous one, your feet touching the cold surface. The smell of wet grass and vegetation wafted through the air.

You’d left everything behind on the shore. Your jacket, hoodie, and shoes - they lay in a silent heap, abandoned like everything else in your life. You won't need them anymore.

The water was cold. Icy. It cut through your skin like shards of glass, wrapping around you with an unforgiving grip as you plunged deeper and deeper into the darkness. The shock of it made your muscles tighten, but you didn’t fight it - not at first. You let the weight of the water pull you down, let the emptiness consume you.

Everything was dark, impossibly so, swallowing everything in its depths. You couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything but the cold pressure against your skin and the burning in your chest as your lungs screamed for air. You let yourself sink further, closing your eyes against the suffocating blackness.

And yet, your mind wouldn’t still.

Thoughts came rushing in, unbidden, like a flood breaking through a dam. Every memory, every failure, every moment of doubt and despair surged to the forefront. The weight of it all pressed down on you, heavier than the water, dragging you deeper into the abyss.

You had thought this might be the solution. The way out. An escape from the suffocating spiral of your existence. But as the air in your lungs ran out and your body began to betray you, survival instinct kicking in, you realized there was no escape. Not from the memories, not from the pain, not from yourself.

Your limbs flailed, your arms slicing through the water as you tried to fight against the primal urge to breathe. Your body betrayed you, forcing you to the surface even as your mind screamed to let go, to give in.

Just a little bit.

But it was too late. The water felt thick, heavy, an impossible barrier keeping you from the surface. Your lungs heaved, desperate for air, but all they found was water. Cold, bitter, unrelenting water that filled your chest and drowned your last desperate gasp for life.

The memories came in flashes, fragments of a life that now seemed so far away. The pride in your father’s eyes the first time you mastered your technique. The sound ofm Geto’s gentle laugh on a quiet afternoon. Shoko’s quiet. The way Gojo’s voice had always irritated you, his smirk a constant thorn in your side.

They all felt so distant now, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn’t a failure. Someone who still mattered.

And then there was the weight of the other memories - the shame, the disappointment, the voices of the elders as they condemned you. The coldness in your father’s tone when he told you he’d decide what to do with you. The emptiness that had consumed you in the weeks since.

You felt your body shutting down, your vision darkening as the water enveloped you. Your limbs grew heavy, your mind hazy. The struggle became a distant thing, like a flickering light fading out.

And yet, in those final moments, as the water pulled you under completely, one thought rose above all the others, sharp and unrelenting:

You are a failure.

Gasp.

The world returned to you in gasps and violent coughs, water pouring from your lungs as your chest heaved painfully. Your body felt like it had been ripped apart, the freezing cold of the lake still clinging to your skin, but the sharp sensation of something - someone - holding you brought clarity in a rush.

You blinked against the blurriness in your vision, barely able to make out the figure above you. His white hair was plastered to his forehead, the sharp strands dulled and dripping, and his electric blue eyes were wide, filled with a mix of fury, fear, and something raw. His hands trembled as they held you, but his grip was firm, refusing to let go.

Him.

You coughed again, turning your head as water spilled out of your mouth, your chest burning with each labored breath. Reality slammed into you like a punch: you were on the shore, cold earth pressing against your back, and he was the reason you were still here.

"No." you croaked, the word scraping against your throat like sandpaper. Panic surged through you, body reacting before mind could catch up. You twisted violently, shoving against him with what little strength you had left, trying to escape the strong grasp. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be saved.

He didn’t let go.

"Stop." he growled, his voice low and strained. It wasn’t the teasing, mocking tone you were used to. This was different. Commanding, almost desperate.

"Let go of me!" you shouted, your voice cracking as you thrashed against him, the fight in you born not of strength but of pure, unrelenting despair "Let me go, Gojo!"

"No." his grip tightened, his hands locking around your wrists as you tried to claw at him. You jerked and struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger, and even without your powers, you were nothing compared to him. The realization hit you like a dagger to the chest, sharp and agonizing. You couldn’t even free yourself. You couldn’t do anything.

"Stop it" he snapped, voice cutting through the chaos as he pinned your wrists to the ground, forcing you still. His weight loomed over you, his breath ragged and uneven as he glared down at you, his eyes burning with an intensity you couldn’t meet.

You froze, your body trembling beneath him, the fight draining out of you as the cold seeped deeper into your bones. The only sounds were the quiet lapping of the lake’s waves and the harsh breaths between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His chest rose and fell rapidly, droplets of water sliding down his face, hair wet. His grip on your wrists loosened slightly, though he didn’t let go.

"What are you doing? What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice rough and low, each word laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Anger? Fear? Pain?

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze "You shouldn’t have stopped me."

His grip tightened again, his fingers trembling as they pressed against your skin "Stop you -" he cut himself off, his jaw clenching tightly as he took a shuddering breath "You’re such an idiot."

You wanted to scream at him, to shove him away, to make him understand that there was nothing left of you worth saving. To let you go and withered. But the words caught in your throat, tangled with the grief, anger and despair that had been building inside you for so long.

"What are you doing here? You've been following me?" your voice sharp despite the hoarseness from the water you’d just coughed up. You glared at him, still pinned beneath his weight, wrists trapped in his hands.

Gojo’s expression flickered between irritation and something you couldn’t quite place - concern? No, that wasn’t possible. He raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with his usual brand of mockery "No. Better -what were you doing here?"

You turned your face away, refusing to answer. The moonlight glinted off the water, its calm surface a contrast to the chaos swirling inside you. You could feel his eyes boring into you, Six Eyes missing nothing.

It didn’t take long for him to piece it together.

His grip on your wrists tightened, just slightly "You should have known better." he said, his tone shifting, lower now, more serious "With all that negative energy bottled up, you could’ve attracted a curse."

You snorted bitterly, the sound harsh and raw "As if I’m not already a curse."

His lips turned into a thin line, glimmering eyes narrowing as he leaned closer "Don’t say stupid things." what you said wasn't stupid, he was stupid for coming here and saving you.

"You are stupid for saving me." the words burst out of you, cracking, unrestrained.

The admission hung in the air, raw and cutting, and you hated how much it revealed. You hated how much he could see now. You felt as if he had caught you on something. Not only at this desperate attempt to avoid your fate, but also at being vulnerable. His face was so close now that you could see every drop of water clinging to his white long lashes, you could also feel the intensity radiating from him like a physical force.

"I told you not to say stupid stuff." he said, his voice low and biting, each word hitting like a hammer "You’re dumb enough as it is."

You wanted him to leave you alone.

You growled in frustration, your movements wild and erratic as you struggled against his grip, you tried to kick him, but to no avail "Let go of me, you asshole!"

"No." his response was immediate, tone resolute.

Can he listen to you for once?

"Fuck you!" you hissed.

"You already did!" he barked, his voice cracking through the tension like lightning.

You froze, the retort you’d been about to throw back dying on your tongue. That was an answer you didn't expected. It made you pause. Well...

Gojo sighed, a sound of exasperation tinged with something softer, something almost like… care "You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?" he muttered "But I’d rather deal with that than lose you."

What?

No, you must have overheard, he would never say such a thing to you.

You would almost believe those softly sparkling eyes, that looked at you in a way that it felt anxious. Well, almost, because you knew exactly who was saying those words to you. You scolded yourself for this in your head.

"Why the hell are you here?" you demanded an answer on dodged question, voice shaking with both anger and something dangerously close to despair "Did you save me because you were afraid you’d lose your favorite object of derision? To mock me? To laugh at how pathetic I’ve become?"

His eyes widened briefly, the accusation catching him off guard, before narrowing again in frustration "Do you seriously think I’d waste my time saving your sorry ass just to mock you?" he shots back "God, you’re so full of yourself sometimes."

"Then why?" you spat "Why did you saved me?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze shifting to the side, avoiding yours entirely. You could see the tension in his jaw. But he still said nothing. As the answer was too much for him to bear. He was about to speak, but he noticed the way you shivered violently, the cold catching you again. The soaked fabric of your clothes still clung to you, and the sharp autumn air made it impossible to stop trembling. Gojo changed his mind.

"I’ll let you go now." his voice lower, less biting "Get dressed - but no stupid actions."

His grip on you eased, and he moved back just enough to give you space, though not far enough to let you out of his reach. He stayed seated on the damp ground, watching your every move with an intensity that made your skin crawl. He didn’t trust you. Not yet.

You listened, you didn't have a choice now.

You crawled toward the pile of clothes, hands shaking so badly that it was difficult to grab anything properly. You stripped off your soaked shirt and pulled on your hoodie in a hurry, not caring whether he saw or not. You were too cold to care about modesty, too angry to care about anything else.

He also got dressed, buttoning up his sweats and putting on his jacket. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until his voice broke through.

"Why do you act like a moron?" his words were sharp, almost accusing, but there was something beneath them - a tremor of genuine frustration. Not a trace of his previous gentleness.

You didn’t answer, keeping your focus on zipping up your jacket, your movements jerky and uneven.

He grabbed your arm suddenly, firm but not painful "Oi, answer me!" his voice rose, the intensity of it cutting through the cold air.

You snapped your head up, your eyes blazing as you glared at him "The hell do you want?"

All you wanted now was to escape to a warm room and cry.

His grip on your arm tightened for a moment before loosening slightly, but still there, his expression flickering from serious to worried to confused "Why... why did you want- " he struggled for the words, frowning "Why did you want to end it all? It’s stupid, this logic is idiotic even for you."

You growled.

"What’s dumb is that you don’t understand it." you shot back, your voice sharp, almost venomous. The anger bubbling inside you was the only thing keeping the cold at bay. You wanted to get up, but his grip kept you down.

"The stupid thing is what you’re doing." he countered, his voice rising again "Do you think your death will change anything?"

That was enough for you.

"Great!" you shouted, pulling your arm free of his grip and stepping back, your chest heaving as emotions boiled over "If I’m so fucking worthless, then let me die, for fuck’s sake!"

Shock.

Pure, undeniable shock.

Those vivid blue eyes of his, so infuriatingly piercing, widened. Eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly, as if he were about to speak, but no words came out. It's as if he doesn't believe you just said that. As if he just realised the seriousness of the situation. You saw his chest start to rise faster, not sure if from the cold…. or from panic.

"I don’t want you to -" he started, his voice breaking slightly, even softer than before.

But you crossed your limits.

"You won, okay!?" you cut him off, voice sharp, loud and trembling. The words spilled out of you like a flood, raw, unrestrained "You can rub my face in your victory now! I don’t care anymore! Torment me, mock me, laugh at me - now’s your time!"

His eyes narrowed, confusion clear as his brow furrowed "What?"

"Do it! Now’s the time where you can laugh all you want, insult me all you want - because now, at least, you have a reason!"

"I- " he tried to speak, but you wouldn’t let him.

"Tell me what a failure I am!" you suddenly cried "Tell me how I mean nothing, how all my efforts have gone to waste, how I’m worthless! Because now, at least, I’ll admit you’re right!"

"Stop-" he started, but his words fell flat against the force of your pain.

"Tell me how all your life you knew you were better!" you shouted, hands shaking as you gripped the sleeves of your jakcet "Tell me I’m an idiot, that I’ve always been dumb! Laugh in my face, mock me, just finish me! Say all the things you’ve been thinking, all the things you’ve wanted to say - just say it!"

Your voice broke completely, the words tumbling into a sob "You can finish me..." you choked "Come on. Just… just do it!"

This was to much, you felt so so much.

He was so disoriented. You could see this by his reaction.

"Because I'd believe you'd laugh than suddenly care what happens to me." you chocked.

Silence.

Tears blurred your vision. You were done pretending to have any pride left. You've had enough of everything. You didn't understand his reaction, his sudden tenderness confused you, everything was so wrong. You just wanted to get back to normal, when you - and everything had it's place.

But no, suddenly the world has turned - you don't have your technique, your father will probably disown you, and your rival and bully is suddenly trying to be nice. You don't want to be here anymore. You don't know how to find yourself in this world and you don't know how to talk about it.

It's humiliating to cry in front of him, you know it, but you don't care. You let it all out, just like the water from before.

He just stared at you, eyes wide, jaw tight. You could barely see through the fact that you sobbing next to him, hiding your face and bringing your legs to your chest.

"No." he whispered.

You blinked at him, raising your head, confused "What?"

"No." he repeated, louder this time, his voice firm but trembling "I’m not going to mock you."

You let out a loud bitter laugh, shaking your head "Of course not. Because you don’t even have to, do you? I’ve already done it for you."

"That’s not-" he cut himself off, shortening the distance between you "You’re wrong."

"About what?" your voice breaking again "About being a failure? About being nothing? Tell me what part of that is wrong?"

"All of it." he confirmed, voice steady now, glowing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart clenched "Every single word. You’re not nothing. You’re not a failure. And I swear to God, if you say that again, I’m going to-"

"To what?" you challenged "Save me again? Drag me out of the lake and lecture me about how I should see the bright side of losing everything? Spare me the pity, Gojo. I don’t need it."

"It’s not pity!" his voice ringing loud, showing that emotions were also building up inside him. Unexpectedly, two large hands moved to cup your face, forcing you to look at him, to stare at two glowing blue dots "I’m not here because I pity you. I’m here because-" he faltered, voice catching as his breath hitched, his thumbs brushing against your cold, damp skin "Because I care."

The silence that followed was deafening. You froze, your face dropping as the weight of confession hit you like a tidal wave. He wonders if you know how much it cost him to tell you this directly. You, you wonder if what he says is a joke.

He... what?

His hands stayed on your face, steady despite the way they trembled slightly "I wanted to talk to you." the voice that came out of him was so quiet, so full of affection, that it was almost nothing like his "I started looking for you as soon as I got back from the mission. I wanted to... I don’t know, do something. Anything."

You burst out laughing bitterly, the sound sharp and raw in the stillness. It felt absurd, impossible. Gojo Satoru, your rival, the person you’d been compared to all your entire life, the one who mocked you, humiliated you endlessly, competed with you relentlessly - suddenly was caring about you?

You don’t believe him - because how could you?

For so many years, he had been the same infuriating presence in your life, treating you with an air of superiority and, at times, outright disdain. His words had cut shar, leaving wounds you’d carried silently for years.

There wasn’t a single thing he hadn’t laughed at. Your hair, he’d compared it to the end of a broomstick. Your smile? He’d once called it a donkey’s grin - or whatever the Japanese equivalent it was, delivered with his trademark smirk that made you want to slap it off his face. Your taste in music? "Cheesy pop thrash" And your clothes? Oh, that was his favorite target "Are you dressing ironically?" he’d asked once, tilting his head with mock curiosity "Or is this a social experiment I missed?" It didn’t stop there. He even mocked the way you walked once, calling it "Too stiff, like you’re auditioning for a role as a wooden puppet"., the way you ate "You attack food like it owes you money." and even the way you carried your books "Why are you holding them like that?" he’d said, mimicking your grip dramatically "You're so weak that you can't hold them properly?"

So yeah, it was laughable.

He may have saved you and you may want to believe in what he says, but you are just not able to.

Can you really blame yourself?

Well, kinda, because you were the one making out with him every other day. You might have believed that he liked your attention, that he might have wanted you - but you wouldn't believe that he wanted to care about you.

You reached up and pulled his hands off your face, your cold fingers brushing against his quite warm ones "Don't give me that. What could you supposedly do?" you asked, voice dripping with disbelief and mockery. The cold seeping back into your body now that his touch was gone

"Anything." he said, his words still tumbling out, almost frantic "Talk, sit with you, I don’t know - something. I- " he stopped, his own frustration bleeding into his voice "I don’t know." his eyes were so pleading.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the tremors as you looked away "Don't bother." voice low, void of fight "Doesn't matter now. My father is picking me up tomorrow."

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I have heard too many versions, all from different people, of what my father supposedly planned that - that I don't know..." you paused, the lump in your throat growing unbearable as you forced yourself to say these words.

You wanted to say that you were afraid, that you didn't know what to do, that you felt you had let everyone down, that nothing made sense to you now.

That it was too much.

That you didn't allowed yourself any form of comfort.

"I know one thing, though." you hesitated, the weight of your next words heavy, but you looked up, meeting his gaze with trembling resolve "I’d rather die now, than live my life as a clan failure."

He growled, frustrated, as if nothing is working on his favour. As if he was breaking.

"Who cares what the clan thinks? Who cares about anything they say?" Gojo’s voice rising, desperate and insistent, his words coming faster now, blabbering "They’re a bunch of old fools who don’t know what they’re talking about! You are more than their expectations. You are more than your technique. You are - "

Maybe he wanted to comfort you that way or maybe he wanted you to believe his tale of him 'caring about you'.

But you had already made up your mind.

Gojo knew that you might not believe him in what he was saying now, he knew, that you would be angry with him for all that he has done- you were right - you should be. What he didn't predict, however, was that you would know him well enough to know this one hidden truth about him.

What you say now will leave a mark on him for years. You frowned, voice totaly sure of the words you're saying.

"Don’t preach to me about things you don’t even believe yourself."

You hadn’t spoken since that night by the lake.

Not when you were picked up, your father’s silence mirroring your own as you sat stiffly beside him, staring out the car's window. Not when he informed you of your new path with the cold efficiency of a man making a business transaction.

Your age wasn't very favourable for this, admittedly - you should have started your training as a maiko a long time ago, wanting to become a geiko. However, your father, using his connections, found a place that will accept you for training. He found an okiya in Kanazawa that from now on - will be your temporary home.

You didn’t fight him. You didn’t speak at all. You have done enough.

The years that followed were grueling in their own way, though nothing compared to what you’d endured before.

Training as a maiko demanded a different kind of perfection, a complete transformation of body and mind. The disciplined, precise movements of martial arts you had once mastered - were now replaced by the elegant, deliberate grace of traditional dance. Every step, every turn, every motion had to flow with effortless beauty, concealing the pain and time it took to perfect them.

You hated every second of it.

Your figure changed over time, slimming down in ways you hadn’t anticipated and curving in a few other places. You "got smaller", your once powerful frame softening into something more delicate, more feminine. Your reflection in the mirror became even stranger - a porcelain doll painted and adorned to please others. Gone were the rugged hands that once wielded cursed tools, now they held fans, makeup brushes, creating beauty where you once brought destruction.

The contrast was unbearable.

You missed the fight, the passion, the adrenaline, the raw exhilaration of your old life. Sometimes, as you trained with the fan, your body betrayed your mind, instinctively slipping into the stances meant for a sword. For your lost technique.

Every day felt like a reminder, a performance, not just for others but for yourself, as if pretending long enough might make you forget what you had lost.

But it didn't.

You never completely left your old self behind; the memory of that person remained vivid, etched into your mind. Recalling the past -missions, getaways, trainings, fleeting moments of triumph and connection - became a daily ritual. Nostalgia and grief intertwined, two of many companions that you had learned to live with, their weight both comforting and unbearable.

Despite it all, he kept reaching out to you.

Gojo’s messages came daily at first, long, rambling texts filled with details of his day - missions, strange encounters, little jokes he’d picked up along the way. He sent pictures of things he thought might make you laugh: a badly drawn doodle of you scowling, a ridiculous meme, a cursed object that looked suspiciously like a poorly designed toy. Each message carried a tone of casual insistence, as though he were trying to prove his point - that he cared. Or perhaps he was trying to reshape your relationship, to turn you from the rival he mocked constantly into something else, maybe - a friend.

Eventually, the messages slowed. Whether it was his own frustration, the demands of his life, or something else entirely, you didn’t know. You didn’t care to know. Cutting yourself off from him, from everyone, was the only way you knew how to endure.

At some point, you stopped reading them altogether. The weight of shame pressed down on your chest, suffocating any inclination to respond. You couldn’t face him - or anyone from your past. The person they knew was gone, and what remained of you was too broken, too hollow, to withstand their judgment or pity.

Your thoughts spiraled endlessly, dragging you deeper into a pit of self-doubt. You convinced yourself that no one could possibly care for who you were now - powerless, dull, and unremarkable. What was left of you wasn’t worth saving, and surely, he had to see that too. Eventually, you were certain, he would stop trying. And that thought, as much as it pained you, felt like the only mercy left.

Sometimes, you’d catch yourself hovering over his messages, tempted to open them. The thought of catching a glimpse of the snippets of his life - once so intertwined with yours - felt like a small, guilty comfort.

But no, you didn't do it.

Years just passed, and the day of your Kurokami, the ceremonial debut marking your transition to full-fledged geiko, arrived. Your father had spared no effort, inviting everyone of importance - every known clan in the jujutsu world, their representatives gathered on the sprawling estate for a grand celebration steeped in tradition and political maneuvering.

It wasn’t about you. It was never about you.

This was a spectacle, a carefully orchestrated display of your father’s influence and connections. Each guest, each detail, was part of a greater plan to cement alliances and further his ambitions. You were just another piece of that plan, an accessory to his power.

The highlight of the evening was the final dance of a maiko, the moment of transition - a symbol of beauty and accomplishment in its purest form. But it wasn’t your dance. It wasn’t you, his daughter, he didn't even introduce you.

No, you were just a dancer now.

You entered the stage in silence, your heart slowing as the soft glow of the spotlight bathed you in its warmth. The muted chatter of the crowd faded into an expectant hush, the weight of hundreds of gazes pressing down on you. The air felt thick, heavy with the unspoken demands of the evening. The elaborate kimono you wore seemed to amplify that weight, its intricate embroidery shimmering under the light. Each layer of fabric, from the trailing hikizuri hem to the opulent obi tied with meticulous care, felt like a chain binding you to the role you were expected to fulfill.

The role that you didn't like.

The adornments on your hair - a delicate array of golden combs and jade pins - added to the strain, each piece glinting like a reminder of the perfection demanded of you. Even the subtle fragrance of incense clinging to your garments seemed to emphasize your place in this performance: a symbol, a display, but never a person.

Your movements, however, betrayed none of your inner turmoil. You moved with the fluidity that had been drilled into you for years, every step and turn perfectly calculated. The soft clack of your lacquered sandals against the polished wood echoed through the room, a rhythm as precise as the dance itself. Each motion was a testament to your training, your arms flowing gracefully as though carried by the air.

And then you saw him.

He’d changed. A lot. The years had shaped him into someone sharper, more refined, though the essence of him - remained unmistakable. His snow-white hair was still its signature mess, but it seemed more intentional now, as though he’d taken the time to style it. The glasses he wore were different, darker and sleeker, framing his face in a way that gave him an air of maturity you weren’t prepared for. Somehow, impossibly, he seemed even taller.

Even more handsome.

You couldn’t remember every detail of his face - time had eroded those memories - but some things stayed vivid. You remembered his hands cupping your face that night by the lake, trembling and warm despite the chill. You remembered the look in his eyes, desperate, as if trying to hold onto something slipping through his grasp. Those moments had etched themselves into your mind in ways you hadn’t dared to revisit.

Is it bad that you missed seeing him?

At first, his expression was unreadable, his lips slightly parted as though he’d been caught mid-thought. His usual cocky smirk, the one you had come to know and despise - was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a stunned stillness to him, an uncharacteristic vulnerability that made your chest tighten. Those piercing blue eyes, always so vivid, widened as they traced your figure.

You could see the faint flicker of recognition in them, the way his gaze darted across you as if trying to reconcile the person before him with the one he had known.

You couldn’t glance at him as much as you wanted to, though the urge tugged at you with every turn, every delicate gesture. The temptation was a steady hum beneath your practiced composure, but you ignored it.

Whatever he felt, whatever you felt, didn’t matter. Not here. Not now.

It was the longest performance you've ever done.

When your it ended, the room erupted into applause, a symphony of polite enthusiasm filling the grand space. Guests turned to your father, their compliments flowing freely, every word dripping with veiled flattery.

"What a remarkable performance, truly exquisite." one elder said, nodding with approval. He said this loud enough that you could hear him.

"Master, your planning is unmatched." said another, their tone measured and calculated "A brilliant highlight for the evening."

But not him.

He didn’t join the chorus of praise. He didn’t clap. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, silent, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that felt like it might swallow you whole. The weight of his gaze burned hotter than any ovation, lingering on you as though he were trying to reach across the distance, trying to say something without words. Maybe something like - look at me again.

You didn’t dare to do this again, too afraid to face him, to face the reality of all you’d ignored: the messages you’d left unread, his attempts to connect with you, his clumsy, awkward texts filled with jokes and small glimpses of his life. You couldn’t bear the thought of the weight in his gaze reflecting those unanswered words, those years of silence between you.

Instead, you kept your head high, your back straight, your movements precise as you exited the stage. You didn’t need to see his face to feel his disappointment - or his persistence. It lingered in the air, following you even as you stepped out of the light.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission

[fastlikealambo]

holy crowns || paul atreides x black! reader

summary: it was supposed to be your sister, your bene gesserit trained sister molded by the great houses, spy for the imperium. with no warning, paul chooses you instead and changes your life forever. some call him messiah, others an abomination, but you will call him husband.this will be a multi chapter work and 18+only. note: hello! this takes place after the events of dune part two and Paul is about to become emperor. Irulan and her father are in exile and Chani is gone. thank you for reading! if you wish to see the story continue on beyond this chapter, please comment or reblog!

@drunkennunicornn

@fanfiction-addict22

@wonderpals02

@qveendiorsworld

@turn-thy-paige

@hoyoooo

@oscarissac2099

@inesven

@blahzaiblahsheep

CHAPTER ONE

THE MUAD'DIB CHOOSES A BRIDE.

Blood and roses.

     “I told you to be careful.” Your sister chided in a motherly tone, despite being only one year older than you, handing you a small handkerchief. With a mouthful of pins, you uttered a small sound of gratitude and used your non-injured hand to finish the task of placing metal rose hair pins in her braided crown. You’d be in Arrakis in less than an hour but your sister wanted her last precious moments alone to be with you.

    “There, done.  My sister, the jewel of the outer world and now Arrakis, I still can’t believe this is happening. Do you think he will be kind?” You asked, straightening up to face your sister in the mirror.

 You shared the same deep brown skin and nose of your father but that was where the similarities ended. Both of your mothers had been models of the Bene Gesserit order but only one of your mothers had been made wife of a Duke, and the other a concubine, no less loved.

Until your mother passed, leaving you alone to face rumors of her madness. As you grew so did the stories of the concubine who lost her way and denied herself spice and in turn, denied you of a mother and the protection of the order that trained her and your sister.

     “Paul Atreides is an abomination, a tainted nova and your sister will make him anew, his kindness is of no importance. You may go, your sister and I need to speak.”  Reverend Mother Mohiam said from her place in the doorway.

    “I only need a few more minutes with my sister Reverend Mother, we’re nearly ready.” Your sister said, hand in yours.

GO.

A thousand and one tiny cuts into your brain, you found yourself outside of your sister’s room frozen in place.

  You still remember the day Reverend Mother came to take your sister away to train under the sisterhood.You made the mistake asking why, why could you not go together.

    “You carry your mother’s agony. You are not sufficient, there is no bite within you, human child. My order has no need of sentient infirmity.”

The Reverend Mother was correct.

What was to be your life after your sister was gone?

Where would your path lead?

There was no place for agony among the stars.

The heat of Arrakis resembled a distraught lover, sloppy kisses of sweat covered your body, the breeze that accompanied the opening of your ship doors held no comfort. 

You stood behind your sister, poised to pick up the train of her gown the moment your house would disembark the ship but for some reason, no one could leave yet.

Over her shoulder, your sister smiled, stretching her hand behind her back for you one last time. Yet before you could take it, your sister froze, a sudden faraway look in her eyes. Through your veil you watched her eyes widen, her hands clenched into fists. 

    “He’s coming here! The Muad'Dib is boarding the ship!”  A guard whispered fiercely to another.

No one seemed to notice what was happening but before you took a step towards your sister, her gaze was fixed on you. Despite the heat, you were freezing beneath her stare, unsure if it was your sister or the Bene Gesserit acolyte looking upon you.

The sound of marching feet and chanting distracted you both and all aboard the ship including fell to their knees, the Reverend Mother the only exception. You stood with the others, eyes to the floor, hands shaking as someone made their way down the line, your father making introductions as an attempt at conversation but there was only silence in return.

 You waited for the footsteps to end at your sister but they continued on, barely masked gasps filled the now crowded ship and a pair of boots entered your line of vision.

REMOVE YOUR VEIL. 

The trembling in your fingers instantly vanished and with otherworldly precision, you removed the veil from your face, the silk sliding down the back of your braids and to the floor.

The Muad’Dib was looking at you. 

      “Her.”

One by one, every Feydakin behind him took a knee and your house got over their confusion quickly, copying the motion, your sister, eyes wet, included. 

Paul Atreides bowed before you, blue within blue eyes never leaving yours.

      “Welcome to Arrakis.”

That’s our first chapter, I hope you like it! If you would like to see chapter two, please interact with this chapter, comment or reblog! Thank you for reading. 

[nightwngz]

Older bat! Damian with super or wonder reader who's like sheltered and oblivious to the real world and they go on a mission or smith together and the whole times she's just doing whatever he says because that's what she's used to and he's just like damnn and finds that really attractive

— 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 ! ☆

older!damian wayne x fem!reader

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀… drabble smut. porn with a plot. dirty talk. fingering. Damian uses Arabic nicknames.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁. . . no copying of my work is allowed. Free translation is allowed as long as I am credited.

𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗴𝗲. . . as I said in my other posts, English is not my first language. I have tried to make corrections with the translator, but as you all know, it is prone to making mistakes, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or if anything sounds weird.

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲… I don't know how I feel about myself today, but I decided to write this for you anyway. I hope you like it. <3

It was one of the first times you, a young girl exiled from the real world and born on an island paradise inhabited only by women, had contact with what was considered 'the real world.' You were not yet accustomed to many things, especially the existence of men, or perhaps men like Damian Wayne.

On Themyscira, you were used to following orders. When the Queen or your trainer told you to "do this," you knew exactly what to do. But when you joined the Justice League and met Batman, you initially believed you were supposed to act the same way. You soon realized that maybe you should have listened when Jon told you to ignore him completely.

At that moment, Damian Wayne, now known as Batman, was the last person you wanted to be trapped with in a situation like this. The two of you were locked in a reinforced room with no way out, where neither your strength nor your wits could help you get out. So you found yourself trapped with the one man who liked to bark orders like he was the king of Gotham.

— You really don't know what to do? — He asked, annoying you again. — Before, Wonder Women were effective.

However, you tried to heed Jon's advice; thus, you responded to him without intending to participate in his game.

— Yes, and in my land, men didn't even exist. So I'm just getting used to working with the inefficiency of one.

Damian slowly approached the box you were sitting in with an annoying grin on his face.

— In fact, I am a detective. Of course I know how to get out of here.

Your confused expression made him smile even harder at your confusion. You weren't sure if it was fair to feel like a complete idiot, but that was exactly how you felt at that moment. Besides, you didn't like him at all.

— And you never thought to open the door, or are you just trying to annoy me by making me live with you?

— Actually... — He replied, moving even closer to you. — I'm testing you. Go and open the door as best you can — He finally ordered.

And as if it were a sacred word, you stood up, determined to open the door to the room at any cost. At first, you tried to break it down with blows, but your strength wasn't enough. It was probably made of some incredibly strong material, possibly of alien origin.

— Try pulling the doorknob with your lasso — he suggested, and once again, you listened.

Damian couldn't help but find the way you obeyed like a trained dog incredibly attractive. Deep down, he felt that he had you at his mercy and that no matter what he asked you to do, you would listen.

Totally exhausted from the effort, you knelt on the ground, but you didn't give up. Feeling sorry for you, he reached over to stroke your hair, trying to calm you down.

— Pretty obedient little thing. — He flattered, lifting your chin so you could look him in the eye. — You don't know how to say no, do you?

A wave of intense heat enveloped you. Perhaps it was the first time you had ever found yourself in an intimate situation with someone, as you had always believed that your body was trained solely for an impending war. Yet, when Damian was around, that was the one purpose of your training you occasionally forgot.

— If I asked you to take off your underwear, would you be so obedient, habibati?

Your cheeks reddened immediately. You knew you should avoid this kind of situation, but having been trained on the island, you understood that you had to follow the orders of a superior. Batman was more experienced than you, making him your superior, and you felt obligated to obey him.

Immediately your panties fell down under the metal skirt of your suit, exposing your pussy to the man in the room.

From what you knew about men, you noticed they often looked for specific qualities in women. However, Damian had never shown any boldness towards you. As time passed, the 'sexual tension' that Jon had mentioned began to feel more like an annoyance.

When he saw that you were listening to him, he smiled as usual. But his smile was not one of despair; it was one of desire.

He knelt down to be at the same height as you. Gently, he slid a finger down your soaked pussy while keeping his eyes on yours, watching for any reaction on your face.

You understood what he was doing and how he was touching every part of the anatomy between your legs with precision. What you didn't understand was how he was so skilled at it.

You couldn't hold back your moans as you felt him gently pinch your now throbbing clit. His touch drove you crazy as you felt waves of pleasure crash against you.

— Damn, what a good girl. Sorry to tell you, Habibati... I have a weakness for obedient women.

[lunavelha]

Come Back, be here.

Paring : Laxus Dreyar x f!reader.

Word Count : 3381.

Contains : Explicit content, beginning of smut, thigh riding. Minors DNI.

My note : English is not my main tongue, and i do not have any beta reader, so sorry if I have made any mistake ! Also, it was supposed to be longer, but I didn’t wrote a smut for such a long time that I stopped it before. I hope you can still enjoy it tho’ !

Be careful spoiler of tenor arc /!\

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

7 years. 7 long years had passed, so much pain had been caused by the disappearance of her friends, since he had disappeared. She hadn't had a chance to speak with him after he'd been exiled from the guild, and unfortunately, the last words they'd exchanged had been words of anger. It had started out as a small argument, but in just a few minutes it had grown into something much bigger.

Ever since that day, (y/n) had been replaying her own words over and over in her mind. She told herself that she could have understood his point of view better, that she shouldn't have been so mean or defensive, that she could have asked him to talk, to sit down, or at least to separate for a few minutes until he calmed down. (Y/n) now had to carry the guilt on her shoulders, now that he was gone, she would never have the chance to make amends.

She had needed to get as far away from the guild as possible, everything reminded her of Laxus, his place at the bar, the table where he usually sat with the Thunder God Tribe, or even just her house. His scent was still in the sheets, his clothes were still in the wardrobe. She'd never found the courage to take them off, she didn't want to lose him again. (Y/n) still had a small part of hope inside her that he wasn't dead after all, that he'd turn up on her doorstep and everything would go back to the way it was before. But she knew it was a lost cause, something she dreamt about every night.

And then one fine morning, Lamia Scale was there, saying that at last there might still be some realistic hope. The energy at the island hadn't completely disappeared, and was slowly building up again after all these years. (Y/n) had simply let her gaze wander to the horizon, but what if it wasn't true? Perhaps the magic really was returning to this place, but without giving their friends a chance of survival. The young woman had refused to go on an adventure with the others, but she could see that some of them were terribly happy, especially the members of Shadow Gear. She had no right to let her feelings get the better of her too, she had to keep a cold head, keep her hopes deep in her heart, and above all, not let anyone see it.

"-You can go home, it's possible they'll be back tomorrow, there's no real point in spending the night here. When they're back, don't worry, you'll know." Macao said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"-I...I don't even know why I'm still here. Every time they leave, we end up disappointed... If you only knew how much I want it to be the right one, for them to suddenly walk through the door, for Gray to strip, for Natsu to start fighting him, for Erza to try and separate them so that her cake gets destroyed, and for her to finally join in the fight too. And Laxus... Even if he came back, could he come back to the guild? Would he want to talk to me..." She looked at the guild leader, before shaking her head. "-I'm just at my breaking point sometimes."

"-Go get some rest, you're back from a mission. But we're here, we can support you, okay? Whether it's tomorrow, or even for years, we're with you. One day we'll understand, one day I'm sure we'll find them." He nodded to her towards the door. "-I'll walk you out, Romeo's still outside, you know how he's been since..."

"-He lost Natsu, we all know how much he admires him. He's like me on this one, too much hope ends up hurting, he's protecting himself."

Macao and (y/n) left the guild, walking through the streets of Magnolia. The young woman looked around, trying to find Romeo, it was a way for her not to think about what was going to happen in the next few hours at least. Once at Magnolia South Park, (y/n) noticed Romeo sitting against the tree, looking around. He too didn't want to get his hopes up. Telling Macao that she could finish on her own, she left him to go and talk to his son.

The young woman arrived home a few minutes later, and sat down on her sofa, looking in front of her, where on the small table was a drawing of the Thunder God Tribe, a gift from Reader. 

The only thing she could do now was wait, and above all, hope to see her lifelong love alive again.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

Hours had passed without any real news. (y/n) finally got up and stood in front of the window, trying to see someone from the guild approaching. But no one came. When there was a sudden knock on the door, she frowned, wondering who it could be, and went straight to open it.

Behind her was Bisca, a slight smile on her face. It was surprising, since she hadn't seen her coming from the guild, perhaps she came here from the boat?

"-I figured you'd be here." She smiled at him, "-Come on, let's get back to the guild."

"-If you're here it's to say something, no need to leave to do so."

"-I'm not saying anything until we get back to the guild. Take your jacket or don't, but I'm not waiting for you."

The woman leaves her house, letting (y/n) stand here for a few seconds, wondering what she should do. She knew that she would be disappointed at the end, that they didn’t find anyone. But… what if ? What if he has come back ? Having finally made her decision, she left her house, barely taking the time to lock her front door. Bisca hadn't waited for her, and had already started on her way to the guild. (Y/n) had to run to catch up with her, coming to her side without saying a word.

A lump of anxiety had filled her stomach, and she could feel it growing as they walked. 

After a few minutes, she stopped, hearing much more noise than usual coming from the guild. (Y/n) looked at Bisca, as if to ask if she was dreaming. So much noise could only mean one thing. A Fairy Tail party. A celebration. And so, the return of their companions, their friends, their family. The woman smiled gently at her, nodding. That was enough for (y/n) to start running, her heart beating so fast she could hear it in her ears. She didn't waste a second opening the door of the guild, discovering all those they had lost 7 years ago, all those they had mourned, cried.

And suddenly, in front of his eyes, was Natsu ruffling Romeo's hair, like a big brother would. Macao with Mirajane and Makarov chatting at the bar, probably making up for lost time. Erza with a slice of strawberry cake, while being with Alzack. Levy surrounded by Jet and Droy, crying non-stop as she tries to reassure them. Gildarts and Cana were at a table, a beer in front of each of them. Lisanna, Elfman, Lucy, Wendy, Gray, Juvia, Gajeel... Everyone was finally back.

She entered the room, attracting stares from her friends, but each of them said nothing - they knew who she was looking for. She too had the right to find him without being interrupted. Her gaze fell on his blond hair, and her eyes softened as tears quickly filled her eyes. Laxus turned around after Fried nudged him lightly, pointing to the young woman with a shake of his head.

Laxus rose from the bar, his gaze meeting the eyes of the woman he loved, the woman who had never really left his thoughts, the woman he had thought of directly when he woke up on this island. He was the first to move forward, realising that she must still be in a state of shock. 

When he reached her level, he looked her up and down, realising that he had not kept his promise to always be there for her. For years she had been alone, she had suffered, she had probably had to fight. And he had simply disappeared from the face of the earth thanks to the Fairy Sphere. It was their only means of survival, and yet he blamed himself. Of course, Acnologia's arrival was not his fault, or that of anyone else in the guild, but he regretted his past actions. He'd been so blinded by it that he'd forgotten that behind it all, once the doors were closed, there was someone who loved him.

His hand rose to rest tenderly on her cheek, never taking his eyes off her for a second. He was trying to communicate his endless love for her, words had never really been his forte, but at this moment, he promised himself he would make an effort. She deserved it, she deserved all the happiness in the world, and Laxus wanted to be part of her happiness, he wanted to make her smile every morning when he kissed her, when he told her he loved her.

“-Laxus…” She whispers in a trembling voice.

“-I’m here now my love, I will never leave you again. I swear.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, smiling. “-I’m sorry for everything that happened in the past, I will make up to you, we will be happy if you still want us to be together.”

“-Of course I want us, I never even thought about leaving you. Now that you are here again, you are stuck with me.” She let out a small laugh, although you could hear the emotion in her voice.

The blond smiled at her tenderly, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head, holding her against him as a few tears escaped from her eyes. The guild members around them looked on in delight. Makarov, the master, well, the former master, was happy to see his grandson reunited with the woman who loved him. Of course, he still couldn't understand how Laxus could have strayed from the straight and narrow by having someone like (y/n) by his side, but the main thing was that now, he wasn't just interested in possessing power. 

Surprisingly, even Natsu hadn't said anything, he hadn't intervened to ask (y/n) to fight him, or Laxus. He'd realised that this wasn't the time, and it was one of the rare occasions when he finally understood the need not to be interrupted. Gray had done the same, not yet trying to provoke the pink-haired one, after all he could wait.

Once the reunion at the guild centre was over, (y/n) and Laxus headed towards the Thunder God Tribe to have a little more privacy. The young woman smiled at Freed, Bickslow and Evergreen; she'd had time to really get to know them since she was a child, but also in a different way as Laxus's girlfriend. Once the blond was seated, he pulled her closer to him, making her sit on his lap, putting a firm arm around her waist to hold her against his body.

“-You’re coming back to the guild right ?” She whispers to his only attention, looking at him expectantly.

“-I don’t know yet baby, for the moment I’m just happy to be here. I will speak to gramps later.”

“-Then you’re still living with me, I have your stuff in my closet.”

“-Of course, even if I didn’t want to, you would have kidnapped me, you little minx.”

The couple started to laugh, happy to finally be back together after so many years. She did not let him go, keeping her arms around him.

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

For the rest of the night, (y/n) stayed with Laxus, her face against his chest, finally complete again. The guild had slowly begun to empty, with those who had lodgings outside leaving to join him. The young woman couldn't help but feel sorry for her friends, as when they had disappeared, the guild had managed to pay some of the rent so that their debts weren't too high, but over the last 4 years, this had become totally impossible. Missions had become rarer and rarer, guide members were leaving, and the worst was during the Grand Magic Games. The guild's reputation had been destroyed in such a short space of time. 

Laxus drew her attention by gently kissing her cheek, making her lift her face towards him so that she could meet his gaze. There was so much love in his eyes that (y/n) thought she might start crying again just from that.

"I love you.” She said softly, placing a hand on his jaw. "And I missed you terribly."

"I love you too". He grabs her hand and places a kiss on it. "Let's go home, shall we? I need to be forgiven.”

There was something in his gaze that instantly lit a flame in (y/n). It was a look she could recognise at any moment, something she could never forget. And it told her that her night was not about to end. The woman agreed, rising first, followed by Laxus, who wasted no time in taking her hand and pulling her out of the guild.

The walk to their shared flat seemed to last an eternity, with Laxus's firm hand still in hers, leading the way at a quick pace. He didn't even take a second to look around, the only thing that mattered to him at the moment was (y/n). He had never felt the need to be close to her so strongly, the need to kiss her, to show her his love, to prove to her that he had come back and that he would never leave her alone again.

No sooner had they entered their flat than Laxus pushed her against the door, pressing his lips directly against hers in a passionate, fiery kiss. The couple knew that if they had kissed in the guild, they would have ended up putting on a show that their friends would not have wanted to see. And all that tension was being released as the two came to lose themselves in each other's arms. 

"-If you only knew how much I'd missed your lips." He said between kisses, his voice having suddenly become deeper, his hands had begun to venture down her body, reaching under her T-shirt to caress the soft skin of her stomach. "-I missed your body, your skin, your voice, everything about you."

"-Laxus..." She intervenes in a low voice, meeting his gaze. "-I need you so much, please." Her voice became more plaintive, almost begging.

“-I know baby, but you gotta wait.” He replied softly, continuing to kiss her.

They kissed again, Laxus gently running his tongue over her lips before nibbling her bottom lip. At his movement, (y/n) let out a plaintive moan. Between her thighs, she could already feel the moisture building up, and only the desire to see the blond man take care of it filled her mind. However, he seemed determined to discover her body again, as if it were their first time. (Y/n) came and put his arms around her shoulders, bringing him even closer to her. She could feel a lump forming against her, but knew better than to say anything to him, the tension had to be built up, they both had to get closer to the edge, the better they would fall.

The blonde only broke the kiss for a few seconds, just long enough to look at his girlfriend, her eyes slightly moist, filled with passion and desire. A desire that only he was capable of satisfying. This thought only excited him even more, and he came back to kiss her fiercely, removing his own jacket at the same time and letting it fall to their feet. (y/n)'s jacket joined it only moments later. 

Their body temperature seemed to have risen a hundred degrees in just a few minutes, and all it took was one kiss to fill them with excitement.

The couple began to explore each other's bodies over the top of their clothes, and Laxus was the first to put his hands under her top again to touch her body. Sensing (y/n)'s curves, he broke the kiss they were sharing, nibbling her neck to put a few love marks on it, leaving his mark, showing everyone that she was his, and his alone. 

“-Such a good girl for me, so sweet, so soft.” His deep voice sent shivers down (y/n)'s spine, making her close her eyes as she looked forward to the next step.

“-Please, please, I’ll be good for you, but please, just touch me already.”

He clicked his tongue lightly, shaking his head as he looked at her disapprovingly. Slowly, he raised a hand, catching her jaw.

"I taught you to be patient, have you forgotten everything already? It's all right, we'll start again from the beginning."

Laxus looked at her, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. He intended to take his time, of course, but he could only understand her desire, her needs. The blond was going to tease her, but in the end, she would be the one to have the last word.

(Y/n) smiled softly, she could feel that he wanted to touch her as much as she did, and yet he held back. The blond returned to kiss her neck just after he had removed her T-shirt, revealing her bra, and using one of his hands, he untied the last piece of clothing, leaving her breasts for him to see alone. Laxus turned his gaze to it, placing one of her breasts in his hand, taking her nipple between two fingers and beginning to touch it. As for the second, he took it into his mouth, sucking gently. The young woman quickly began to moan, throwing her head back against the front door. 

She had waited so long to feel his touch, to feel the pleasure that only he could make her feel for 7 years, 7 long years. Laxus was a desperate man, he wanted to see her face contort with pleasure, so he came to torture her chest, coming to knead her breasts one after the other. 

(y/n) felt her body getting hotter and hotter, the fire completely overwhelming her at the sensation Laxus was making her feel. The blond looked up at her, before slowly moving his second hand down to his trousers, unzipping them. She didn't waste another second sliding them down his legs. He pulled his mouth away from her, putting his arms around her waist to carry her. 

Quickly, he took the common path to the bedroom, before sitting on the edge of the bed, leaving her on his lap. She came to kiss him, putting her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest.

Laxus's hands came to rest on her buttocks as he quickly devoured her lips. Their tongues began a dance together, both with their eyes closed, and both craving each other more and more. The blond came to move her against him, and the young woman moaned into his mouth as she felt her humidity rub against the blond's trousers, giving him a much-needed rub for his crotch.

“-Go ahead baby, come on, use me.”

(y/n) didn't hesitate, starting to accelerate against him. Laxus's fingers became firmer on her buttocks, helping her with her movements. He didn't waste a second of the show, his face concentrated on hers, watching her eyebrows furrow with pleasure, her eyes close as soon as one of the rubbing strokes touched her clitoris particularly well, her half-open mouth letting out moans of pleasure.

“-I know you’re getting closer, baby girl. Does it feel good ? Do you like using my legs for your little pleasure ? We have the entire night for it, you have no idea of how much orgasm I will give you.”

⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄⋆.ೃ࿔⛈ ݁ ˖*༄

©Lunavelha

Do not repost somewhere else, do not translate, or use in any way.

[weclassygirl]

visions

⋆˙⟡ sauron x fem!elf!reader (witch) ⟡˙⋆

summary: the high king makes his judgement, a new path opens

warnings: none

word count: 2,3k

author’s note: here we go, part two for bound… and soon more to come, let me just get their story straight. enjoy!

”The Woodland Realm has exiled you, why should we aid and welcome you in Lindon?” no greeting, no smile, you already feel that this conversation will take a toll on you.

“Did you believe me to be dead? Or did you wish for it?” you ask and curse yourself for your tongue speaks quicker than your mind. Gil-Galad looks at you with disdain. You try to calm your growing anger. “Whatever Oropher told you is not true.”

“Is it not?” he questions and steps closer. The guards watch your every movement, waiting for you to slip up, to give them a reason to attack. “Were you not the Elf that nearly killed a fellow companion because her anger grew into rage?”

An accident. A mere accident that decided the fate of your life.

“I never meant for—“

“But you did.” he cuts you off. You look to Galadriel who stands next to Elrond, he turns away from your sight but the Commander watches the scene unfold.

You wrote to her, countless times to seek her aid. Elrond as well. All of your letters went unanswered and you thought that perhaps an order was given to burn any passage written by you.

Gil-Galad regards you. “You sought out that which is forbidden. Lindon, Greenwood or any other Elven realm will not stand by it.”

You look up at him, the golden crown that adorns his head, gleaming in the sun. He looked like an emissary from the Valar themselves. Your eyes travel to your hands, so much harm they once caused. Gil-Galad waits as you try to gather your words.

“If you wish to punish me, do so when the blade at my neck is yours. I will not be humiliated. Not again.” you say through your teeth.

The Elves whisper around you.

Witch.

Traitor.

Morgoth’s servant.

Banish her.

Send her away.

You hear another whisper, so quick you almost miss it. Almost.

“Defiance does not suit you.” Gil-Galad states. He looks down at your hands, the dark fingertips as if dipped in black ash. The marks on your body, some symbols and some written in Black Speech. The sight disgusts him and for a moment he pities you and what you’ve endured for centuries. “You will fulfill your punishment in Eregion.”

You gawk at the High King as he makes his decree. “Eregion?”

He returns to his place by the Tree and the guards flank your sides, ready to take you away. “Be glad it’s not my blade at your throat. You will be confined in chains at all times, ones that will subdue your magic. Lord Celembrimbor will see to it. He makes them as we speak.”

Chained once again. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, perhaps it’s best not to show any emotion while the others are looking. You let the guards take you away and you cast one last glance at Galadriel and Elrond. He meets your gaze finally and bows his head. You don’t know when you will see them again.

The guards chain you and tie your hands to the reins as the company gathers. You in the middle while four of them surround you. Most of the supplies for the journey were given to you, to weigh down your horse should you try to escape.

The road goes ever winding and after a few weeks of constant travel you reach the gates of Eregion. The Elves gather on their balconies, look through the arches to catch a glimpse at you.

The word has reached here as well.

You wonder why they take such interest in you but it is quickly dismissed. You dabbled in the dark arts, once made a mistake that scarred your path and were a prisoner of Morgoth, but you never served him faithfully, only to survive. The Elves had become paranoid.

The spell you cast was an accident, your companion was alive, received a wound in the process but survived.

Your curiosity however, you could never contain it and the darkness was alluring. It’s a shame to admit to it but it's a necessary truth.

However you don’t think yourself evil, yes you were quick to anger but who wouldn’t be after years of torture?

Celebrimbor stands in front of the gates with a man by his side, he holds a wooden box. When the guards help you come down from the horse you think of making a run for it but that would only prove your actions further.

Guilty and convicted.

One of the guards gives Celebrimbor a scroll, he reads through the letter from Gil-Galad with further instructions. He nods and twists the scroll back. He looks you up and down, your dress dirty at the hem, your wrists bound in shackles once again. You looked clean, no blood, no dirt, you never attacked the guards that accompanied you.

“Well then, I assume you never were to Eregion?” he asks out of pure curiosity.

“Once. Merely passing through.” you say and look around cautiously, Celebrimbor notices.

“Be at ease. You’re here in a form of punishment but I would like to see it as a form of shared work.”

You raise an eyebrow at his statement. “What will my duties be here?”

“You,” he starts and grabs the wooden box from the man beside him. When he opens it you notice two identical bracelets made of silver. “You will be an aid in my forge, however some… requirements must be fulfilled.” he explains and takes the bracelets. He steps closer and silently asks you to give you his hands. You do so hesitantly as you cling to your magic one last time.

He puts the bracelets on your wrists and tightens them ever so slightly, you would have to cut off your thumb if you wanted to free yourself and you did not want to witness that sight.

“This will hold your magic, you can still heal yourself and others should the need arise but until the High King gives a different command, they have to stay.” he taps them slightly and you think back to the way Sauron tapped your chains so often when coming up with another ways to seduce you into darkness.

He was persistent but you were glad you had someone to talk to, even if it was Morgoth’s right hand.

A shiver runs through you and your head whips back when you hear Black Speech in your ear. Celebrimbor looks the way your eyes fell but sees no one. “What is it?”

You shake your head and slowly turn to face him. “Nothing, I…“ you look back to where the sound came from. “…thought I heard something.”

The guards look at you as they mount their horses, ready to return to Lindon. One of them stays as he awaits a letter from Celebrimbor. He gives it to him, previously written since he knew you would not resist.

The Eregion guards take over and lead you to your chambers, as you settle and clean yourself up. You stand under a stream of water and look over at the bracelets, you try to tear them away, bent them out but the metal is sturdy. A perfect craftsmanship, you would expect nothing less from the grandson of Fëanor.

A knock comes at the door, the man that accompanied Celebrimbor at your arrival.

“If you’re finished I’ll take you to the forge.” he informs you and you follow him through the halls. You’ve put on a newer dress, the old one was the only piece of clothing you were left with on your journey to Eregion. The darker shade of blue fabric clung to your body and flew behind you with each step you took.

You visited Eregion briefly, a stop on your journey to Greenwood. You used to craft as well but never bore the talent such as Fëanor’s. You used magic to create whatever your heart desired, you used it when building your home in the north of Greenwood.

The woodwork became your craft rather than precious metals and as you enter the forge you begin to miss the comfort of your home.

The Elven smiths glance at you as you enter but continue with their work. Celebrimbor comes down from the gallery to show you around. “I believe you’ll come to enjoy it, I heard you once tried to create something as well.” he asks and you look down to the beaten ring you’ve made centuries ago. The black stone inside it broken but still held within the grasps of the uneven metal.

“A foolish attempt.”

He places a hand on your shoulder. “Not foolish. Perhaps with a bit more practice…” he says, leading you to a desk where a few jewelry pieces lay. Ring with green emerald, a necklace that shone like starlight, a golden bracelet with the most detailed design you’ve ever seen. Weapons laid there as well, shining metal in the dim light, handle wrapping around the blade. You stare in awe.

“Are you certain you have not bested Fëanor yet?” you ask genuinely but think that a bit of flattery on your end might help get out of your chains quicker.

Celebrimbor smiles and gestures to the forge. “Come, we have work to do.” and you follow.

You work for years under Celebrimbor, the Elven smiths have taken to converse with you even if at first they were avoiding you like a plague. With time you have learned to enjoy the craft, a slow process but it kept your life steady. No Morgoth, no torment, a temporary home.

The only pain you felt was the lack of magic in your life. You worked as a healer from time to time but it never compared to the dark arts. Your hands trembled at times as if trying to contain the power from bursting within you. And the visions didn’t help.

They came gradually, growing more persistent with each month of your stay in Eregion. A shadow, always the same and always cunning. It whispered into your ear, showed you the power you could possess. You almost gave in the first night it came.

But you felt it the most one day in the forge.

The same piercing pain you felt when you left Forodwaith. You hold to the table you’ve been working on, the saw and the pliers forgotten on it. The sound they made drew the attention of Mirdania.

“Are you alright?” she comes to your side as you claw at the fabric above your heart. You don’t hear her and shut your eyes as the ringing in your ears grows.

Celebrimbor hears the commotion and quickly comes to see the problem. When he sees you with your hands covering your ears his sight falls on the bracelets that subdue your magic. Could they have weakened?

But there’s nothing that would indicate that you used it.

Mirdania steps aside as Celebrimbor replaces her. His hands rest on your shoulders as you open your eyes. His voice is muffled as he calls your name.

“What’s happening?”

You shake your head, unable to answer and for a split second you see the same shadow behind him, it seems to be smiling.

Celebrimbor sees your frenzied eyes and tries to point where you’re looking at. The Elvensmiths gathered look helpless as no one knows how to help you.

The shadow vanishes as quickly as it came and the ringing in your ears stop. A drop of blood flows out of your nostril and you hear it as it falls to the ground. Your hand goes to your mouth and wipes away the blood, it’s then you notice your fingers. Where once they started to fade from the lack of dark magic, the mark showed up again.

Celebrimbor looks warily, the bracelets he forged would contain your power, he would know you used it even if done so unconsciously. The situation troubles him, the High King must be informed.

You grab him by his tunic as he stands up, the look on his face telling you his intention. “Don’t tell him, please. I didn’t use it, I swear.”

“How do you explain it then?” he points to your fingers curled around the fabric.

“It’s not my doing.”

“Then who’s?” he kneels down at your eye level.

You think over his question and dread the answer. You suggest Morgoth but would his influence still remain after all these years? You think of Sauron but you witnessed his death. Forodwaith is the only answer, centuries you spend there have left a mark, for you it’s the only explanation. You could not escape darkness even if you wanted to.

“He must be informed.” he leaves you with these words and you storm out of the forge. The guards close behind you as you run to the gardens and cover yourself underneath the shadow of a tree. It’s nearly dusk and you curse under your breath in every language you know. Black Speech makes its way on your tongue unconsciously and the guards tense up.

You stay there for a while until the cold wind beats against your skin. You look down at your hands and notice the black starting to fade once more, your head rests against your knees as you look ahead.

You close your eyes when you see it again, out of the corner of your eye but ever so watchful. It takes a form this time, not of a shadow but a man. You look away and his hand slithers under your chin to make you look up at him. When you do, you see perfectly green eyes and the stubble adorning his face, he looks at you so gently you nearly forget he’s the reason for your hauntings.

“Let it in.” he whispers. “A witch should practice her craft.”He returns to shadow and passes through you.

Your breath catches in your throat as you wake up in your bed. You look around and hold your head in your hands.

What is happening?

next part -> deception

[the-coffeeaddict-tim-drake]

Tim Drake Fics On A03

These are my list of Tim Drake fics on A03. It has everything. Angst, fluff, funny sibling relationship, family fluff, The core four etc... There are few TimKon fics thrown here and there too. Have fun.

Tim Drake (Doesn't) Drink Coffee by BabblingBookends

Every year, Tim goes on a caffeine detox for a month and has to deal with the resulting withdrawal symptoms. He doesn't tell the rest of the Bats about this, because, uh, reasons!

Bang, bang by Ididloveyou_once

‘You shot me!’ Jason gasped, stunned, ‘Holy shit, you actually shot me.’

Tim’s eyes widened and he froze. They stared at each other for a second, dumbstruck and then-

‘Don’t tell Bruce.’

Or: The family enjoy a normal movie night. Except Jason has a gunshot wound and Tim’s the only one who knows and oh- that’s because Tim’s the one who shot him and they really, really need to find a way to leave before anyone finds out.

Play it Again by Jazz020

The manor feels too quiet without music. Tim and Damian bond over music.

Send to All by kerosceene

I, ___________________________, hereby acknowledge that this form represents my wishes should I contract phytoaphrodisiac-induced delirium (hereafter referred to as “PAID”) during engagements with or while apprehending Dr. Pamela Lillian Isley (“Poison Ivy”).

-

The bats have a sex pollen release form. Because of course they do.

This is on of the most funniest batfam fic I have ever read.

four brothers, one crush, and absolutely zero brain cells to be found by Ms_Trickster

Tim: i need to know what’s the best way to a boy’s heart 

Damian: Easy. The best way to someone’s heart is through their ribcage. Everyone knows that. 

Damian: Come on Timothy, I expected better from you. 

Dick: I-

Dick: Try again

-

Tim is having boy troubles.

Tim goes to his brothers for help.

Tim...did not think that plan of action through.

(In which the batbros give Tim advice on relationships, told entirely through texts.)

Their sibiling relationship is too damn funny.

Home by sElkieNight60 

“Why didn't you call home?” the Red Hood is scolding him, bizarrely making his head spin with how unreal everything suddenly seems. “Why didn't you call Dad? You've been missing for three days and he is losing his mind―he thinks you've been kidnapped again―everyone has been pulling double runs all over the city trying to find you! You fucking disappeared! Seriously, Baby Bird, give us one good reason why we shouldn't drag your ass back home right now and have Dad bench you until the end of all days!?”

The two vigilantes are staring at him equal parts furious and equal parts relieved, but there must be some kind of mistake, because:

“Who is Tim?”

Only A03 users can read this fic.

Cork Board Contingencies by PrinceJakeFireCake

If you don’t use a cork board to obsessively plan contingencies for every possible way a date with your best friend can go, how can you go on a date at all?

Excerpt: “Are you free next Saturday?” Tim asked, pretty sure that Kon’s jumble of words was agreement that he wanted to date Tim.

“Maybe!” Kon exclaimed.

“Cool,” Tim commented, taking another sip of his drugged grape soda (“Dammit, Tim,” he mentally told himself. “Do not give in! Buy new grape soda! Stop drinking the drugged grape soda! I’ve shotgunned another can of drugged grape soda, haven’t I? Dammit, that makes five!”) then saying, “That gives me just enough time to pass out for fifty-two hours and plan our first date.”

Bloodlines by chibi_nightowl for exiled-one (mistralle)

“Mr. Drake, I can’t think of a better way to say this, so I’ll just be blunt. This file is for your first adoption. By the Drakes.” 

Tim blinked. “My what?” 

“You were adopted as a newborn by Jack and Janet Drake.” 

“Excuse me, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

No words. This fic is just mind blowing.

fill in the blanks by mindshelter

“You?” Tim blurts. Holy shit. “You’re Kon?”

A nod. “Are you in any pain?” he asks again.

Kon’s skin is sun-kissed, cheekbones dusted with a fine smattering of freckles; he is, without exaggeration, the prettiest person Tim has ever seen. “No, I’m—great,” he says, fidgeting. “Do you, uh, come here often?”

Kon raises a brow. “To the medbay?” he intones. “Definitely more often than I’d prefer.”

Road Rage Robin by heartslogos 

"I'd be doing humanity a favor." Tim grinds out, "And I would get away with it. I could totally get away with it. I've done worse."

Only A03 users can read this fic

Liberal Usage of the Bro-Code by heartslogos for protagonistically (the_protagonist)

“You’re never going to guess who’s blood is on my shirt – similarly, this is not my shirt but these are my pants.”

Only A03 users can read this fic.

Here's a Reminder (That You Haven't Fallen Through the Cracks) by popsunner

If it’s a salesperson, he’ll shove them a hundred dollar tip and tell them to go away, if it’s some religious do gooder, he’ll direct them to Metropolis. If it’s a Rogue, he’ll tell them he’s busy and to please get in the fucking line. If it’s one of his siblings--

“Hey, Tim!” Dick says brightly, forearm braced against the doorframe.

Dammit.

i totally don't have amnesia by impravidus for odd_izzy

Based on this john mulaney bit: “I also think it's weird in movies when someone has amnesia and they wake up in the hospital. A lot of times they'll be surrounded by friends and family, but when they open their eyes they go "Who are you?" Because that's not how you act when you don't recognize somebody. That's very rude. It would be chaos out there if every time you saw someone you didn't recognize, you went, "Who are you?" I always try to be really polite in life, so like if I had amnesia, you'd never know it. I'd wake up and they'd be like "Hi John, we're so happy you're awake." And I'd just be like, "Oh, hey, man, how's it going?", "Oh, hey, dude, nice to see you again." because that's how you act when you can tell that someone recognizes you and you have no fucking clue who they are.”

Detective Timothy Drake and the Mysterious Case of the Unclaimed Dildo by JpegDotJpeg

Tim had a lot of experience with problem solving. Every goddamn day he was solving problems. There was no shortage of problems in Tim’s life. He’d learned how to deal with overbearing parents, underbearing parents, malfunctioning equipment, in-team conflict, lawsuits, emotional breakdowns, financial difficulty, broken ribs, ill-timed boners, and a whole host of other bizarre, anxiety-inducing, or life-threatening issues that plagued his existence.

None of them had prepared him for finding a dildo in the dishwasher.

I had so much fun reading this.

Little Overlooked Dreams by Lunette3002 for Marzue

Tim weighed his options. He was alone at night in some alleyway in Gotham. He had nothing except the clothes left on the ground by someone and the cloak wrapped around his skinny shoulders. His camera was nowhere in sight. His backpack was gone too.

He brought the device to his ear. “Hello?”

Whatever talking had been on the other end of the line immediately cut off at his hesitant greeting.

“Who is this?”

Family Photos by KelpieCodyne 

“I thought you quit your photo stalking?”

“In my defence, I never said I was quitting, and you never asked if I would,” Tim immediately counters. “So really, this is kind of on you.”

Just because Tim became a bat, doesn’t mean he stopped taking photos of bats. Several times Tim took photos of the batfamily, and one time they took photos of him.

One of my all time favorite fic. And only A03 users can read this fic too.

picture perfect memories by Fandom_Trash224 

“I… require assistance with something. I believe you are best-suited for it.”

Tim raises an eyebrow, but motions for the younger boy to enter his room. As Damian does, he slowly closes the door behind him, and Tim notices a small piece of what Tim assumes to be paper in Damian’s hand. Then, he realizes it’s not just a piece of paper: it’s a photo.

Damian approaches Tim, holding out the photo at arm’s length once he’s close enough to do so, saying, “I would like you to explain this photo to me.”

Tim glances down at it, and to both his surprise and mild horror, he recognizes the photo.

Only A03 users can read this fic.

Biphasic Reaction by renecdote

People may have allergic reactions all the time and be fine, but they can also die from them. He has a flash of sudden, morbid curiosity about what the exact statistics for fatal allergic reactions are.

Only A03 users can read this fic.

miles and miles (in their shoes) by JUBE514

Where is Damian? Why can’t he see anything clearly? Where is the little brat? Damian had been by him in the cave when everything had exploded, they had been arguing like always when the two of them had gotten the punishment to go clean the trophy room, stop yelling at each other, stop being at each other's throat for two minutes and go clean the goddamn trophy room-

They had been cleaning, got into another knock out drag out argument, and it had come so close to blows and they had been screaming more than cleaning and-

The stupid fucking shoe, in the magical section- exploded out-

--

Tim and Damian switch bodies, the two of them realize exactly why the other does the things they do.

The Waynes, Damsels in Distress by hitthedeck

Roses are red, violets are blue, Bruce Wayne and his kids get kidnapped every other week. Some things are just universal, undeniable facts of life.

Or, in which Bruce Wayne is still Batman and his kids are still Robins, but they keep letting themselves get kidnapped because they think it's funny.

Have You Seen My Kids!? by Cute_Bear

Five Times Bruce's kids interrupted him as Bruce Wayne and One Time they interrupted him as Batman with the Justice League.

This is not Tim - centric, but it has really nice batfam fluff.

ten cents richer by Ms_Trickster

You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

That’s how the saying goes. Take enough punches from the universe and eventually it becomes harder and harder to pop back up, to see the worth in fighting back, to stop yourself from turning around and delivering some punches of your own.

Tim never wanted to become the villain—

“Appendicitis,” Tim breathed in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

—but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to burn the world to ashes when shit like this kept happening to him.

A Saturday Evening by malcyon

Jonathan shrugs, catches the expression still on Tim’s face. “We did throw out the cyanide.”

“Only because it expired.”

“Marty.”

“Well, it did.”

*****

Kon invites Tim over for dinner. Tim's not sure if he should have accepted that invitation.

unfurl by shipyrds

"Hey, Dick," Tim says. He's in costume, and fiddling with his gloves, but he doesn't remove his mask: nervous, and trying to hide it. "You've had sex with aliens, right?"

"I'm not going to like where this is going, am I?" Dick says, resigned.

"How did you deal with the whole. Junk situation," Tim says, in his best professional Mission Report voice. Its success is kind of undermined with how red his face is below the domino. — Tim asks some questions. Bruce and Clark come to some realizations.

The Conner Kent Conspiracy Board by Hayleythewriter

Tim figures out Kon’s feelings before Kon does.

His Baby by Musafir

Bruce once made Tim a promise that he would never break, just have to reaffirm later in life.

“Hi Tim. I’m Bruce and I am always going to be here for you.”

Banshee In A Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee)

Tim is five years old when he drowns in his parents' pool. He dies quietly, waiting for parents who love him, but will never be there, to realise that something is wrong. They never show up, and he sinks into oblivion.

When he wakes up and claws his way out of the water, the sun has set, and the lights of his house are on. He is cold and wet and his lungs burn.

But most of all, Tim is alone.

(If you die and no-one is there to see it, were you ever alive in the first place?)

The Return by lurkinglurkerwholurks 

What the comics neglected to cover after Bruce returns from being lost in time.

Only a03 users can read this fic.

charity by Valkirin for Ms_Trickster

The biggest downside of being adopted by Bruce Wayne is putting up with rich people events, including one where Jason will be in a room with a bunch of rich kids for a couple very long hours while Bruce goes to the adults' meeting. Jason is ready for a very bad time but the Drake kid listens to him from the start and keeps backing up Jason's ideas even though they've never met.

Jason warms up to Tim Drake long before Mad Hatter tries to take over the meeting and Tim backs him up again.

city of stars by lovelyre

College friends-to-lovers AU with Tim Drake.

This is Tim drake x Reader fic. Trust me its really good.

Tricks of the Trade by Jazz020

Jason and Damian learn about Tim's fool proof method of getting what he wants from Superman

Security Updates by Jazz020

Hal, Clark, and Barry find an unexpected guest playing with the watchtowers security.

Vacation at the Watchtower by Jazz020

A continuation of Security Updates

It may have been a mistake to let Tim stay at the Watchtower while he heals from his injury but the kid really needed to get away from his brothers.

“Wait, what if I go to the Watchtower with you.” “I don't think-” “It’ll be great. I'll even help out if you need me to. I'll be the best unpaid intern the Justice League has ever had.”

Birthdays by Jazz020

Bruce was always aware that Jack and Janet Drake were bad parents, but every once in a while they give him an unfortunate reminder.

Loss by Jazz020

Out of all of Tim’s self-destructive tendencies, it was his willingness to die for his loved ones that frightened Alfred most.

Sick by Jazz020

Tim’s never quite figured out the proper behavior for someone who’s sick. Instead of resting, he often makes his way to the Watchtower.

We Can Work It Out by blackash26, Tigrislupa

Damian endeavors to make up for his treatment of Drake and apologize properly; however, Drake refuses to forgive him no matter what he does. Tim does his best to deny, avoid, and ultimately deal with the fact that the demon brat has a crush on him of all people. (Pulling pigtails never felt like quite such an understatement.) Meanwhile, the rest of the family takes sides.

In all of this, there's only one thing everyone agrees on.

Don’t tell Dick.

Only A03 users can read this fic.

you'll never find a thing like today by remrose

"I'm just saying, I don't think I've ever been to one of these things that hasn't ended in explosions," Bart tells them, eyes on the crowds as he tugs at the ends of his cuffs.

To the Boy Who Called Yesterday by Shirokokuro

Bruce wonders when six-year-old Tim changed, when he shed that sad look he’s wearing now.

Or, perhaps, when he got so good at hiding it.

Cough syrup by Stardustwrites17

It’s the coldest night in the year. So of course Tim falls into the Gotham-fucking-harbor.

Featuring a worried dad, Tim's missing spleen, and of course, Tim battling with himself between being independent and letting himself be loved.

Chili dogs seasoned with tears by Robin_The_Robiner

Ever so slowly, Tim looked down at his plate. On it was a steaming chili dog, topped with fried onions and fresh parsley.

“Oh.” he whispered.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Taking the place of a beloved dead boy was difficult, but Tim managed to do a decent job. He's smart, confident, and put together, so he wasn't effected by their devastating grief at all.

Tim is also a dirty little liar when it comes to his mental health.

A Pile Of Pillows By The Couch by reinersbigtits

Tim has always hated getting sick. He hates the haze and the pain. But, when he finds out his family is sick he jumps in to help without a second thought. However, without a spleen, he's incredibly susceptible to the illness and quickly realizes just how much he's missed out on.

Or: Tim Drakes repressed trauma followed by worried family feels and lots of comfort.

stepping on landmines by Ms_Trickster

There is a scar curved around Drake's neck that Damian does not understand.

So he asks Todd.

the butler's neighbor by deargalileo

It starts with a baseball, thrown onto the wayne's property. it's alfred's job to deal with such happenings, of course. but over tea and galas, it turns into so much more.

after all, why should bruce be the only one allowed to adopt any child that he finds?

Stranger than Fiction by foxy_mulder

"There are details in this document that absolutely no one should know unless they have inside information on us. There’s hints that they know our patrol schedules and regularly keep tabs on us. I don't know who's behind this, or what they want with Batman, but tracking the writer needs to be a priority."

"And this document is… a fanfiction?"

_________

(Tim Drake writes Batman fanfiction. He doesn't expect Batman to actually find it.)

There are many many more fics which i will post later. Have fun reading

[artandbrimstone]

First things first 

!!!! Riptide 115 spoilers !!!!!

And if im wrong about anything i am sorry :( also this might be nothing but i need to say this somewhere

Chip and his lack of control over his own fate is so interesting to me. The guy who tells gillion tidestrider “I didn’t believe in destiny before i met you” is somehow, out of the three of them, the one who is seemingly following a predetermined path set out for him. 

Gillion, whilst being the chosen one, struggles with this identity and was exiled, which may be in his destiny but was clearly not intended by the elders. 

Jay has her prophecy (type thing I know its not exactly a prophecy) but it has no clear path for her specifically to follow.

Chip, however, was destined to end up back at the hole in the sea, but barely remembers actually being there in the first place, and yet when he does return to the black sea, there is a message from Rose from a decade prior knowing not only that he would return, but that he would be there looking for them after their disappearance. (i dont have the brainpower to go into how insane that message makes me so just know i think about it at least once a day). Even chips search for arlin, which was originally his own, was used against him and taken advantage of by Niklaus (with whatever the fuck he is planning im not smart enough to figure that out im just insane) making what was originally a goal into an “incessant urge to not only find the other members but also do what you [chip] were told and return to the hole in the sea”.

Not only that, there is also the compass, which is further twisting and intensifying chips desire to find arlin and return to the hole in the sea (niklaus also told chip to stop using the compass but yknow) so not even his desires, his main motivations that have led him to where he is now, arent truly his own. ( interestingly despite rose knowing he would go back to the black sea, still urges him to leave behind the legacy of the black rose pirates and do something greater) 

Even his death he had no part in, no crucial mistake, nothing he could have done differently to avoid it, he was simply chosen and made an example of for the sake of making a point of how fucked they were against captain widow, yet again a pawn in something he had no control over.

And then, when they do finally reach the hole in the sea, chip is led by the compass (THE FUCKIGN COMPASSSSS) and (im getting into insane territory here) has strange parallels to captain rose. He is separated from his crew (namely the only other black rose pirate, drey), made a deal with niklaus regarding the hole in the sea has the hole in his chest (idc if its not there in canon its there to me) however what is he met with? “Welcome home”. Now what does that mean? I dont fuckign know but it makes me very insane and this is long enough already so i hope you enjoyed my incoherent chip just roll with it ramble :D

[whatlurksbean]

Sorry if this is spoiler territory, but since the thing with Ray being buried by Molly has been revealed, I'm wondering how it ties in with the cats who wholeheartedly believe in The Tide. IF they ever actually found out the truth, would it just be a case of "oh, I guess our God made a mistake, oh well" or would this revelation contradict everything they believe in? Would it be Trouts fault instead? Just how powerful do they *believe* their God is? Is The Tide supposed to see all and know all?

Hake has already established that they don't believe The Tide can read minds, which is why he told tusk to fake it.

Tusk was not exiled for eating her child, she was exiled for denying him his fins, which still applies if he was buried. So there is still no error by god in their eyes even if the truth were to come out.

As far as the cats think, they believe The Tide only cares if you follow his laws, breaking those laws mean you lose your afterlife.

[gav-san]

Cursed | Sukuna x reader

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna / Fem Reader

Length: One-Shot

Summary: The greatest punishment in this life wasn't your brother Gojo Satoru embarrassing you into leaving Sorcery.

It was what happened when he was gone.

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Sexual Violence, Inferred Violence, Inferred Assault

You remember the day Gojo told you that you would never make it as a sorcerer.

The day you graduated from Jujutsu High School your arrogant older brother wrapped a hand over your shoulder and told you that you had less talent than the first years, and he wouldn’t allow you to be anything more than a third-grade sorcerer.

Of course, he did it at the podium, in front of everyone there.

You had ripped off the slim golden necklace he and Geto had bought you, but you could never bear to trash it entirely. 

That was also the day you refused to speak to him again. But you soon found he was good as his word, and any attempt to do any sorcery was blocked at every angle. After all, who would openly disagree with the master of the Six Eyes and Infinity?

You were more or less exiled from the entire society of arrogant jujitsu sorcerers, forced to go to the nearby college and turn into a glorified secretary for the high school. He tried to rebuild your relationship, but it was never the same.

It took you years to understand why he would hurt his only sibling that deeply. It wasn’t until he was dead that you understood how much he was willing to sacrifice for your well-being.

You were the number one target of all Satoru Gojo’s enemies, and revenge came swiftly.

The clinking of the chains could almost sound like that piece of jewelry, lost in the rubble of your apartment if you imagined hard enough.

And all you had was time to try and imagine that you were anywhere but here, locked to the throne at the feet of the King of Curses. 

You could hardly bear to watch as people were brought in, some more chained than you, dangerous perhaps. You wondered if their collars had been crafted to deaden cursed energy as yours had. Not that Sukuna thought you were any threat, but he disliked ‘swatting at flies’.

When you had first been captured, after everything had gone to hell, you had hoped that there was someone, anyone, who had the power and strength to end Sukuna, but nothing came close to his power.

Even Gojo Satoru had fallen, taking hope with him.

Now Men, Women, and children, all met the same fate if they did not kneel and give reverence to the great Ryomen Sukuna. 

And even that was not always enough.

Blood spattered the marble floors of the shrine, and you swear that over time it’s taken on a pink hue. The room fills with lesser curses who clean the blood with their grotesque mouths, and Urame carts away choice bits for Sukuna's later pleasure.

You screwed your mouth shut as people cried to you, mistaking your position as something other than a slave for Sukuna to torture.

As the last of the Gojo line, you weren't above holding you responsible for a century-long grudge. Any pleading from your lips only made his rampage worse.

Any attempt to flee into your head was met with a violent tug on your throat.

There was no turning away, not when your master held the deceptively delicate chain around your neck, yanking whenever he thought you weren’t paying enough attention.

He loved to see you cry in pain, and you hadn’t the ability to stop, especially for those young ones who were cut down.

And it was almost certain that after witnessing another moment of terrible brutality you’d somehow forget your head, turning upon him and glaring like a feral animal, yanking the chain away so you could hurt him, just once.

But you would only be met with the face of the wolf.

His teeth clenched in a wide smile, he’d return a smirk so vile, that he specifically reserved for the moments you spit venom. He loved to see you struggle, but trying to bite back always ended poorly. 

Ryomen Sukuna was not a kind master.

And though he certainly thought of you like a pet, he wasn’t below forcing your head under his foot, smushing your entire face in the remains of corpses. If you dared throw up, you still stayed and were unable to leave until you wiped it up with your ragged robes that had gone thin from wear.

But that was better than his other punishment, on days where you felt a terrifying hardness as Sukuna held your face between his legs, using a single finger to paint fresh blood, using you as a macabre canvas as he painted.

Those days he would have Urame fetch a mirror, and both would cackle as they examined his work. Often, it was lewd words and signs, but other times it was as if he was painting his marks on you.

Bastard.

After a long, cruel day, you dared to critique his work, sneering at his lack of finesse.

With a snap of his fingers, he had Urame strap you down, leering over you as he assembled his petty revenge.

A curse user was summoned, bringing along the tools of his trade; a short bamboo pole with a needle attached and a jar of thick onyx ink.

If that hadn’t been enough, Sukuna cut his wrist, pouring black blood to mix into the lot.

He instructed the curse user to tattoo you exactly like him, with no imperfections else his head be separated from his body.

You endured unbearable pain for nearly a week, stripped down under the gaze of Sukuna, a reminder to watch your tongue. And after, when the tattoos were done, he commemorated it with a new kimono and a portrait of you at his feet. A wretched ugly thing, as you now were.

He loved it, and let the painter live.

The recovery took twice as long, as your master hardly let you rest, or even leave his side. And as the days passed, you felt less and less like a human. 

Forced to accompany him almost daily, you had an unfortunate insight into the casual cruelty of the Cursed King who knew nothing of kindness. 

You eat less, hardly sleep and the whole blood-shed thing was sort of muffled, probably thanks to the sheer amount witnessed. You figure terror is the only thing keeping you alive.

Day in and out you followed the creature, just waiting for the day he tires of you. 

And that day doesn’t come.

It’s still a surprise that you’re alive, you muse too often, laying on a cushion at the entrance to his rooms. Though he did take off your left arm the day he took you, he claimed it was an accident, and fixed it. 

You’d rather that happen again than to be forced to enter his rooms.

At least your position at his shrine was more or less a pet, or when he was gone, Urame’s.

And despite your treatment, the concubines were in a far worse condition. The way Sukuna treated other women was abhorrent. Some days, bored, would reap the land looking for fresh, beautiful blood, and when he found some, he’d bring them back. Some girls even offered up to him, in hopes he’d show mercy.

Wide-eyed women, much like yourself, you realized as you watched them enter one day. But you felt these were much prettier, much more docile than you. Some even fawned over him, though their manners probably rang as fake as your docility. Were they trying to secure a safe place by him, or just trying not to be killed was hard to say. You didn’t blame either. Humanity was no longer civil.

It didn’t matter. They all get dragged into that black hole of his room, sometimes four at a time, and their screaming often lasts for hours. 

Women who entered his rooms never exited alive, thankfully Urame thought your time could be much better spent working than sitting at the door, listening in.

Yeah, it was much preferable to be a tortured slave to Sukuna than to be seen as a woman.

“You’ve been quiet this last week, pet.” Sharp nails dig into your head, turning you to look at the man sitting on the throne above. “Perhaps you no longer find my pastimes so alarming.”

Meaning, his pastime of killing and eating humans.

Something shared by the court of curses below him, warily watching for what next he commands and desires. 

Unfortunately, that was you. You despised the looks raked over your chained form, the greedy mouths that drooled, awaiting the day the master turned tired of the remaining Gojo, and hoped to have their turn for revenge.

If they couldn’t have Satoru Gojo, you’d do.

“Apologies… master.” You said, tension forming at the back of your neck as he tugged harshly on your head. Even so, your words remained smooth. “I find it hard to do anything but serve with your foot on my back.”

His dark chuckle was an answer in itself. 

“Such a mouth, even when disguising your words so pretty.” Sukuna let go of your hair, amused enough today to let your words pass. You drop your head, but only enough to quell the pain. “It was such a shame for your kin to have died so easily, but it seems my desire for entertainment continues to be fulfilled by you.”

You hated him so much.

You clench your mouth, but the insult escapes before you can stop it.

“Bastard.”

You go stiff, but Sukuna merely pauses.

“Oh?” A single finger of his lifts your chin up again, before moving to your lips. And without warning, he pushes it inside your mouth. 

“I thought I may torture you for a while, then be rid of you, but…” 

You will yourself not to bite down on his finger, as he probably wanted an excuse to bite you back. But you don’t, and after a moment he pops it out with a small sound before another hand grabs your shoulder.

“Leave.” 

For a moment you think he’s speaking to you, but the tension in your throat holds, and you see him looking at everyone else.

“My lord?” You question but his eyes flash down in warning.

All the curses and curse-users who attend minor tasks in the shrine are gone in moments. Urame is the last, shitting the door and ensuring the desired privacy, which means, something horrible is about to happen.

The moment the ornate handle clicks, Sukuna picks you up with a third hand. You can’t help but exhale as he sets you down on his knee. The finger that had been in your mouth returns, and you gag as this time it delves in, choking you.

“Not a very good reflex, but it can be worked on,” Sukuna says with an almost bored drawl, tugging his finger back out, and you wonder if he just sent everyone out because he wanted to do just that. 

You cough, hands rising to hold your face, and don’t ask. 

Sukuna laughs, clearly happy with annoying you, like a child. You so badly want to lash out but the fear of retaliation is far more effective than any shackle. 

He has killed villages for less.

“See, this is why I didn’t kill you when I got rid of the rest of the scum!” He jokes, tilting his head to gaze with all four of his penetrating red eyes. “Such pleasing reactions!” 

Friends, you think darkly. Those scum were your friends who were more like family. Gojo, Nanami, Geto, Nobara, Yuuta, Yuuji and so many others. 

Tears fill your eyes as a soft voice seems to be at the back of your mind.

Megumi. 

Though Sukuna was fully transformed, pain filled you thinking that Megumi might be in that monstrous body, trapped and unable to escape.

His knee shifts up, causing a terrible feeling of butterflies and cockroaches to churn in your stomach from the feel. The move was far too personal, and you tried to shift so he wasn’t pressed so intimately against your rear.

Even trying to fall off would be preferable. But your throat is raised, thanks to the gold chain in Sukuna’s hand that pulls up as he twists.

The benefit of having four arms is he can manhandle you as he pleases.

His thick hand raised your chin and refused to let you turn an inch as you gazed hatefully into his eyes

“What a beautiful sight. You know, from the first moment I saw you, I knew you were special.” Another hand moves to pull back some stray hair behind your ear. 

“I hate you.”

Your hands shake, clenched in fists. 

“I know.” He says with a smirk. “You know why I keep you around, pet?”

You have nothing to say and don’t even care to know. But that won’t stop him.

He strokes your face, his thumb holding you in a position others might think lovers would use.

“The first time I gazed upon you, I felt a most unique heat in my chest that has persisted till this day. Love, perhaps.” He mocks.

“Disgusting.” You spit out, but he doesn’t pause.

“From the moment we crossed paths your fate was set, but only recently have I understood the extent of what you mean to me.” Sukuna seems to be smug, revealing this, and you think he’s probably just messing with your head again. 

The grip on your chin is starting to hurt.

Your chin shakes, and you grab the giant hand holding your face, digging in your fingers. You are certain he is going to kill you now. But you won’t cry or beg for mercy.

No, as a Gojo you would face down death and spit in his face.

So you do, hitting Sukuna right under his lower left eye.

“Go to hell, monster.” You growled, despite feeling the creak of bones in your face. 

And for a moment the world is deathly quiet.

Until Sukuna throws back his head, startling you with a loud howl as he releases your face to laugh. In pain and confusion, you are tongue-tied as he tilts his head, the look on his face almost fond.

“I could kill you, but I have a better plan. I think you would make a very interesting wife.”

You would have fallen off his leg had he not quickly placed a palm on the small of your back.

“I despise you.” You reply, seeing as there isn’t anything else to say. But Sukuna doesn’t get mad at you for speaking out. Instead, he grins, which is much worse. “I’ll never be yours.”

But his mouth grows wide, and he tugs you forward, pushing you against his chest. Your lack of elegant words doesn’t bother Sukuna.

“Not as a human. I recently acquired a certain cursed spirit on my travels, and by imbuing you with her powers, your transformation should be complete. Rika would suit you well. You’re already halfway there, thanks to those marks suing my blood.”

You had been eating less, not hardly sleeping and the whole blood-shed thing was sort of muffled…

You gape, twisting to try and escape or even to move enough to allow your brain to function.

What?

He gives you a long look that you don’t know how to interpret. “You've lost enough of that wretched humanity that your body won’t break when you bear my children.”

You straighten, horrified, reeling back, but stopped. 

Oh gods, there wasn’t anything more ridiculous than Sukuna talking about reproducing with you? 

“No-“ He waves off your rejection, like a wisp of wind. You don’t remember starting to shake so hard, but it seems like you can see yourself from above, trembling a leaf in a storm.

“Of course, pet. You didn’t think I’d keep a stupid thing like you around to look nice? I even practiced on those pathetic humans.” 

You dig your fingers into his chest, ripping it open with fury alone. 

“I’ll kill you.” You say, “I’ll kill myself-“

Sukuna chuckles as blood pours from his chest, but the wound heals faster than you can dig. Sukuna's hand shoves your head into his blood, and iron fills your mouth.

“Heh, brat. Look at you, a Gojo doomed to be the queen of curses. A fitting end to that cursed line.”

“Someday, the chance will come, and one day, I’ll kill you.” You swear, teeth dripping in red. 

“Women like you never leave their brats, so I’ll breed you till you have no escape,” Sukuna says, bending down and giving a soft kiss to your painted lips. 

As he pulls away, his tongue licks away the blood. “Of course, if you try, I’ll kill them and breed you again. Isn’t that what husbands do?”

[fromgoy2joy]

To all my fellow people converting- this is a Call-in post

We are going to be a part of this community, as dictated by Jewish law, once we enter the water of the Mikveh, it will be as if we were Jewish all our lives.

That doesn’t erase the fact that we come from different backgrounds. Most of us didn’t have our grandmother escape genocidal countries. We didn’t grow up around the dinner table hearing holocaust stories about family and friends. The legacy of our families was not split between two choices of what opened up first for amnesty- Israel or the United States.

Our love for Judaism originates from studying theology, culture, and warm moments in the community- not clinging onto it in a generational storm where at any moment you can be expected to run.

Israel has been there for the Jewish people demonstrably, in a world where a Jewish child is taken aside at a young age and told “one day, they could come after you”.

In response, Israel has said “and we will be there to catch you.” This has rung true for the Jewish exile out of Middle Eastern countries, the fleeing from the USSR, and yes- Ethiopia.

Mistakes were made along the way. Tribalism between Jewish religious and geographical sects came up. Refugee camps in the newly established country were a mess- with high rates of death from sickness occurred in the Mizrahi resettlement. Where Ethiopian Jewish women’s translation failed as they were told they were being out on temporary birth control as to not overcrowd struggling camps.

But you don’t get to shake this in their faces. Not when the descendants of those Jewish people know Israel to be what saved them. What gave them life. And what has been threatened everyday by rockets in the sky and terrorist organizations on every side that promises for the painful death of them and their families.

You are under no obligation to support the actions of the Israeli government. But you have to understand why the country was founded, and especially why it was set up in 1948 after the largest slaughter of Jewish people had just ended, where it wasn’t clear if this could happen again the very next year.

You have to see the connection to the land, where Hebrew coins get dug up from thousands of years ago on a daily basis. Even if that’s not apart of your personal practices, you must learn of the background to many of our stories. What Jewish people longed for as they were ostracized and humiliated globally.

This doesn’t come at the price of not sympathizing with the Palestinians. Just as you can hold Jewish pain close to your chest, so can you the pain of Palestinians. The good news is, life isn’t a sports game with your team and their team. The bad news is, that makes it a whole heck of a lot harder.

That being said, we do have the extra responsibility of accurately representing the people we will hopefully call our own one day, BH.

Edit-born Jewish people, if this post speaks to you on any level, feel free to reblog. Your family histories deserve to be represented in our community.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Hello! Remember that fic about Nanami and Gojo with a s/o who got disowned?

Could I request a sequel to that where Nanami/Gojo and s/o are out doing something (i.e. grocery shopping or whatever) and s/o's dad tries to beg (lit: demand and coerce) them to come back home by using their mother (who s/o is still close to and keeping contact with)?

part i

Nanami Kento

It had been several months since the incident involving [Y/N]’s banishment and, for all things considered, things had worked out pretty well.

Though exiled from her family, she had not lost her rank as a Special Grade. In many ways, they were a lot like Nanami now. Taking the missions that they wanted. Existing on their own just outside their world. And maintaining a life on their own.

Yuji was doing well too. It seemed the boy who everyone thought was more trouble than he was worth was balancing the scales quickly with how fast he was learning and becoming an asset. Despite Nanami’s harsh comments when they first met, which he now regrets. They were said out of frustration and defense of [Y/N]’s situation. One he blamed Yuji for, but now realized was misguided. The only one to blame was her father. A fact he intended to tell the man once he stopped talking.

“You need to come home.” He told [Y/N] after cornering them on the street outside a coffee shop. “Your mother needs you.”

“What’s wrong with mom?” [Y/N] asked. Curious, but concerned, for her other parent. A good heart to the end.

“That is irrelevant. She needs you. And as a good daughter, you will return home.”

“So, you wish for [Y/N] to return, not out of regret for your decisions, but because you need a maid for your wife.” Nanami butted in. Earning a glare from the clan head. “You have more than enough resources to hire anyone to assist with your wife, if she needs it.” He is not convinced that she does. Just another ploy to keep [Y/N] at bay. “You don’t need [Y/N].”

“It is the duty of children to care for their parents!”

“And it is the duty of parents to protect their children.”

The men glare at each other furiously. Which was possibly the worst time for Yuji to come out of the coffee shop. “Sorry that took so long. The line for the toilet was crazy.” As usual, he walked right into it. Realizing too late that he had made a mistake. “What’s….going on?”

“That’s him. Isn’t it.” Her father accused. It wasn’t a question. Everyone knew who Yuji was at this point. “You’re the boy that ruined my daughter’s life!”

Yuji looked hurt and confused, but [Y/N] stepped in front of him quickly. “Don’t say that to him!”

“This is all your fault!” Her father shouted again. “If you had just taken your execution like a man, then my daughter would be home with her family. Instead, she defies the council and is banished all for someone like you!”

“Wh…I didn’t…I…-“Yuji didn’t banish me father. You did!” [Y/N] snapped. Nanami hadn’t seen her this mad in a long time. Much less against her family. “Yuji is a kind, honest, genuine boy. A boy. And you all just expect him to be at the end of a very short life, just because it’s convenient for you. Well, he won’t be convenient for you, father. Nor will I. Just…go home.”

Her ferocity waned for a moment near the end, but [Y/N] stood her ground. Her father seemed to want to say something but closed his mouth quickly under Nanami’s stare. Daring him to speak.

The man sucked on his teeth, then went to an idling car and was driven away. “Was all that true?” Nanami & [Y/N] turned to Yuji. Who, despite his height, looked incredibly small. “Were you really kicked out of your family because of me?”

[Y/N] looked hurt for a moment, but then smiled and wrapped her arms around Yuji. “No. My family has its own problems. Same as any. It’s just….a little more complicated with sorcerer families.” They assure Yuji that it wasn’t his fault and they continue their day together.

Nanami wasn’t sure what he should do. If he should do something. He was proud of [Y/N] though for standing their ground. Perhaps he would tell them that later. Perhaps not.

Gojo Satoru

“Good thing leeks were on sale. It was a nice opportunity to stock up.”

“I hate leeks.” Gojo grumbled.

“You hate any vegetable.” [Y/N] quipped back. To which he couldn’t really argue. “You need to eat more of them though. Living with you these past few months, I realized your diet is terrible. All sugar and instant coffee. How your body hasn’t just given up on you is a wonder to me.”

“Eh~ but you’ll never give up on me, will you [Y/N].” He teased. Waging his eyebrows behind his glasses before he leaned in to give them a kiss.

“[Y/N].” The couple stopped being cute when they heard her name. Both surprised to find her father there.

“Otōsan?” [Y/N] said in a hushed tone as she pulled away from Gojo. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you home.” He said it like a child who had been out to play for too long. Not a grown woman who had been banished from her family and position by his own hand. “The car is waiting.”

“So [Y/N] is just supposed to jump when you say how high?” Gojo cut in with a mocking sneer. “I’m not hearing an apology in there. Maybe my ears are clogged.”

“Apology? I have no apology to offer.” Gojo flicked his imaginary ear wax at the other man after ‘cleaning his ears’. “If anything, it is you who should apologize. It was your doing that brought disgrace to our family.”

“Oh yeah?” Gojo drawled. “And how did I do that?”

“By leading her down this ridiculous path to question the council!” The older man snapped. “They made their decision, and we must obey. That is the law. That is her place!”

“My place is wherever I choose.” [Y/N] cut in to her father’s ranting. “I chose to stand up to the council because their decision was wrong. Gojo didn’t make me. And now I’m choosing to stay with him because it’s what I want to do.” Gojo never felt so proud. “I don’t have to or want to follow your path anymore, father. You banishing me was the greatest thing you could do for me. Our time apart has perhaps let you realize your mistake, but I’ve only realized its blessing. Now, go home.”

The man looked ready to burst, but did not seem to have it in him to argue further. He instead turned tail and went to the car to be driven home. “I have never been more attracted to you in my life.”

[Y/N] scoffed at Gojo’s comment. Finding it funny, but still clearly hurt she had to turn her family away. “Thanks. You still have to eat the leeks tonight.”

“Oh darn…” Gojo pouted, but still wrapped his arm around [Y/N] as they head back home.

He supposed as long as [Y/N] was there to make them, then he guessed leeks weren’t that bad.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Zelda's Personality

I did a post about how Link, despite being a player insert, has different personalities through the games that appear subtly and can be inferred based on his behaviors and responses. So now it's time for the Zeldas! More recent games have given more of a shining role to the character for whom the franchise is named, and I love the variety between them all, so let's explore it a bit! (At least for the games that I've played)

Ocarina of Time Zelda - My gosh. I love her so much. This woman ain't a princess, she is a Queen. She is so determined to protect her people that even as a child she's willing to order people around and go against the adults' wishes, despite being ignored. This girl is determined. Like, BotW Zelda gets put down over and over despite her efforts and she is understandably dejected and goes along with what her father wants. This Zelda is straight up like I'M RIGHT YOU'RE WRONG and just moves on LOL. Not only is she determined, she has a plan. A very foolish childish plan because she is a child and no one is going to stop her.

And, naturally, since it's a child's plan against an adult who has all the other adults wrapped around his fingers, it doesn't work. Zelda is left with a kingdom in flames, the evil man she was trying to stop obtained the Triforce, and her father is dead. She's fleeing her home and spends the rest of her childhood in exile. Something like this could destroy a person. And maybe it did. But she picked herself back up. And not only did she pick herself back up, she trained herself to fight. She learned everything she needed to about the Hero's journey so she could guide him when he returned. She stayed in hiding to avoid Ganondorf's watch. She protected the Triforce of Wisdom. This girl is a certified badass.

This Zelda is a fighter in every sense of the word. Nothing will stop her, not even her own mistakes. But she is sensitive too, she's aware of the damage this has done to Link and is apologetic and so incredibly sad. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. (Granted, this is Adult Timeline Zelda, but she is just Child Timeline Zelda put through a different scenario, so... same personality for both of them, just different circumstances).

So overall, this Zelda is decisive, resolute, never gives up, empathetic, and probably a little reclusive based on how she's always left to her own devices.

Skyward Sword Zelda - This girl is chaotic and it's wonderful. She pushes her best friend off cliffs and sky islands. She bullies the bullies. She's training in a knight's academy, which more people need to remember dang it. She's protective, she's anxious, she's bossy, she's curious.

This girl is also pretty darn adaptable. Like. She gets thrown out of the sky, out of everything she's ever known, tossed into a world of danger with no one to guide her but a stranger, and has to recover memories of being a freaking goddess and endure a journey of discovering herself while also being chased by Ghirahim. And she does it. Like... Link isn't far behind her, he goes after her literally the next day, and she's already doing her part of her adventure. She was told the fate of the world depends on you and she said okay, then, better get going. Like wow.

She has to have a strong sense of self. This girl found out she was a goddess and told Link after everything, "I'm still my father's daughter. I'm still your Zelda." She was called Your Grace, she was a spirit maiden for a deity her people worshipped, and she still said, "yes. Yes, all of this is true. But I'm still me." Like... I know we see her during her journey when she's still processing and not the aftermath, but this girl has a will of iron and will not let go of who she is.

In summary, this Zelda is courageous, has a strong sense of duty, is a gremlin, excitable, assertive, and stubborn.

Breath of the Wild Zelda - Oh, this poor princess. This Zelda is so sincere and wants to help so much, but she struggles with discovering herself and her powers. She is endlessly inquisitive and absolutely crushed under the pressure her father and her kingdom places on her. She lets it out through understandable frustration, pitting it against someone who, to her, represents everything she is not, which is so interesting.

This Zelda wants for the pieces to just fit but she can't figure it out, and instead of doing some introspection she just continues to look for alternatives. When she does do introspection, it's just to ask why she's defective. Things just need to make sense. I feel like an attitude like this implies that 1, Zelda has no instructor and therefore never learned how to learn, and 2, that implies that everything else she's good at has come naturally to her, such as technology. This girl is a scientist! Who has not learned the scientific method! Though she does try experiments, as poor Link can attest.

When Zelda is allowed to just be herself she seems very sweet and bubbly and excitable. She's so happy when she wants Link to try that frog! She's also incredibly chatty, bless her, having to put up with that silent knight all the time haha (yes, Link does eventually talk to her. Eventually.)

I would also like to note that the instant this girl gets her powers, she goes straight to the castle and holds Ganon at bay for a hundred years. The instant she's free of that burden and bondage, she wants to rebuild her kingdom. Like holy cow. This girl went from doubting herself so much to having so much hope. She is a symbol of hope for her Hyrule.

BotW Zelda is uncertain initially, but learns to have faith in herself and more importantly has all the faith in the world in her people. She is inquisitive, extremely intelligent, energetic, bubbly, and very sensitive.

Twilight Princess Zelda - One of the more mysterious and less prominent Zeldas in her series, this woman radiates quiet strength and regalness. Also, her very first scene (or maybe it's a cut scene flashback in her first interaction in the game) shows her brandishing a sword to fight alongside her soldiers. Hell yes, Queen. But she also has the wherewithal to recognize when she's outplayed. She is wise and knows when to fold to avoid needless casualties. She is willing to put herself in such a vulnerable state in order to protect others. She knew that fighting would still result in the kingdom being overcome by Twilight magic with bonus dead soldiers, so she opted for doing it without the dead soldiers. Knowing when you're beaten and taking it with grace to figure things out takes not only wisdom but humility.

This Zelda is also just... so incredibly understated. Her sadness over her kingdom's fall into disarray is poignant but subtle. Her compassion for Midna when she's dying is muted, but so clearly evident in that she gives her remaining life energy to her. Her acceptance of Link as the Hero, and her sign of respect to him and petition for his aid is just oh my goodness, the regal bow, the willingness to fight alongside him, I love her.

With as little as she features in the game and with as quiet as she can be, she honestly is hard to peg down, but overall this Zelda strikes me as someone who feels deeply and expresses little of it. She's quiet, she's reserved, but she is humble and dignified and incredibly kind.

So there you have it. Some of the ladies for you. I love them all dearly and love to compare and contrast them. <3

[the-rebel-archivist]

a kiss to gain something, for amadis/illario? 👀

This one really spiraled out of control and I could not stop myself, some pre-game trysting of my favourite messy couple who are definitely not in love do not @ them. It did not escape my notice that the Rook background event that separates them from their faction happens approximately at the same time as Lucanis is presumed dead

Amadis de Riva / Illario Dellamorte | 1778 words

If Amadis were a good little Crow she would have been packing. She would have been obeying her Talon’s direct order to take her things and get out of Treviso ‘with immediate effect.’ She would have followed along like the perfect soldier she was supposed to have been.

Good little Crows don’t find themselves in a rented tavern room next to a man that same Talon has told them to stay away from who refuses to tell them his name. Good little Crows fall in line and obey no matter how little information they’re given. No, Viago had made it clear to her how much she was not, in fact, a good little Crow after her actions against the Antaam and so any attempt to be one hardly seemed to matter.

The sullen face of a once-good little Crow stared back at her from a dingy mirror as she ever so carefully traced her lipstick over her lips and tightened the tie on her robe.

Illario was distracted tonight. Even when his clever hands were on her body his mind was somewhere else entirely, traveling the peaks and valleys of her flesh by rote and muscle memory, guided less by passion than by experience and yet seemingly just as bent on losing himself in her as she was into him. Did he know what had happened? Did he know it was her who had ruined the Talons’ plans and her who would be so unceremoniously exiled? 

Worse yet, where did his allegiances truly lie? It was a desperate thing to suspect a Crow of treason and yet not improbable, especially when he had cultivated a mystery around himself the way he did. It was becoming tiresome that he still refused to name his House. Trust was already an expensive commodity in Antiva and could not support further suspicion.

“Something on your mind?” she prodded gently, taking a seat beside him on the bed, curling one bare leg beneath her and laying the other across his lap. He accepted it with an aimless drift of his fingertips across her calf, but looked away for a moment too long before responding.

“It’s nothing,” he said with his liar’s smile, his expression shifting into the softened mask of a lover that had been absent a second prior. The finesse of it always amazed her; she mentally noted it with professional appreciation. If she had had a closer relationship with the truth herself she might almost have called it natural.

“Contracts don’t usually spook you.”

“It’s not a contract.”

“Ahh so it is something,” she said with a dangerous smile, leaning closer to him until her shoulder bumped gently into his, rocking the two of them ever so slightly off balance until she settled against him. “House business, then?”

He huffed a harsh breath from his nose and the top corner of his lip curled cruelly, faster than he could catch up to the expression to crush it into an intimate unconcern, a smile free of conflict. He hadn’t managed his eyes though, not completely, not well enough for her scrutiny, not enough for her to be able to mistake the desire for reassurance, for justification, of some act he was reticent to speak of.

“Something like that.”

Some instinct within her cried danger, growing louder and spilling into her guts as she searched for answers that she knew she wouldn’t receive in those eyes that seemed nearly black in the dim light. He continued to play the lover but she knew better, she knew him like she knew her own limb, they had never needed names for that. 

Who or what she couldn’t tell, whether herself, her country, or someone wholly unconnected to either, but she knew beyond any doubt that some betrayal was an inevitability, and knew just as strongly that whatever happened she would guarantee that she would not be anywhere near the fallout of it.

Still, their game played on. He had one more chance to end it, whether or not he knew it. One chance for the honesty she had no true expectation of.

“And am I still not allowed to know which House?” she asked, looking up at him through her long, dark eyelashes and allowing an errant curl to fall in front of her face. “Still worried that we may be mortal enemies?”

Illario’s smile turned wickedly sharp as he took the offered bait and smoothed the hair from her face, cupping her cheek and lifting her chin toward him.

“If I’m not already your mortal enemy I will be very disappointed,” he said, the warmth of his breath prickling on her skin.

You are, she thought as she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his, pulling him close against her and holding tightly to him. You can match me, you may be my weakness, but you will not be my undoing.

She banked the smell of him within her memory, the sincerity of the sweat on his skin overlaid with the artificiality of his chosen cologne. There was no small chance that this was their end now, and it would be for the best. But for a moment, for just one single moment, she could pretend that this was all there was, that they were happy, and that neither would ever feel the sting of the other’s betrayal. All a fiction, certainly, but she couldn’t resist the indulgence of it even still. 

Backing off, she broke away from him, her resolve steeled. The weight of their secrets and their untruths had simply become too heavy; there was no other option than this. Perhaps it had always led here. Perhaps Viago had had the right of it when he warned her away, though the thought of validating that stung more than Illario’s deflections. 

He followed after her with his hands, resting an arm around her waist; for him too, it seemed, it was easier to bury himself in whatever this was than to face whatever had him so preoccupied.

“I’m leaving Treviso,” she said flatly, reclaiming her leg from across his lap and setting it on the floor. She might have shrugged out of his grasp completely had he not tightened his grip on her as she spoke. “I don’t know when or if I’ll be back.”

“Why?” he asked, straightening up with what seemed to be genuine surprise. “Where? I may be traveling soon, I could meet you.”

Not this time, she thought, more wistfully than she had imagined she would when she’d run over the ways this conversation might have gone beforehand. She had not thought that he would look at her like she was the sun and had banished him into shadow. He ought to have been grasping, scheming, he ought to have been his usual conniving self. Not this earnestness that nearly threw her off course. She could recover though, she must now.

“A contract,” she lied. “And no, I will not tell you where. You’ll enjoy yourself well enough wherever you are without me,” she teased with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. She didn’t mind; though he had on occasion followed after her for a post-contract holiday they had never been anything near to what might have been called exclusive.

“Will you tell me if I am very, very nice?” Illario purred into her ear, pulling her closer to him and nuzzling his nose into her neck.

Amadis tilted her head back, leaning shoulder to shoulder, a hair’s breadth from his lips. “You have never been very, very nice a day in your life,” she said in a low voice, kissing him once more, biting gently at his lower lip before separating again. “And I would hate for you to start now.”

He laughed and the vibration through his chest rippled through her own.

“I could also be terribly-” he began, voice smooth as velvet, nipping at the tip of her ear. “Incredibly-” he continued as he slipped a hand into her robe and worked it slowly downward. “Not nice at all,” he finished, his fingers teasing the top of her hip bone. 

Another day perhaps he might have tempted her to let go and meld into him. A small, easily crushed notion in the back of her mind wished it might have been that day. It was not. It could not be.

“There is nothing you can do to convince me, mio caro,” Amadis said with a wicked little smile, lifting his hand away and placing it on his leg. She ran her fingers over his as she let go, giving them a single squeeze. They were slightly cold to the touch; his circulation was slowing. “Not when you have secrets of your own.”

“We all have secrets, we’re assassins,” he said, seemingly more sharply than he’d intended. The slightly frantic expression in her eyes told her it was taking effect; his taut control over his tone and himself had loosened. Bit by bit his mask was falling and it seemed all he could do to force neutrality on his features. Just one moment more, that was all she needed.

“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” she pushed , one final chance after the last one. One more moment to seal his own fate and by extension theirs.

“Then I suppose we’ll both remain a mystery,” he said firmly and she put the possibility of the antidote she carried out of her mind. 

One hard blink, then another, and then the muscles in his neck started to go slack. Blearily he attempted to push her away but only succeeded in falling into her shoulder, his movements sluggish and slow as though he were moving through water.

“You did this,” he accused through slurred words as she laid him down softly onto the bed. She was gentle, smoothing the hair from his face and lifting his legs off the floor. 

“I don’t know what it is you’re planning, but I don’t want to be anywhere near it and I’m afraid I can’t risk you following me. You’ll be alright in a few hours.” Picking up a handkerchief from the nightstand, she wiped her lipstick away thoroughly and precisely, as she had been taught by the expert poisoners of House de Riva. “Dream of me,” she said quietly, her voice a low rumble, and pressed a last, untainted kiss to his brow.

“I’ll dream of your blood on my knife.”

“But at least you’ll still be thinking of me,” she told him as his eyes fluttered closed and he faded away into unconsciousness.

Perhaps there was something of a good little Crow in her after all.

[justonebitebaby]

how are some of u bitches STILL misinterpreting manberg era c!quackity in the year of our lord 2024

even disregarding headcanon and padding out the timeline, quackity disagreed with schlatt on the first day of his presidency. he didn't want the walls taken down, he didn't think exiling tommy and wilbur was the best idea, he literally freed niki from jail and told her that he'd made a mistake, that he was going to talk to schlatt about it. ik he hurt your faves because he joined the big bad man :[ but he wasn't the evil dictator some of u want him to be

[multific]

Second Chance

K'uk'ulkan x Reader

How do you hide a pregnancy from a god?

How do you hide a child from their father?

But most of all, how do you tell him?

When you refused to participate in the fight against Wakanda, he made you leave, exiled you from your home and told you that if you ever enter the ocean he would be there to kill you. He would show you no mercy.

He didn't know back then, but you were with child. It was the reason you refused to fight. It was your first ever child, finally, your gods gifted you a child after being married to your husband for so long.

And he didn't even know.

"I will not fight against Wakanda."

"You know what that would mean, My Wife?" you looked at him, confused. "It would mean you will be no longer the Queen of Talokan, as Queen it is your duty to protect your people. You are one of the best warriors."

"I will not fight."

"Then you shall leave my castle! My cave and MY ocean! You do not deserve your title, and if you ever even touch the water, I'll be there to kill you, and do not think that because of our past, I'd show mercy! You betrayed your people! You betrayed me!"

Back then, it was s suspicion of yours. Unable to confirm it with your healers before he sent you away. His eyes filled with hatred and anger.

It wasn't the man you married, the man you loved. This was Namor.

And now, here you were, living in Wakanda as the new Queen was willing to have you in her home. She confirmed your suspicion after the fight, you were indeed with child.

This was all months ago. And now, into your fifth month, you finally felt ready to face the man who broke your heart.

Wearing a light gown but a robe on top of it, hiding your child from their father as you touched the water.

For the last months, you never once entered the waters. Only staying in a tub of water to relieve your thirst as you could live longer without water.

As soon as you touched the water, you knew. He was on his way. You hoped he was calm, you hoped he had time to think. You just stood there, waiting in the knee-deep water.

Couple of moments later, you saw him emerge, with his spear in his hands. Damn him and how amazing he looked. Damn him and how much you loved him. He spoke in your native tongue.

"I told you to never enter the waters again! It was my warning. I will not hesitate to kill you just because once you were my wife."

And yet, he was hesitating.

"I came so you can meet someone." you reached for your robe when he stood in front of you, looking into your eyes, all you could see in his was anger.

"I do not wish to meet anyone. You betrayed me. You refused to fight to protect our nation."

"I had my reason."

"Your reason was that you are a coward." you untied your robe when his spear touched your skin, the sharp edge almost cutting your skin. "Don't make me kill you, leave the water." he whispered.

"I came so you can meet your child." you said as you dropped the robe, letting it fall into the water as you tugged on your dress, showing him the baby bump. "It is a girl. Shuri confirmed it. She is healthy, and often moves around as I feel her kick my ribs." you watched him, tried to read him as his eyes were glued to your belly.

"You-"

"She is the reason why I refused to fight. I suspected I was pregnant and I couldn't risk it. As much as I love the people of Talokan, we have been praying so hard for a baby." you saw him tumble, almost falling to his knees as you started to take steps backwards. He followed you, never once taking his eyes off.

"My Love..."

"Your hate consumed you, Namor. Your hate pushed me away. If you continue with this, you will lose her as well."

"You would take my child from me?"

"Your actions would take her from you."

"How far along are you?"

"I'm almost six months." he finally fell, landing in the water he looked at you with pleading eyes. No more anger.

"My Love, I'm so so sorry. I know an apology wouldn't be enough to make up for my mistake."

"Apologise to your daughter. You know very well, I am a fool who would forgive you even if you kill me. I love you too much." you moved to sit down in front of him in the sand. Letting his arms go around you as he hugged you close, one of his palms on your bump as you felt your baby move.

"My Little One, I deeply apologise for being so harsh. My hatred truly blinded me. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me as well. Your mother is too good for me." he placed a kiss on your belly, right over your thin dress. "Return home My Love. I truly believe I don't deserve a second chance. But I wish to make everything right. I want my daughter to be born where I can be present."

"I wish to go back, but if this happens again, I-"

"It will not. I promise." and now you saw in his eyes, hope, love and determination.

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