#because i used to be surprised way too often

[soundwavefucker69]

I don't share this often, but I am a trans man named Minty.

awhile after I got my legal name change, I asked my mom what she would have named me if I was a boy. she said Sebastian, and I groaned and complained that I should have asked before I got the name change, because I really DID like Sebastian now that it was occurring to me as a possible name and had ALWAYS liked Sebastian, even before my MCU days as a teenager. I had even considered it as an option but worried I'd end up looking like a weird fandom kid that had never let go of the MCU. if I had known that was the name my mother had picked for me, I would have had justification to choose it.

she asked me why I picked Minty then. i kinda paused in surprise because I thought it was obvious. and I was like. well. I wanted a name i felt like I could associate with childhood me.

after the first house we lived in was foreclosed on by the bank, we had to rent while my parents fixed their credit and swore never to get a fixer upper again. so we picked a nice house in our small town with only two real neighbors of note: an old lady, whose kids had forgotten about her, that lived way down the alley, around the point it turned from paved to dirt, the only house down there, who had a pomegranate tree in her ill-tended front yard, and a nice old lady next door that for some inexplicable reason had a miniature horse and a beautifully tended flower garden she had foolishly once planted mint in. she also had a very, very old fashioned rotary telephone. I mean the kind hardwired into the wall, of metal, with a speaker with a smooth wooden handle that sat neatly on top. not one of the plastic ones. the ones you see in old movies.

we loved these old ladies very much. the pomegranate lady was too old to keep up on her yard, so my brother and I would go with our dad to help weed whack and scrape up the dead leaves. we didn't offer too much, she was a proud sort, and couldn't pay us, but just enough to help out a little. and the mint in her flower garden lady loved it when we came by to say hi to her horse whose name I forget and loved to teach us how to garden.

she would send us home with mint. obviously. because when you have a mint infestation, well. it's pointless, but you gotta try anyway. and my mom would take that mint and make sun tea, just on the edge of not sweet enough, bc she was a bit of a crunchy mom, but not enough to reprimand me for sneaking a bit of sugar into my cup after to mix it up. (the sugar never dissolved right, especially after it was chilled, and i would always make a racket trying to get it to do so)

I told her I picked Minty because it ties me to my childhood. I didn't want to just cast it away. I wasn't Minty yet, but I also wouldn't be Minty without those days.

mom hasn't fully come around to me being trans. but she was quiet for a long, long time before she kind of whispered. I think I like Minty better than Sebastian. you should keep it.

my mom has always beat herself up over our childhood. she lacked a lot of stability in her upbringing and thought church was the way to go with my brother and I. unfortunately, she picked the wrong church. it was intensely traumatizing for us. we've had a lot of tough conversations about it. but I was able to tell her that day, you know Mom, I know you think you didn't do enough, but just know I'm not trans because you put me in a place where womanhood was miserable and I'm running from it. I don't remember much of the church, even though it consumed my life. what I do remember is my mother, the woman I may have complicated feelings towards, but have always admired and was always my standard for womanhood, being criticized by the other women for allowing me to read this book or that book and not bending or breaking under their rebukes for twenty years. I remember finding out as a twenty year old that I was the only "girl" in church that got the HPV vaccine, because you wanted to protect me, and not rely on chastity alone, like some sort of egotistical maniac who believed I'd always be your daughter, not a living breathing person that would make choices you didn't approve of as an adult, that shouldn't have to suffer for no reason from those choices. I remember you reading to my brother and I well into our teen years, using your acting talents that didn't blossom into the career you wanted to bring the characters in Peter and the Starcatchers to life. I remember listening to Lord of the Rings on cassette tape in the mini van, even though they said it was demonic when they found out. I remember the mom that let me be a tomboy. I remember the mom that would put on the Wind and the Willows on cassette from the library on rainy summer days and we'd listen to it and eat meatballs and spaghetti in the kitchen.

I told her, you're not a failure as a mother, and I didn't hate womanhood because of your example. it just didn't fit me. you made mistakes because you're human. I never thought of you as less than because you're a woman, and I didn't want to escape the cage you're thinking i wanted to escape.

my mom cried. I think that was the first time i made her cry and didn't feel bad about it.

anyways. not a soft memory, but it feels soft to me.

Tell me a soft memory

[rottenzombrainz]

How would the ghouls feel if a like dove appears while they're with mc/pc

I'm so so sorry this took me so long!!!

anon this is a beautiful idea I love you mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah

I hope you don't mind me tweaking this just a little though!

Ghouls Reaction to Seeing a Like Dove While Alone with MC

These are all written under the assumption that you're the one whose feelings made the Like Dove show.

Frostheim:

Jin Kamurai - Jin would notice the dove but he wouldn't care for its presence or for what it means. He's King Kamurai, after all. There's probably dozens of students thinking about him.

Tohma Ishibashi - I could totally see Tohma teasing you about the dove once he sees it. He'd ask you if you know what it means or if you brought it here- but he'd change the topic before you could answer

Lucas Errant - Luca would point out the dove, thinking it looks pretty, but he wouldn't realize what it means despite Kaito telling him in the early chapters.

Kaito Fuji - Kaito would freak the fuck out and cry like he just won the lottery. Seeing a Like Dove basically is like winning the lottery for him.

Vagastorm:

Alan Mido - Alan would point out the dove, but only because he thinks it looks nice. He has absolutely no idea what it means. "Hey. Look at that bird. Why?... It seems like something you'd like."

Shohei Haizono - Sho is used to seeing the doves hang around Leo, but not him. What did they mean again? Something about someone liking someone else? Whatever, he doesn't care.

Leo Kurosagi - Leo wouldn't pay any mind to the Like Dove. He sees those things all the time, after all. It doesn't mean anything to him anymore.

Jabberwock:

Haru Sagara - Haru would think it's just another anomaly wandering around Jabberwock- not that it's near him for any specific reason. He'd still tease you about it though. "Gyahaha! A Like Dove! Those only show up when someone's crushing on you!! Do you have a thing for me?"

Towa Otonashi - Towa would get so giddy and happy. After all, he saw a Like Dove while he was with you!! That must mean you love him justtt as much as he loves you! He'd wrap his arms tightly around you and give you a big hug as he nuzzles you.

Ren Shiranami - Ren would brush it off completely. "Oh, that? Yeah apparently those show up and visit people when someone's crushing on them. Dunno who'd ever be into me tho."

Sinostra:

Taiga Hoshibami - He'd eat it. And then he'd eat you. It's up to you whether it's in the kinky way or not.

Romeo Lucci - The Like Dove would immediately catch Romeo's eye and he'd demand you to capture it for him. He'd be too focused on grabbing the rare anomaly to even confront you about why it appeared when you were with him.

Ritsu Shinjo - Ritsu wouldn't say anything about the dove but he'd take note of it. If he kept seeing them around, he'd eventually talk to you about it. " I often see Like Doves whenever we're together. Do you have romantic feelings for me?"

Hotarubi:

Haku Kusanagi - Haku would tease you about the dove, but in the kind of way that revolves around you. "You see that dove over there? It means someone's thinking of you. I'm not surprised. You're quite the catch~"

Subaru Kagami - Subaru would be more shy about it than you. He wouldn't want to bring it up... what if you think he's accusing you of having a crush on him? He probably wouldn't even be able to look at the pink bird.

Zenji Kotodama - Zenji would point out the dove and sing a little rhyme he wrote about it. He'd tell you stories of the dove without really realizing why it showed up for him.

Obscuary:

Edward Hart - Ed would pretend not to notice the dove while he teases you (aka asks you outlandish questions). And of course, he'd throw in a "Do you prefer Rui or Lyca?"

Rui Mizuki - Rui would point it out and tease you about it relentlessly. "You know what those mean, right? Someone has a crush~"

Lyca Colt - Lyca would notice the Like Dove from the sudden new smell. He'd glare and growl at it, thinking it means danger. "Grrr... what is that thing? Why's it following me around?"

Mortkranken:

Yuri Isami - Seeing the dove would boost Yuri's already massive ego. Of course someone's thinking of him! He's a magnificent doctor! Wait... what do you mean Like Doves show for romantic adoration?! After this realization, he'd go into Victorian Gentleman Cardiac Arrest ™

Jiro Kirisaki - Jiro probably wouldn't even notice it unless you pointed it out. Even then, he'd just info dump about the biology of the Like Dove, the meaning of it's presence completely going over his head.

[theoldsports]

| Irish Coffee |

summary: twenty four was the wrong age for everything, except maybe picking up girls in bars at the holidays. Rafe Cameron x Reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: bars, alcohol, passing mention of sexual assault, death of a parent mention.

Rafe Cameron hated karaoke. It was shitty ego-stroking from typically the very intoxicated or the very tone deaf. He didn’t think anyone ever felt good about their performances on that rinkydink stage anyway. It was unpleasant for everyone involved. Truth be told, Rafe thought karaoke was pointless entirely. If he wanted to hear a good version of a song, he would go on Spotify and find one. He thought karaoke was a selfish sport made fun only for the singer, and never for the listener.

In summation, it was fucking stupid.

When he got in Topper’s Jeep, Rafe had been too tipsy to fully comprehend that it was karaoke night at the Swordfish. Now, with another tumbler of b-list bourbon between Rafe’s knuckles, he moped on a stool at the bar.

He felt old when he went out with Kelce, Topper and their other friends. He had started college while some of the other boys he’d grown up with were in their junior year of high school. Rafe didn’t have friends. He wasn’t good at keeping them and didn’t like it when they complained about their problems that weren’t even really problems. The persona he had crafted for dealing with friends, though, had gotten elaborate enough to where Rafe thought they didn’t notice that his heart wasn’t in it.

He didn’t have friends, he had the people he drank with. That was better than drinking alone.

Being twenty-four sucked. Too old for ragers, too young for drinks at the country club. Too many big problems to solve, but everyone thinking he was too young to solve him. Rafe wondered, if he drank enough, could he blackout the whole of his twenties and then he wake up in his thirties locked and loaded?

Some drunk whore was finishing up a song Rafe had only heard in Sofia’s car. She’d played it often. He didn’t know what it was called. It was by one of those superstar white girls with the zillion dollar concert tickets. Rafe didn’t like it. He didn’t like Sofia either anymore. He didn’t like to think about her anymore.

His heartbeat raced. His could feel it beat in his neck when he drank too much. It didn’t used to be that way. The human body couldn’t fail from misuse before thirty, could it? Rafe took a sharp inhale through his nose to push the frantic thoughts away. Everyone leaves eventually, he reminded himself; a mantra. Fuck, he wanted a cigarette.

Topper was on Ruthie leaning up on the wall near a booth. They were out of commission til she got pissy at him for breathing wrong, or something, and they all had to make excuses to leave. Normal Friday night.

Rafe wished he’d stayed home.

A DJ mumbled that the next person was taking the stage, singing Hard Candy Christmas by Dolly Parton. Arguably, this was Rafe’s favorite Christmas song because it had been his mother’s favorite Christmas song.

It was also the week before Thanksgiving and Rafe didn’t think he could stomach Christmas yet.

“Shit…” Rafe muttered into his glass of bourbon.

The girl supposed to sing was being pushed up into the tiny stage by a group of drunk girls. Presumably a bachelorette party by the looks of it. The girl onstage had a frown of surprise on her lips. It was clear to Rafe that she didn’t know this was going to happen. A girl in her party, wearing a veil headband, called out: “Please! This is our song. Please do it for me? You sound so pretty, [Y/N].”

All of her friends were calling and chanting for her to sing. The girl, [Y/N], looked embarrassed. She was very put on the spot.

Eventually, with all the cheering, pleading and encouragement, [Y/N] walked to the center of the stage where the microphone stood.

“Forgive me if this is dogshit, my friends signed me up,” The girl said over the karaoke track’s intro. A few of the girls she was with cheered. “I didn’t come to butcher Dolly in front of y’all.”

This yielded a chuckle from her audience. Rafe rolled his eyes. He was less interested in her humble act, and more interested in where he knew from. Rafe knew a lot of people, and he was starting to cling to the barstool to do what his legs were struggling to do. [Y/N] was a common enough name, but this girl looked so fucking familiar to him. His drunk mind leafed through the catalog of women in his brain. [Y/N], [Y/N], [Y/N], where did he know her from?

Her clothes weren’t anything special. Standard bachelorette party fare. A little too short, but not quite slutty. She was a bridesmaid, maybe the maid of honor. Rafe wrinkled his nose in thought. His contacts stung dry against his eyes. He had stared at a screen too long in the office and now he was sitting under a vent in November. Who the hell left the A/C on in November?

[Y/N]. Rafe hadn’t hooked up with her before. He didn’t think he had, anyway. She didn’t appear to have botox in her face or filler in her top lip with the way she expressed so freely. That meant she couldn’t have been the kid of one of his dad’s business contacts.

He looked at her friends for clues. Immediately, Rafe recognized the bride. Wendy. Rafe had hooked up with Wendy a few times in high school. He was surprised to see she was still on the island; Wendy had been smarter than that. So Rafe probably knew [Y/N] from school, then. What classes had they shared? He tried to place her.

[Y/N] was working through the slow first verse. She didn’t have a perfect, trained voice. Her voice was the kind of voice that sang in the kitchen on Saturday mornings to the radio. A smirk pulled at Rafe’s lip. She wasn’t forcing it, and she wasn’t so drunk that it was pathetic to listen to. “I hate singing in front of people…” she said.

[Y/N] knelt and set down what appeared to be an Irish coffee, and put her left hand over eyes. No ring, Rafe thought. He almost puked at the thought that looking at babes in bars now came with seeing if they were married or engaged, before giving them the once over. Being twenty-four sucked. The girl swayed from side to side on her feet as she moved from the second half of the first verse to the chorus.

…Maybe I'll just get drunk on apple wine.

Me, I'll be just fine and dandy.

Lord, it's like a hard candy Christmas.

I'm barely getting through tomorrow,

But still I won't let sorrow bring me way down…

The girl took some liberties with how she improvised the line endings or creating a harmony line instead of the melody during the way too repetitive chorus. It wasn’t like she was doing something revolutionary, but she also wasn’t just up there doing a cheesy impression of Dolly.

It was a welcome change of pace from the guy’s attempt at some Jimmy Buffet number a few songs ago. Rafe loved music. He loved it. That’s part of why karaoke was such an affront. Rafe played the piano; he was okay. His mom had put him in lessons right after kindergarten and it was the only thing he had stuck with until the end of high school. That was how he honored her memory.

Wait, kindergarten.

[Y/N] sat next to Rafe in kindergarten and early elementary. Holy fucking shit.

Rafe was a walking ad for Ritalin until he was about ten. Arguably, after that too. No one ever helped him out. He was also spoiled, he knew that. The kid talked out of turn, couldn’t follow the classroom expectations, never sat still, and ended up with his green light getting downgraded to a yellow light by the end of everyday. The tantrums he would throw over it where earthshaking. It was exhausting. [Y/N] sat next to him because she was not disruptive. Miss Lisa, their kindergarten teacher had loved [Y/N]. She loved her not only because she was good kid, but because she talked back to Rafe. [Y/N] used her position as calm-girl-forced-to-sit-next-to-shitty-boy to her advantage. She tattled on him daily. Debatably, that made his behavior worse, but the pair had fun sometimes. Rafe hadn’t thought about her in years.

[Y/N] wrapped up the song, trilling fine and dandy… I’ll be fine… over and over with the tinny backing track. He wished she could sing this song along with a guitar the way she deserved. Unexpectedly, Rafe found his hands applauding and his glass on the counter.

Quick as a flash, Rafe stood on unsteady feet and rushed towards the stage. [Y/N] rounded up her Irish coffee and pivoted towards her friends that clapped delightedly at her. Her hands were peeled away from her face now. Rafe almost smiled. Almost.

“Hey ladies, can I steal [Y/N] here for a second?” Rafe hollered over the music as he slumped towards their party.

Wendy’s eyes lit up in immediate recognition. “Rafe Cameron…”

“Hi Wendy,” Rafe said effortlessly. “Congratulations, by the way. You look great.” Rafe’s hookups were getting married now, and he was going to wake up tomorrow single and hungover.

“Thank you, hon. You look pretty good yourself… Please take her. Buy her another drink before we go. We need her loosened up a little.” Wendy giggled.

“Hey!” [Y/N] protested. She was eying Rafe uncertainly. She was trying to place him the same way that he had her.

“Please, ladies, next round on my tab. Congrats, seriously, Wendy,” Rafe said with a sleazy, false grin as a few of the women cheered. “I’ll bring [Y/N] back in one piece.” Gently, Rafe placed a hand on her elbow and angled her away towards the bar. The two walked in relative quiet.

All [Y/N]’s friends giggled. Rafe’s force dimples dropped when they were out of the ladies’ eyeline.

“Excuse me,” [Y/N] started. “Not tryin’ to be rude. Have we… Do I know you? I didn’t catch your name and…” She asked, staring intensely at Rafe. “Is this a setup, because Wendy’s always trying to—“

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Rafe cut in, stopping. He was drunk and forgot his manners. Great impression. Rafe cleared his throat and tried not to slur. “Rafe Cameron. You probably don’t remember me… I… You’re [Y/N] [L/N], yeah? You sat beside me in, like, fucking kindergarten and stuff.”

[Y/N] eyes widened in recognition. “Oh my god!” She gasped. “Rafe! How are you? Oh my god, you’re so tall!” [Y/N] laughed happily. Her faced buzzed warmly from the alcohol.

Rafe nodded at her amused comment. “Yeah, I’ve been busy since I was, y’know, nine.” He snorted.

“You transferred, right?”

“Yeah, Saint Mary’s.” Rafe replied. His mother’s trust had paid for catholic school after she died. He transferred out around the time he was ten.

“I can’t believe we never crossed paths again. You know Wendy from Saint Mary’s then?”

“Yep, that’s right,” Rafe paused. “Come on, lemme get you another drink. You’re the reason I didn’t fail first grade.”

[Y/N] smirked. “That’s probably true. You were an awful student.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rafe smirked. “Way to treat a guy buying you a drink,” he started his walk towards the bar, prompting [Y/N] to follow him. “You got Bailey’s or Jameson in that thing?”

The girl looked down into her nearly empty mug. “Jameson.”

“Smart girl.“ Rafe said easily. [Y/N] blushed. Even drunk, Rafe didn’t miss that expression on her face at those words. Almost too easy.

“Well, if you’re paying then tell the man to make it a double Irish too.”

“Very smart girl. I like the way you think.”

[Y/N] easily followed Rafe to the bar. The man’s broad shoulders slumped drunkenly as he cut through the crowd. When one was as large, imposing and beautiful as Rafe Cameron, crowds parted like the Red Sea. “So, uh, how are you? Did you do the whole college thing, or…?” [Y/N] asked broadly. She next to nothing about him. He wasn’t even the kind of childhood friend to get added on Instagram.

College. That was the default question at their age. Rafe hated this question, but he couldn’t let [Y/N] feel rejected for that question. “I mean, yeah. For a while. I was at Wofford for a year, but I never finished. I like what I do now, though.”

[Y/N] nodded. “And what exactly do you do?”

“Real estate development. I took over for my dad l when he passed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, we get by,” Rafe turned to the bartender, waving a hand for his attention. “Another Maker’s Mark, neat, and a coffee with double Jameson. Put the anything else the bachelorette party orders on my tab.” Rafe said. He certainly didn’t need another drink, but he really liked having something to do with his hands. Rafe would probably have less substance abuse-related issues if he knew how to conduct his body in public in some way that wasn’t a poor impression of his father.

“Very good, Mr. Cameron.”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes at Rafe. “Big spender… You that much of a regular that they know your name at the bar?” In her world, guys [Y/N]’s age didn’t get called ‘Mr.’ anything anywhere by anyone. The guys she knew still drank shitty PBRs in punk clubs and had girlfriends they had nothing in common with. Rafe’s polish and pedigree didn’t rub off even in such a state of intoxication.

Rafe didn’t have a good excuse. The implication of [Y/N]’s statement was accurate. “Sure,” he replied. He moved through the rest of his sentence like a gunshot to prevent an awkward conversation. “Hey, why’d you pick Hard Candy Christmas?”

“I didn’t pick it. Wendy did.”

Rafe nodded slowly. “Right. Why did she pick it for you, then?”

“Because it’s my favorite Christmas song.”

“It’s my favorite. It’s probably half of the Smoky Mountains’ favorite too. But why?”

“I didn’t realize this was hardball—“

“Please... I asked you a question about Dolly Parton. You sounded good.” Rafe responded. His drink was passed over the counter. He held it close to his chest and leaned his right elbow down to press it into the bar.

“Um, thanks. It’s… I had shitty couple years. I sang that song everyday for months at a time, I think. Wendy and I would go for these drives with the top down and just… Belt that shit out. Makes the bad days better.”

Rafe half-smiled. “So, year-round?” He said accusingly.

“The song? Like, not at Christmas?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, yeah. She says it’s like a Hard Candy Christmas, not that it is one. That’s grounds for year-round. It’s so much more than a Christmas song.” [Y/N] bit back with a smirk. The bartender returned and placed another white coffee cup and saucer in front of [Y/N] with a nod. The girl slurped a sip down without cream or sugar. She barely made a pinched expression at what was obviously a strong drink. Rafe was moderately impressed. He liked that [Y/N] was drinking brown liquor in black coffee this late on a Friday while all of her friends held White Claws and Daiquiris,

“My head hurts. This is the opposite of the Die Hard’s a Christmas movie thing.” Rafe jabbed.

“Anything can be a Christmas movie.”

“Then, so can a song.”

[Y/N] paused. “Damn.” she sighed. She wasn’t sober enough to get her arguments straight.

Rafe didn’t want to conversation to end. [Y/N] was the most intelligent person he’d spoken to all day. It wasn’t saying much, but was noticeable. He asked another question. “What’s your favorite Christmas movie, if you think that’s true?”

“American Psycho.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s not a—“

“Rewatch it. Not having this argument,” [Y/N] chided. The girl glanced over her shoulder at her friends. They were all staring at her and pretending they weren’t. “Listen Rafe, I appreciate the drink. It was really great to see you tonight. I gotta head back to Wendy now. Bachelorette party only happens once. If you’re lucky… But, hey, thank you again—“

“Ask me.”

“Ask you what?” [Y/N] asked. She had no idea where Rafe was taking this. Rafe pushed up the left sleeve of his brown sweater.

“What my favorite Christmas movie is.”

[Y/N] looked at him funny. “What’s your favorite Christmas movie?”

“Eyes Wide Shut.” Rafe replied coyly.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” [Y/N] smiled fully, finally. Rafe damn near smiled back. She took a small step away, gesturing to where her friends stood.

“Can I give you my card? Maybe we catch up sometime.” Rafe asked plainly.

“Yeah, maybe!”

Rafe pulled his business card out of his wallet and extended it to [Y/N]. She looked down at it, cheekily saying: “Let’s see Paul Allen’s business card…” her eyes widened at the writing on the card. “CEO? Of a development company? THE development company on the island.”

“I told you I took over my dad’s business.”

“Rafe, I… I’m barely a grant writer at a 501-c3. How are you a CEO… You’re… twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four two weeks ago.”

“Happy birthday,” [Y/N] said flatly. “What’s happening? Why are you talking to me?”

“Because you helped me pass first grade. I thought I already said that.” Rafe’s eyes never left hers. They were so blue. Too blue. Too blue to be real. Rich people were too pretty.

[Y/N] took a very long sip of her coffee. “That’s wild. I’m sorry, but that’s wild. You made me feel vastly inferior and I’m the friend with my shit the most together.” [Y/N] told Rafe, with a smile on her face.

“I know you gotta get back. I’m not gonna the asshole that kept the girls waiting, but call me. Listen, you’re pretty, so is your voice. We should catch up.” Rafe said. Was he asking her out? That was weird. That was weird, right?

Hesitantly, [Y/N] looked back at her friends again. They were too invested in her conversation with Rafe. Hopefully, they would all drink so much that they forgot it happened.

“Do you like karaoke, Rafe?” [Y/N] changed the subject.

“I hate it.” He replied instantly.

“Why are you here?”

Rafe gestured with his glass to where Topper and Ruthie were making out. “They gave me a ride. And you don’t seem too keen about it either.” He said with a shrug.

[Y/N] couldn’t figure out what Rafe’s game was. He had turned from an unsettling child to a freakish adult. He was blunt and brisk, and either frustratingly honest or an alarmingly good liar. Maybe both. She stared up at him.

“What?”

“What?” Rafe raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, I’m gonna go. It was good to see you. Thanks for the drinks,” [Y/N] took a step back. She started to walk away slightly, still facing Rafe. A looked of what could be interrupted as self-loathing crossed Rafe’s face. He didn’t bullshit enough with her during the conversation to be perceived as likable, and she was leaving. Of course. Nobody liked Rafe when they actually knew Rafe. [Y/N] stopped, thinking. “Rafe?”

“Yeah?” His eyes slid back to her.

“Can you do something for me?”

“Maybe?”

He was going to say no, but it would serve as a litmus test for what kind of man Rafe was. It would help [Y/N] sleep easier to know what kind of bullet she dodged by losing Rafe’s business card after tonight. “Okay, we have a scavenger hunt thing for the party. It’s stupid. One of those… Do X number of shots, get someone to give you a BLANK, take a picture of three of you doing… whatever. Y’know?”

“Sure, yeah. What are you asking?”

“One of the items on the list is Maid of Honor and a stranger accomplish a task she’ll regret tomorrow. Like I said, it’s a trashy fuckin’ list.”

“Are you asking me to hookup with you, or…”

“Worse. Do you know the song Don’t Go Breaking My Heart by—“

“Absolutely not—“

“Let me finish. I said do you know the song Don’t Go—“

“I don’t do karaoke.” Rafe said forcefully.

“Do you want to go out on a date with me, or not?”

Rafe was stunned silent. His mind worked overtime. He suddenly felt extremely sober, in spite of his drunkenness. He sucked his teeth.

“I don’t do Elton John. Sorry.” He muttered finally.

[Y/N] nodded, knowingly. It was a setup anyway. She couldn’t be disappointed. She knew he’d refuse and she could leave knowing she had made the right choice ditching him. “That’s a’right. Maybe some other—“

“But, if you really want me to do this, let’s at least stick to the Christmas thing you’ve got going here.”

“You don’t look very… holly jolly.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” he deadpanned. Rafe was the strangest combination. “Stop givin’ me grief here. Your favorite Christmas movie is American Psycho. Let’s do Baby, It’s Cold Outside—“

“Whoa, waaaay too rapey.” [Y/N] protested.

“American. Psycho. How is that song—“

“Wait, do you know Fa—“

“Fairytale of New York?” Rafe finished.

“You know it?”

“My family’s Irish Catholic.”

They both stood still and looked at each other. Well, Rafe stood as still as he could, but swayed a little on his feet. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Why was he agreeing to this?

For as manipulative as Rafe Cameron could be, he was effortless to play for validation and a pretty pair of eyes looking back at him.

Everyone leaves eventually, Rafe reminded himself. His mouth and his brain were not in agreement. Rafe had lost control of his body as he blindly followed [Y/N] to sign up for the next karaoke slot.

They passed Topper and Rafe held onto his glass like an anchor. He should have switched to beer. Why did he have another bourbon? Topper pulled his face away from Ruthie long enough to look at Rafe as if to say what the fuck are you doing? without any words. Rafe grimaced at Topper, barring his teeth slightly in response.

Rafe leaned in to [Y/N]’s ear and clumsily pushed her hair back. “I’m not a singer… This isn’t gonna be good.” He whispered. Chills crept up [Y/N]’s spine at the sensation of his breath. He knew his way around rhythm and music theory. Rafe was an asshole about music, actually. Jazz, classical, whatever. It was his secret no one else got to have. It’s not his fault that most of the motherfuckers he hung out with only listened to guys with the word ‘yung’ in front of their names. Still, all of that musicality couldn’t make him a singer.

“It’s karaoke.” [Y/N] said like it was obvious. She dragged Rafe towards the stage. “You’re so serious… Stop frowning; you’re gonna get lines on your face. We’re both gonna suck. I wouldn’t make you do this if it wasn’t for Wendy anyway. Promise.”

“This is so dumb; this better be some fucking date…”

[Y/N] pried, with difficulty, the rocks glass out of Rafe’s fingers and set it with her mug on a tabletop by the stage. As she pulled him up to a microphone, she said: “You know the words. Sing the damn song.”

And as the track started to play, and [Y/N] stupid friends all cheered, Rafe slurred the words he knew from every drunken family Christmas party he’d ever had. And he smiled. Just a little.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"The truth - Part 1." Daryl Dixon imagine.

(Not my gif! But thanks to the amazing people who make them)

For the first time in his life, Daryl tells Carol the story of how you two met.

A/N: This got longer than I thought hehehe that’s why I’m dividing it in two parts. Thank you so much for all the love my last imagine received! I still can’t believe it. That’s why I thought of combining the stories a bit, and showing you how I imagine Daryl and (Y/N) met, just because I’m crazy and I even thought about making it a serie hahahaha but here you’ll see a bit of how they broke up and in the second part, how they got back together and then later had Marley. Only on this occasion (I’ll try not to do it often) I used the pronoun she and her, but you can read it however you like. Thanks in advance!

“Rick told me that Spencer invited (Y/N) to his house for dinner. He’s been really insistent on them getting to know each other more since we got here.”

For him, it is as if Carol’s words are a sharp razor that cuts his breath away, that makes the world, his world to stop completely, leaving a great void where silence lies and reigns, without the constant grunts of the walkers on the other side of Alexandria's gates, without the singing of the birds that nest in the tree just outside the window of the home they share, without being able to hear the sound of his own breathing that seems to stop too just like the beating of his weak heart. 

Because it was Daryl who told (Y/N) he couldn’t be with her, so he wanted to believe that after that, she managed to extinguish every feeling she once had for him, as well as the light of their love that once shone and the one that was turn off when he left her, which trapped them in the shadows of a cold hurricane and an endless night, always so close but never together, running in circles far from each other without knowing where they were going, drifting like a lost ship in the ocean and in a complete darkness.

But that’s bullshit, Daryl knows it, because she had been the only woman Daryl Dixon was capable of loving, and she is the only woman he would love for the rest of his life.

“Um…” He swings the knife against his finger, sinking it in a little harder than necessary, but not able to ask more.

The night melts into his deathly silence, but, sitting beside him on the wooden step outside their house, Carol lets out a long sigh.

“What do you want, Daryl? Do you really want to see her with someone else?”

Daryl’s chest feels hot, boiling, like the result of a high fever, like he’s been running for hours without stopping to catch a breath.

“I jus' want 'er to be happy.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Carol shakes her head, incredulous, but she has a magical way of telling the truth and still sounding sweet. “She loves you, you, and I know she’ll only be happy with you, even if you’re the surliest man I’ve ever met.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything, unable to look her in the eyes as he continues to stare at the grass, hiding behind his hair the eyes of a man who would give his life for the person he loves, but who is too cowardly to stop listening to the voices in his head that tormented him every night, that kept telling him that he would never be worthy of her love, that he would never be the man capable of being loved.

But Carol knows him, and she knows that he is beginning to drown, so, with a warm smile, she speaks again.

“How did you meet her by the way? I don’t think you ever told me that story.”

Softly, because he wasn’t used to doing it often, Daryl smiles at the memory, and his ocean-blue eyes light up and fill with life, and for a moment, he is able to lift his head and look at the moon shining above them.

“We were still pretty young. One night, Merle kicked me out of the ugly apartment we shared during one of his meetings with some drug dealers, so with nothin' to do, I went to a bar to kill some time. It was a shitty place, so I was surprised when she sat at the bar too, just a few feet away from me.”

“What was she like?”

“As beautiful as she is now.”

Carol can hear the smile in his deep voice, as warm as the thought of (Y/N).

“And what were you like?”

“A motherfucker with nothin' to offer 'er.” There’s no emotion in his voice, but before Carol can give him a telling off, Daryl speaks again. “But she looked at me like she could see somethin' in me, somethin' I didn’t even know existed. She talked to me first, and asked if the bike outside was mine. I told 'er that it was, and she, with 'er eyes full of life, told me that 'er older brother used to have one just like that. I laughed a little because she shouldn't be there, she didn't belong in a place like that, and when I asked her, she chuckled, a warm sound, like she was full of colors in that shitty world…”

Daryl chuckles, and for the first time in the long night, he is able to look at Carol, only to confirm with his gaze everything he still could sense about (Y/N) at that moment. Carol can see his smile this time, slight but unmistakable.

“And what happened next?”

“She told me she was runnin' away, that 'er father was goin' to marry her off to some dude of a wealthy family that would get 'em out of the debt that bastard got himself into in the first place. She was goin' to be sold, like a thing, by 'er own fuckin' father.” Carol can hear the venom in his voice, the hatred, the spite in the memory of his own father before he abandoned them. “I asked 'er if she had a place to go, and she said no. I don’t know what went through ma mind when I told 'er ma couch was available, I don’t know what went through 'er mind when she said okay n' thank you. That night when we got back to ma place, Merle told 'er she didn’t look like some hooker he used to bring home. And (Y/N), without any fear, walked up to him and pulled out the gun she had stolen from 'er father, then pressed it against ma brother’s chin, askin' him to repeat what he had just said. Merle loved 'er after that, and I didn’t even know that asshole was capable of lovin' someone.”

Carol laughs.

“I didn’t think I could love (Y/N) more, but now I kinda do.”

Daryl chuckles too.

“Yeah, I kind of did too. I even thought, I have to marry this woman.”

“And you wanted to? Marry her, I mean.”

For a few seconds, Daryl thinks deeply about whether sharing one of his many secrets is the right thing to do, whether saying those words out loud would change the course of things, but at that moment, he considers that saying them is appropriate.

“I bought a ring a year after we got together. It took me a while to get the money, but I finally did it.” Daryl is relieved that she can’t feel the heat on his cheeks, the blush of a boy who fell in love long before he knew what the hell love was.

“And how did you two get together in the first place?”

Daryl shrugs, smiling slightly at her like a little boy: and thankfully, he’d stopped pressing the knife against his finger.

“I don’t even know myself. I guess it started a little after the dinner she made us the next day. I told 'er she could stay as long as she needed to get 'er life together, and Merle asked her to stay if she made him dinner. She was about to shoot him when he told 'er that our mom had never made us such a delicious dinner…” Daryl chuckles, just a little humorous, because the funny memory is mixed with the sad one. “We jus'… at first it was purely carnal, we would have sex to release stress, we would do it and then I would leave ma room that was hers at the time, but there was always somethin' sweet about 'er, I could feel it in the way we kissed, in the way 'er body shuddered as I touched 'er soft skin, in the way she pulled me against 'er body durin'…” Daryl looks back into Carol’s eyes after realizing that he was dreaming out loud, but Carol is there, smiling at him. “There was one night, where I jokingly told 'er that I was enjoyin' this thing of makin' love every night so much that we should consider doin' it durin' the day too, and she jus' looked at me with a confused expression, but with a slight smile on those lips that I was dyin' to kiss in the mornings and at all hours, and she told me that was the first time that I didn't say we had sex.”

Carol smiles, quickly understanding what came next.

“You were falling in love with her.”

Daryl nods softly.

“I was completely devoted to that woman from the moment I met 'er.”

“And you told her?”

Daryl shakes his head.

“Not with words, I ain't good with words, never was. But she knew, I think that’s why she stayed with me all that time.”

“She stayed with you because you’re a good man, Daryl, you always were and you always will be.”

Daryl shrugs, this time in a gesture that dismissed such an affirmation.

“I never told 'er I loved 'er, and she never asked me to tell 'er, but I could feel that she loved me in every kiss, in every hug, in every blessed smile of hers.”

“And how did you two split up when the end of the world began?”

“She got a job shortly after I invited 'er to ma house. She was a vet, and even though she had little experience, 'er boss trusted 'er n' gave 'er a job. That night when people started runnin' and shootin', I went to look for 'er but she wasn’t there. Her boss had been bitten n' I even thought she had been too, but somethin' in me told me that she was stronger, smarter and that she had managed to escape. When Merle and I left town, I never stopped lookin' for 'er: I knew she was alive, and I jus' had to find ma way back to 'er.”

“And you found her after all.”

“Yes, I did, but when we got to the prison, somethin' in me kept tellin' me that I wasn’t enough for 'er, that even if I took care of 'er, she deserved better. That night I told 'er that I couldn’t be with 'er, not in the way she would have wanted. But the way she looked at me, as calm as she had always been… I’ll never forget the way she nodded and walked away…”

Unconsciously, Daryl presses the tip of the knife against his hand again, so imperceptibly that neither he nor Carol notice.

“But you couldn’t stay away from her.”

Daryl chuckles again, embarrassed with himself at the memory of Carol almost catching them in the act.

“Hell no, I had missed 'er body so much. But it was like goin' back to the beginnin’. We had sex when everyone else went to sleep, but I knew it was jus' that: sex. I knew it the moment she wouldn’t let me kiss 'er, the way she hid 'er face in my neck, holding onto my shoulders. So I jus' held 'er against me, huggin' her for as long as she lemme until we were done and she asked me to leave. It was like that all this time. I always have 'er close, but never close enough.”

Carol nods.

“That’s why you stayed here, even though you never really adjusted to this life.”

Daryl frowns, going deeper into his own thoughts.

“I always spent most of ma life in the woods, runnin' away from ma father n' mother, and when they left, I did it to escape from myself. But when she came into ma life, Merle used to tease me and tell me that I had been tamed, that after every job I had, I always came home jus' because she was there. When we came to this place, I considered livin' on the outskirts like I always liked, but I… I can’t be away from 'er.”

Carol’s expression turns into pure sadness, because she knows that Daryl is a good man, strong, loyal to his family, willing to die for one of them without a second’s hesitation, so the insecurities he kept secret were like a knife in his heart and hers. But when she sees (Y/N) from afar coming home after her job at the infirmary, Carol knows that everything comes down to that moment, as if there was no way to escape that decision that Daryl must make, which is now or never.

(Y/N) is still a little far away, so she takes advantage of the moment.

“You are the best man I have ever known, Daryl Dixon, and you deserve all the love you can ever get: from me, from our family, and from her.” Carol steps closer to him, hoping her words are as honest as she intends them to sound, and for a moment, they manage to draw Daryl’s gaze into hers. “I’ll ask you one question only. Do you love her? Do you really, truly love her?”

Daryl holds her gaze, but despite his terror, he manages to find the words he’s been dying to say to her. And when he speaks, his voice is low, husky, but self-assured.

“I do. I love 'er.”

“Then tell her, Pookie.” Carol kisses his temple, smiling at him with all the love she has for him. “I guess you still have the ring. So take her to someplace she likes, tell her the things you always wanted to tell her but were always afraid to say, and ask her to marry you.”

Daryl looks at her silently, with the expression of a scared child.

“What if she says no?”

“She will say yes. I promise. But you have to do it now, Daryl, before she loses hope with you.”

Without saying another word, Carol gets up and goes into the house, leaving him alone, so Daryl can silently contemplate his life, the choices he made, and the love for her that he kept deep in his wounded, frightened heart. But there's something about Daryl that drives him to stop always keeping to himself like he always did, to stop staying on the sidelines, to stop being that man tortured by his own thoughts, to stop loving her silently from the shadows, always behind her to protect her from everything, just so that, in that moment, he would be the brave man she always saw in him.

When (Y/N) arrives at their house, she smiles at him slightly before walking past him, but stopping, just like her heart, when she hears him call her by that funny and almost ridiculous nickname, but with his voice full of love.

“Peach?”

Her hand stops on the doorknob.

“Yes?”

For a small, fleeting moment, Daryl forgets how to speak, as if she were able to snatch all the words from him.

“Are ya doin' somethin' tonight?”

She frowns slightly, and although he hasn’t turned to look at her, she looks at him strangely.

“I don’t think so… going to sleep I guess, why?”

Daryl swallows the lump that forms in his throat.

“I thought that… maybe I could take ya somewhere, but we would have to leave before the sun comes up.”

Her heart is beating fast, an involuntary movement, because it’s been a while since they’ve been truly alone. It's a scary feeling, but deep down, she knows that everything is okay as long as they are together, even though they weren't together.

“Okay.”

There’s a certain playfulness in her voice, masked behind her confusion, but Daryl can sense it.

“I’ll knock on yer door when it’s time to go.”

She nods.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours then.”

“G'night, peach.”

She laughs softly, but it’s the same lively sound he heard when they first met, and that, somehow, is like a good omen for him.

“You too.” But she pauses, thinking deeply if her next words will make any change in him. She is afraid, she is so afraid of feeling close to him again, but the fear of losing him at some point is bigger than anything, but not by some walker, because he was smarter than that, but perhaps by himself, because Daryl's worst enemy was his own conscience. “Daryl?”

“Yeah?”

Her heart beats differently, but she can’t hold her words prisoner anymore.

“You promised me you wouldn’t do it anymore.”

He knows it without her saying it, because after so many years, she knows him well, better than anyone, and Daryl can feel his own shame blossoming inside him.

“M'sorry.”

There’s a deep emptiness in his words, and she can’t help but feel that weight on her shoulders too. So, silently, she sits beside him for a moment, admiring the beauty of the moon that, despite that new world, hadn’t changed thankfully.

(Y/N) reaches out her hand to him, the hand he hurt, and Daryl, unable to look her in the eyes, holds her hand as he feels the warmth of her body close to him, for the first time in months. Maybe she was never good with words either, but right now, all he needs from her is to have her close, as close as he would be to her if she said yes.

[scary-grace]

Expiation (Chapter 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Even after slaying the High Kingdom's greatest enemy and sparing its people from a terrible fate, Shigaraki Tomura's past crimes make him an outcast in the castle. Still, someone has to attend to him, and that someone is you -- and unlike the maids who came before you, you're not afraid to ask a question. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 4

The debate over the issue of the borderlands continues, although without any more challenges issued to Sir Tomura by Sir Katsuki or anyone else. The king’s council appears to be inching towards a decision in favor of a campaign to retake the borderlands from the warlords, but the more cautious individuals on the council wish to hear more testimony from those who hail from the region, and the intensity of the questioning means that only one or two people can be questioned each day. In the meantime, a new complication begins to arise: A steady stream of people emerging from the Forest Perilous, each more tired and ragged than those who came before.

“Never before have so many passed through,” Yui murmurs to you as the two of you carry loads of sheets down to the castle laundry. “Has the Forest lost its power to shield us?”

You shake your head, but she’s still speaking. “Did he destroy it when he passed through?”

“No,” you say firmly. Yui startles. “The Forest is stronger than any one person. It admitted Sir Tomura because he was meant to be here. There must be a reason for the presence of the others.”

There is, and you learn it later that day, when your token hums against your wrist and you hurry to answer Sir Tomura’s call. You find him on the battlements above the gate, watching today’s new arrivals climb the hill. Your token goes still when you reach him, and his must, too – he speaks without looking up. “Now we will see how far your kingdom’s generosity truly stretches. Do you think good King Izuku will let them in?”

“I cannot see why he would do otherwise,” you say carefully. “Those who pass through the Forest Perilous are those who belong here, and as such, they deserve a welcome like any other.”

“But these are not any other travelers,” Sir Tomura says. “They come from your Enemy’s kingdom.”

Your heart lurches. You fight to conceal your surprise, but Sir Tomura’s looking at you now. “Did their style of dress not reveal them to you? Or are you truly so ignorant of the kingdom you reviled?”

You shake your head, but you have no answer. “I see,” Sir Tomura says, scornful a gain. “You thought that they condoned his actions simply by dwelling in his kingdom.”

“No,” you say. Sir Tomura scoffs. “I did not condone the warlord’s actions simply by living in the lands he controls. If that is true of me, it’s true of them. But –”

You hesitate. “Speak,” Sir Tomura says.

“With the Enemy vanquished, their lands belong to them again,” you say. “Why would they leave?”

“If you wish to know that, ask them,” Sir Tomura says. He looks away from you, his eyes fixed on the travelers – the refugees – once more. “Now go.”

You aren’t sure how to interpret the order. Is he telling you to depart and speak to the others, or simply to depart? In the end, tradition guides you. When groups of travelers arrived together in the past, you’ve often gone to welcome them, drawn by a desire to help and by a secret, more selfish desire to understand. There is no reason why the refugees from the Enemy’s kingdom should be treated differently, and if Sir Tomura has no need of you, it’s as good a way as any to pass your time.

Rather than being received in the usual chambers, the new arrivals are being received in the large courtyard just inside the gate, and the supplies usually kept for such events are in no way equal to the task. Your magic is suited enough for this – mending ragged clothes so they’ll last a little longer, mending heirlooms broken in the journey – and so is your experience as a new arrival yourself, when you were barely more than a child. You answer their questions, and they in turn unfold their stories to you. Stories of the terror wreaked upon the Enemy’s kingdom in its final days. Stories of what remained afterward. Stories of Sir Tomura, and how he defeated the Enemy – and how he did not fight alone.

The first you hear of it comes from a little girl, when you compliment the silver ring that hangs from a twist of twine around her neck. “It’s still hot,” she tells you proudly, although when she holds it out for you to touch, it carries only the warmth of her skin. “It belonged to the Dragonheart.”

“Dabi the Dragonheart?” you repeat, surprised. You know of him, of course – his is another name mentioned in the chronicles of evil deeds – but you hadn’t realized that he was present in the Enemy’s kingdom, too. “Did he give it to you?”

The girl shakes her head solemnly. “I found it after,” she says. “After he fell.”

“The Dragonheart fell in battle,” you say slowly, and the girl nods. “How?”

“Didn’t see.” She spins the ring on its makeshift chain. “If people saw then, they can’t see now.”

You finish mending her clothes and thank her for the story, wondering what she meant. A few new arrivals later, you hear the rest of it. The Dragonheart burned so brightly in his final moments as he strove to deal a death blow to the Enemy that those who looked upon his brilliance went blind from it. But that isn’t the part of the story that troubles you. The Dragonheart fought alongside Sir Tomura. The Dragonheart died.

The Dragonheart isn’t the only figure of legend to have died in recent months. Others who fled the Enemy’s fallen kingdom tell you of the final spell cast by the dreaded witch Himiko, and still more relay the death of Spinner, a noted mercenary and the White Death’s closest friend. His closest friend, but not his only friend. When Sir Tomura challenged the Enemy, the others joined his cause.

Each of his friends was a monster, sowing terror in every village they passed through, just like him. Each of them paid the ultimate price, just as Sir Tomura would have if the Enemy’s final blow had been fatal. It’s the same contradiction you faced before, of monsters who proved more courageous than the true knights of the High Kingdom. Of villains who died doing something good. It makes your head hurt – and your heart, too.

Days pass. More testimonials are given before the council, more refugees arrive, and more stories are told. Stories not just of how the White Death’s comrades died, but how they lived. I saw the White Death smile once, a former soldier of the Enemy says. A few days later, from the mouth of a woman who once waited on the four of them in a tavern: I heard him laugh. And then, from a boy blinded by the Dragonheart’s last blaze, scarred from the wave of black magic that emanated from the Enemy’s fallen castle and scoured the countryside for miles: I heard him scream.

You want to ask your Lord about his companions, about what happened to them, about what happened to him when he slew the Enemy and incurred his terrible wound. You’ve tried to follow his instruction to speak to him as you would to an equal. But as much as you want the answer, you know that there are questions you would refuse to answer even if you were compelled to do so, and there’s nothing you could do to compel Sir Tomura. You wouldn’t want to.

But you’re a commoner, and little care is given to what you want. And at no point is that more evident than when Sir Tomura informs you that the King’s council requires your presence tomorrow.

“Your testimony is expected to sway them, one way or the other,” he says. He’s seated on his bed, watching as you store clean clothes in the wardrobe. “King Izuku requires a unanimous decision to approve a military campaign, and there are a few holdouts who would rather negotiate first.”

You know what the warlords do to negotiators – the warlord whose thumb you dwelt under most particularly. “They have spoken to everyone. They haven’t heard enough?”

“It seems not, and my word, of course, counts for nothing.” The bedsprings creak. When you look back over your shoulder, you find Sir Tomura sprawled out, staring up at the canopy. “Most who have testified left the borderlands as mere children, too young to remember what they saw with any accuracy. You lived there longer than most, and your warlord’s crimes are the justification for the war they are planning to start. They expect details.”

Your stomach turns. “No.”

“No?” Sir Tomura sounds surprised. “As much as it pleases me to hear that you plan to defy the king, it puzzles me why you’d choose this moment to make your stand.”

“Why does it puzzle you, my Lord?”

“As a daughter of the borderlands, don’t you want to see your people liberated? Rescued from the dread clutches of the warlords and returned to the smothering embrace of the High Kingdom?” Sir Tomura’s words are harsh, but there’s less scorn in his tone than you expected. “You have no fear of the council. You spoke before them well enough at the feast. What is it?”

“I don’t wish to discuss it.” You know it’s cowardly, know it’s foolish, and yet – “Even if you commanded me, my Lord, I would not. Just as you would not tell what happened in your battle against the Enemy.”

“No one has asked directly,” Sir Tomura says. “I have not had the chance to refuse.”

“But you would.”

“I would.” The bedsprings creak again. Sir Tomura sits up. “But my refusal, unlike yours, does not damn thousands to live and die under the warlords’ control.”

“My words cannot hold such weight,” you say sharply, sharper than you ever thought you’d be with a noble or a knight. “You and the nobles on the council will act or not as you see fit. I will not be their excuse.”

“They should not need an excuse to defend their kingdom’s borders. Is that what you mean?” Sir Tomura waits, but you don’t know how to answer. “Turn and look at me.”

You face him and find him studying you intently. Long moments pass before he speaks. “I thought it was self-consciousness, but I should have expected better. You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“No –”

“Of course you are.” Sir Tomura allows no argument. “The High Kingdom threw your people to the wolves to secure a stronger border against an enemy they had no intention of facing. They promised to protect you and broke that promise. They do not deserve your blind devotion. They deserve your rage.”

“So it is my Lord’s suggestion that I stand before the most powerful people in the realm and lose my temper?”

“You do not have to lose your temper to express your rage.” Sir Tomura beckons you a few steps closer, and you go with the utmost hesitation. “They want answers from you. Answer them. Leave nothing out. If they can look away, they will, so give them no choice but to keep looking.”

“My Lord –”

“They may be aggressive in their questioning,” Sir Tomura says, “but you have survived me these past months. Surely Sir Katsuki cannot compare.”

Your hands are shaking. You clasp them behind your back and try to slow the racing of your heart. “It is not simply anger, my Lord,” you start. “It’s –”

You and the others from the borderlands rarely speak of where you came from – enough to confirm that you were raised to know the same terror, and no more. Each of you carries it inside you, never to be revealed. You have no idea what the others said in their testimony, no idea how yours will land, and you’ve never spoken a single word of it aloud. It’s more than anger. It’s fear, deep and instinctual, and a conviction that you will not survive speaking of it – not to one person, and certainly not to the king’s council as they weigh the question of war.

You look down, then away. “What is there to fear in speaking?” Sir Tomura asks.

Many things, but one most of all. “That he will hear I did it.”

It’s quiet for a while. You brace for scorn, or worse, another question, but Sir Tomura surprises you. “You are dismissed for the night,” he says. “It seems you have much to think about.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” You curtsy – a gesture which looks ridiculous without a skirt, but you’re still unused to bowing – and leave the room without ever raising your eyes.

You barely sleep, and when you arrive to attend to Sir Tomura in the morning, you’re certain you look it. Sir Tomura prefers to take breakfast in his chamber, so you retrieve food and tea before coming to wake him. Enough food and tea for two, always – after the first time, when he asked what you planned to eat and you had no answer, you’ve fallen into the habit of eating with him. It’s expedient as well. He has yet to grasp the many layers of appropriate dress for a noble, and it falls to you to stop him from leaving improperly arrayed.

He lets you work in silence, for the most part – this morning, at least. He runs his hand through his hair once and then again, the familiar grimace rising to his face. “Does your wound pain you today, my Lord?”

“It always pains me.” Sir Tomura lets his hand fall to his side. “This costume is ridiculous.”

“It’s simpler than what the others wear.”

“They look ridiculous, too.” Sir Tomura looks you up and down. “Your clothes are more appropriate.”

“For a servant, my Lord.”

“For anyone,” Sir Tomura says. “Find the tailor. Tell him I want clothes like yours.”

You look down at what you’re wearing. It’s excruciatingly simple – like any squire’s clothes, in your Lord’s colors, your only ornamentation the summoning token around your wrist. “I will see what I can do, my Lord. He may refuse me.”

“See what you can do,” Sir Tomura says. “I will be with the council today. Depending on today’s witness, the meeting will be either very long or very short.”

“Yes, my Lord.” You straighten the plain brooch that fastens his cloak and step back. “Is there anything else you require?”

Before he can answer, you see his summoning token lying on the table beside his bed and answer the question yourself. “Here. If you should require anything –”

“What if I should require you to testify?” Sir Tomura asks, and you look up, shocked. “I have no intention of doing so. Speak or do not speak – it is your own affair.”

“You would not compel me?”

“I don’t own you.” Sir Tomura gives you an irritated look. “The sooner you accept that, the better.”

You step back from him, bow, and retreat out the door. Your Lord is a strange man, his nightmarish reputation notwithstanding. As always when you consider him, you fall victim to the same paradox. Sir Tomura has done monstrous things. He makes no apology, gives no excuse, the way others have done when King Izuku and his knights brought them to justice. And yet he had comrades in arms, those he considered friends, who fought and died in battle beside him. And yet he slew a greater evil, one who menaced your kingdom for a hundred years, sparing the world the pain and horror that would have resulted from a war. He is a noble, and you should be far beneath his notice, but he has been – fair – in his dealings with you. Far fairer than anyone you’ve served before.

You wonder if he’ll be the one to summon you to council, but he isn’t – Sir Ejirou comes instead, a sure sign that the council doesn’t plan to take no for an answer where your testimony is concerned. You could refuse and allow yourself to be hauled before them like a disobedient child, but the eyes of your fellow servants and squires are on you, and you don’t wish to make a scene. You bow in response to Sir Ejirou’s command, store away your work, and follow him to the council chamber on legs that feel all too steady beneath you.

You’ve had quick glimpses inside the council chamber before, but never a real chance to look around, and you won’t have one today. The council members are waiting for you. Some faces are expectant; others already annoyed; still others are blank. Sir Tomura’s not even looking at you. He’s leaning back in his chair with his battered boots propped up on the table, cleaning under his fingernails with a tiny knife.

He looks like he couldn’t care less about anything – the borderlands, the council meeting, your testimony, you. If you were looking for support from him, you won’t find it. But you weren’t.  You face the councilmembers and bow, as deeply as the presence of the king requires. “Please rise,” King Izuku says. He’s smiling, but anxiety flickers behind his eyes. “Before we begin your testimony in earnest, we have questions that arose based on the testimony of others. Is it true that the warlords demand not only taxes, but protection fees, from their common folk?”

“Yes.” You see Lord Tenya in your peripheral vision, gesturing for you to elaborate. “There is no set fee. They resemble bribes. Families bribe the warlords’ soldiers to pillage their neighbors’ farms and not their own.”

“So one pays or is – pillaged.”

“Yes,” you say again. “Someone is always attacked. Much time and money is spent currying favor to avoid becoming the victim.”

“We have been told, too, that the warlord Kai collects those with magic to serve him,” Sir Ochako says. She smiles at you, like the king did. Like the king, she’s anxious. “Is that true?”

“No,” you say. “Those he takes do not serve him, except as subjects for his experiments.”

“We’ve heard the same rumor from many people,” Lady Momo says. “What evidence can you provide that it is true?”

Rumor, she calls it, when you know more than one person in Castle Ultra who lost family members to Warlord Kai, whose loved ones were dragged screaming into his fortress, never to emerge again – at least not in any recognizable form. A spark of anger kicks up within you, but it’s smothered almost instantly by terror. You speak of what happens inside the fortress to no one. Warlord Kai made that perfectly clear, and you know what he does to people who disobey.

The token around your wrist buzzes, and you startle. Startle, and with your eyes cast down to avoid suspicion, you look towards Sir Tomura. He hasn’t looked up, but a moment later, your token buzzes again. Is he trying to distract you? Lady Momo repeats her question, and the token buzzes a third time. This time, when you glance towards Sir Tomura, he’s looking at you.

Most in the High Kingdom cringe beneath his gaze, but you’ve grown used to it. You remember what he told you to do when you spoke last night: Answer them. Leave nothing out. But that would constitute speaking freely to a noble, and no noble would allow –

Lady Momo poses her question once more, her perfect features beginning to show irritation. You look back to her, and your token buzzes a final time. Sir Tomura doesn’t want you to look at her. He wants you to look at him.

If you look at him, you can pretend it’s only him you’re speaking to – and he ordered you to speak freely. You settle your gaze on his face and answer the question. “I am not repeating a rumor I heard from others. I saw his experiments myself.”

You worked as a maid in Warlord Kai’s fortress from the age of ten to when you were thirteen. Your parents thought it was best to hide your small magic in plain sight. In the time you were there, you saw prisoners brought in, heard their screams, scrubbed the floor of the warlord’s workshop when he was finished with them. You saw what they became afterwards – twisted, broken things, impossibly fused together and yet still alive. You don’t even know what he was trying to do.

“Who was he experimenting on?” Sir Katsuki barks at you when you pause for breath. “Criminals?”

“Warlord Kai doesn’t punish criminals. He hires them,” Sir Tomura says. His eyes never leave yours. “Forgive the interruption, but it sounded as if Sir Katsuki was about to excuse the warlord’s crimes – so long as they were committed against the right people.”

Sir Katsuki calls Sir Tomura something unrepeatable, which King Izuku hastily orders stricken from the record of the meeting. “Go on,” he instructs you. “Who did the warlord experiment on?”

“Anyone with magic,” you say. “Those who displayed the gift, no matter how small, were taken away.”

“How did you survive?” Lord Shoto asks.

“How did you escape?” Aizawa corrects. You hadn’t noticed him, and a chill runs down your spine as he slinks into view to face you directly. “You worked for him. You have no great skill with magic, nor any fighting ability. How did a mere child escape such a fearsome man?”

“I never confronted him directly,” you say. “When I knew I would be discovered, I ran.”

Aizawa looks dissatisfied – as if you might be lying, as if the warlord might have set you loose in a decades-long ploy to destroy the High Kingdom from within. Sir Ochako poses a question, and you glance at her, grateful for the reprieve. She wishes to know how many people are taken per year, and you report that the number began to dwindle, even within your years. You can’t miss the relief that sweeps across her face – her face, and the faces of the others. “His experiments are tapering off,” King Izuku states. “Perhaps he discovered what he wished to already.”

That’s not what you meant at all, but you don’t dare speak over the king. Sir Tomura has no such concerns. “That’s naïve,” he says, scorn edging every letter. “He’s not tapering off. He’s running out of test subjects.”

King Izuku frowns, puzzled, and Sir Tomura rolls his eyes. “The gift can surface spontaneously, but most often it’s inherited. If the warlord has spent years collecting every magic-user he encounters, young and old –”

“Then the gift is nearly extinct in his lands,” Lord Tenya interrupts.

“Indeed.” Sir Tomura doesn’t look at him. His question is for you. “You have had a chance to observe him? Do you think he will cease to experiment once his supply of gifted individuals is exhausted?”

“No,” you say.

“When do you believe he will stop?”

“When someone stops him,” you say. “Not one moment before.”

Silence falls. Sir Tomura’s red eyes have yet to leave yours, and when King Izuku speaks, it feels as though some spell has been broken. “I have no further questions,” he says. “You have my leave to go. There is much for the council to discuss.”

You bow low and exit the chamber. No sooner have the doors shut behind you than the token at your wrist begins to vibrate without rest, as though Sir Tomura is pressing it repeatedly. You can’t imagine why he’s summoning you to a room you were just dismissed from – unless he’s ordering you to wait for him outside. You can do that. You find a place to stand out of the way, only to find yourself sinking to the floor as your legs give out beneath you.

You did everything you could. You answered their questions in full, without mercy, and Sir Tomura’s last questions left them nowhere to hide. You did everything you could, so why do you feel so sick? Why do you feel as if you’ve left something out, omitted some horrible detail that would have forced them to act? Why won’t the memory of what you saw every day for three years leave your head, when it was so easy to keep out before? Why does it still feel like the warlord’s hand is about to close over your shoulder?

You’ve comforted yourself forever with the thought that the Forest Perilous would keep Warlord Kai out. But it let Sir Tomura in. What if –

The doors open, and you struggle to your feet as the king’s council emerges. They’re talking urgently amongst themselves, summoning their squires, calling for scribes. The herald pops up from nowhere and King Izuku hands him a proclamation, orders him to spread the word. What word? You don’t want to guess, or hope. You’re too frightened to be wrong.

Sir Tomura stops just outside the chamber, looks left, then right. You uproot your nerveless legs to go to him, but he comes to you instead, a look you can’t read on his face. “Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve started a war.”

Your back hits the wall. “They agreed?”

“King Izuku has his precious unanimity at last,” Sir Tomura says. “After hearing your testimony, my conscience would not let me vote against going to war.”

He was the holdout? His voice is mocking, and although you’re certain he’s not mocking you, it doesn’t matter. You feel as though the floors been torn from beneath your feet. “My Lord? I don’t understand –”

“The longer I withheld my vote, the more evidence of their failure they were forced to hear,” Sir Tomura says. “Do you think they’ve suffered enough?”

You don’t know what to say. “I doubt it,” Sir Tomura muses. “When they march on the borderlands, they’ll see exactly what they deserve to.”

“Yes, my Lord.” You can’t speak more than a whisper.

“You were spectacular, of course,” Sir Tomura says. His voice is cool, neutral. “I expected nothing less. You have a way with words.”

He’s complimenting you. Your Lord is pleased with your performance, but you can’t summon even a spark of happiness – or if you could, it’s lost somewhere in the void of your memory, swallowed up in what you saw every time you set foot in the warlord’s workshop. You bow your head, because Sir Tomura’s standing too close for you to bow at the waist. You stay that way until Sir Tomura’s hand brushes against your jaw on its way to cup your chin and tilt your face upwards to his.

He’s frowning, and you force yourself to speak. “Have I displeased you, my Lord?”

“What did the warlord tell you would happen if you spoke of what you saw in his workshop?”

Speaking of it is unnecessary. The mere memory makes your skin crawl, sends a shiver strong enough to imperil your footing down the length of your spine. Shame follows almost instantly in its wake. They’re words. Only words, only a threat that Warlord Kai could not possibly carry out with the Forest Perilous between you. You don’t need to look at Sir Tomura to guess what he will think of such weakness on your part. You look down and away, waiting for him to let go of your chin and dismiss you from his sight.

“You need not fear him,” Sir Tomura says instead. “I’ve done far worse.”

Your response is instant, instinctive, and ill-advised. “Forgive me, my Lord, but you have not.”

Sir Tomura stares at you, incredulous, but the longer you think of it, the more certain you are. Sir Tomura has committed terrible acts of violence, slaughtering entire armies sent to defeat him, tearing cities down to their foundations, blighting the land and salting the earth with dark magic – but a death at Sir Tomura’s hands would be only that, and nothing more. Every day for three years you watched the warlord twist and mutilated the bodies of his victims, inflicting suffering without end, tearing their minds the same as he tore their flesh. If you had to choose between your former master and your current one, both monsters in their own right, you’d choose the White Death in an instant.

Sir Tomura hasn’t turned you loose yet. He looks truly taken aback, an expression you’re seeing from him for the first time. It’s subsumed seconds later into a sneer. “I suppose you prefer the monster you know.”

“No,” you say. “I prefer the one who’d kill me quickly.”

The sneer drops from Sir Tomura’s face. “I have heard many tales of your deeds, great and terrible as they are,” you continue, “and I have never heard it said that you are a torturer. I have heard it said that you revel in destruction, but not that you enjoy inflicting pain. Warlord Kai is worse, to me, because it pleases him – or does not discomfit him. I cannot say. Once I saw him draw out a man’s death over six months, finding new ways to mangle and deform him every day. If I displeased him and was caught, he would have done the same to me. But if I displease you, my Lord –”

“Be silent.”

“If I displease you, my Lord,” you say, looking up into Sir Tomura’s eyes, “I am confident that my death at your hands will not be drawn out.”

“No. It would not be.” Sir Tomura’s jaw is clenched. “I understand now why you stayed when others fled from me. You are well aware that worse monsters exist.”

“You’re wrong, my Lord.” You shrink from the thought of correcting a noble, but he asked you to speak to him as you would to an equal. “I made no such comparison until you forced it on me.”

“You’ve traded one monstrous lord for another.”

“To serve him was a nightmare,” you say. Your voice trembles. “To serve you is an honor.”

Sir Tomura still hasn’t let you go – and when he finally does, his hand falls to your shoulder even as he takes a noticeable step back. “It is as I said: You need not fear him. He will not live much longer.”

“Yes.” The kingdom has been preparing for war for a hundred years against an enemy who no longer exists; they are well-equipped to fight the one who’s been there all along. “King Izuku will defeat him.”

“King Izuku’s proved that he can’t be trusted with your safety,” Sir Tomura says. His hand falls away from your shoulder at last. “I’ll do it myself.”

[amaru-love-writings]

Lnds as the MC

So, you know how Dawnbreaker sees us in a similar way as we, the player, see them? Yeah...

Xavier

◦ He spends 8+ hours with you

◦ Has the cutest outfits, all in bright colors “because they make your eyes twinkle” he delulu ok

◦ His favorites are the secret times, he replays the one you were roleplaying queen and king non-stop

◦ Has max affinity, but still calls u girlfriend instead of wife

◦ Eats with u ◦ His photos are always 2-stars no matter what he does; but he still gets the accessories; and rushes to the interaction menu to change u into a fluffy piece of bunny ears; he is smitten

◦ Has merch of u. Tons ◦ Sometimes offers u food without thinking, “girlfriend, do u want some?” Is extremely embarassed afterwards

◦ His fave interaction is the one u make bunny ears and ‘hop’ laughing

Sylus

◦ Has all the bougie accessories and outfits

◦ Decoration is on point ◦ Never wins on kitty café

◦ But always plays the claw ◦ Loves the action audios, like the one you were a Martial Arts instructor; it helps him get in the mood for his own boxing training, plus your commanding voice kinda turns him on

◦ Has your 5-stars awakened

◦ Calls you kitten

◦ Has set Sy as pet name, but somehow ur character has put ur own twist to it

◦ Kieran and Luke know, despite never having confessed (they don’t wanna embarass their boss)

◦ They secretly love u too, but in a mischivious way

◦ Logs in right after a stressful deal, and is greeted by u with ‘welcome home, Sy bear!’ And he melts every time.

◦ Ur times are very synchronized… “are u a vampire, kitten?” To his surprise u giggle “I guess u could say so” the response was automatic, but the timing was sooo incredible his heart skipped a beat. O god, what if u were listening!?

◦ His fave interaction is the one u nod ur head smiling smugly and give him a ‘thumbs up’

Rafayel

◦ This b*tch has so much fanart of you it is borderline obsessive, he keeps them all throughout his house too; even has a couple of pictures in his wallet

◦ Loves the colorful clothing on you two

◦ The best at photoshoots, also the lewdest

◦ Does not have your cards maxed out, but has all of them so far

◦ Thomas has to hear him yap about u every day, “yeah, yeah, when’s the next painting coming-“ “have I told u about the next event, her lore from the Sea myth is going to expand and…” omg he goes on for hours.. poor Thomas

◦ Tried to slap ur ass once and u gave him a stinky look. He will try again though

◦ Loves when u get mad at him for poking u too many times

◦ Is super attracted to ur voice

◦ Has paintings of u scattered around

◦ His fave interaction is when u ‘draw him in the air’ giggling

Zayne

◦ Never lets you get hit, not even a scratch; you barely fight around this mf

◦ Has all you tender moments and loves to hear them before work, or on his way to work (which happens more often)

◦ Has very modest clothing for u; except one piece of red skimpy skirt and fluffy blouse he swears he bought on accident

◦ His pet name is ‘honey’, he would use ‘wife’, but is not maxed out yet, he is very by the book

◦ His fave card is the one where you two go to a version of Willy Wonka adventure, but a Kitty version

◦ Has all ur lines and fave food by heart

◦ wished u could eat his cooking

◦ Nobody knows abt u, except Dr Noah, because Zayne overselpt with his phone screen on and… well, now he knows abt someone who was asking Zayne to tell them a bedtime story, because his voice is “relaxing”

◦ His fave interaction is when u give him ‘head pats’ with a sweet smile on ur face

All of them

◦ Heartbroken because ur lore is so f*cking lonely. It makes them want to be there for u

◦ Never look at the other love interests

◦ Spend ungodly amounts of time and money into ur character and merch; especially Sylus and Xavier

◦ Say good morning and good night to u every day

◦ Smile like fools when u say something cute, or praise them especially Zayne and Rafayel

◦ Have had dirty thoughts abt u when u get breathy and languid

◦ Have read ur lore tidbits and call correctly quote shit from an elusive info bit

◦ Spend so much time in Quality time u literally have to feign fainting

(This was rotting on my drafts forever. So here it is. Sorry for the weird format) A.N.: This is a headcanon for Love and Deepspace. All the rights are reserved to Infold. This is only meant for entertainment and appreciation for the world of Lnds. Please, do not repost, copy or translate. Feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Enjoy.

[katerinaaqu]

The phrase was undoubtedly common by the time historiographers like Pausanias were alive. One common trait between people like Pausanias or previous sources like Apollodorous is that they quote a lot on the sources they gather from local traditions and different telling. Which is why pausanias as well as Apollodorous etc always say "I heard" or "others say" etc. The adittion to the myth roughly at Augustean times (potentially further back too although we do not know for sure) were already famous at that time and already part of beloved narratives or in this case a proverb. The proverb of Diomedes Necessity could even apply to the essence that Diomedes joins the war even if he is not part of the oath of Tyndareus (unless you take Apollodorous as a source. Then things are different) or at how he had to kill members of his family in the war of Epigonoi etc. By the time Pausanias collects information this adittion was already a thing.

Yes it is possible that as it happens with other stories of people who claim to follow the Epic Cycle or the lost scripts of Nostoi etc they often confuse the local tradition to the actual myth. But even if it is indeed part of Little Iliad still the reasoning behind it could differ. But either way all of the said parts of Epic Cycle are also not fully compatible to Homer or even with each other (classic example how Little Iliad mentions Neoptolemus as the killer of Astyanax briefly while Iliou Persis mentions Odysseus. Ironically most recently the version of Iliou Persis gained popularity especially with the dislike of Odysseus as a character by post homeric sources especially Roman, but in ancient art the most frequent version is Neoptolemus and his death is implied on different ways than than throwing off the walls)

Other traditions such as the infamous scene where Odysseus throws his shield on the beach and lands on it to outsmart Protesilaus are also not that much mentioned by the sources which always speak highly on the bravery of protesilaus and even speak on how he jumps at the same time as Achilles and just happens to land first etc.

Oh I wouldn't speak on that because of Pausanias because as I said above Pausanias seems to be gathering information and not comment on them or show his preference to them. I mostly speak on Conon's adition to the story or rather the detailed description of betrayal upon betrayal between the two heroes that were known to interract very well so unless Conon was aware of some parts of Little Iliad or even before like Aithiopis etc which indicates some detrimation between the two heroes (something that other writers like Quintus didn't mention to their work of Posthomerica) then this version seems more like an added tradition fired up more by the anti-odysseus wave of the time. What is more Attic tradition was also generally against Odysseus as a persona even from classical times by writers such as Eurypedes. Even Sophocles who generally is one of the most fair writers in regards to the complexity of Odysseus oftentimes makes him almost the antihero of his work (for example Philoctetes). My estimation is that at classical times when Athens and Sparta rivalry was on their peak, Odysseus as a peraona fitted more to the aspects that Athenenas placed upon Spartans; fight and theft. An Athenean propaganda that wanted to differentiate themselves from the other city states and claim how honorable and righteous they were, wouldn't much allow space for characters like Odysseus being posed in a positive light and instead that was used as an example not to follow or as a symbol for what happens under the table in a war.

If I also dare to expand it further from Epic Cycle like Telegony Odysseus is associated with the area of Thesprotia which was an ally to Philip or Alexander and the Macedonian kingdom was not good news to the Atheneans which wouldn't help the projection of Odysseus as anti-hero. So all and all I am not surprised if especially in Roman times such proverbs with this context would be famous in Roman Athens and even combine them with local traditions and such and given how the Palladium Heist is memorized by ancient art but never in a negative light makes me more convinced that this is a later adittion that was aflame by local traditions etc.

I am not sure if the theft of the Palladium specifically fires so much controversy given how there was also the prophecy indicated that they needed it. Unless they wanted to use it to imply that "Odysseus was ready to do anything to win" the theft itself is presented by the Epic Cycle as a necessary evil. I would say Athenean anti-odysseus wave is mostly linked to Odysseus methods and their propaganda against war in general and against Sparta in particular that drove this. Odysseus was a controversial figure even in antiquity given how his methods opposed the ideal of the time of straightforward fight. Not to mention that Odysseus was also married to a spartan princess which I am sure for a fanatic patriot Athenean would be an interesting controversy hahaha 😆

Heyo!

I don't know how exactly to phrase this but I was wondering if you know anything about Odysseus trying/planing to kill Diomedes while they were stealing the Palladium. I have heard some people say that Odysseus did try to kill Diomedes while doing so but Diomedes noticed him so Odysseus stopped.

This feels so strange to me as Odysseus and Diomedes aren’t antagonistic in the Illiad and Diomedes is loved by Athena like Odysseus so betraying him, especially for hubris, seems like a good way to end up on Athena's bad side.

Also the translated summaries of Little Illiad I know don't mention it either but I know those translations can be missing out context. I suspect the Odysseus Betrayal is a "later adition" to the Epic Cycle but I am not that confident on that opinion.

Yes absolutely and I understand completely what you say. That is because the Palladium Heist betrayal story was peobably not part of the original epic cycle but rather a later adittion. More specifically through the work called Bibliotheca by Photius I, the ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinopole in 9th century seems to be mentioning in his work a Roman mythographer named Conon.

Conon lived and created during the times of Augustus. It seems that he is one of the oldest if not the oldest mythographer to ever mention this story. So the story quoted by Photius goes as such;

Basically after the revelation of Helen's Diomedes and Odysseus enter the city. Odysseus helps Diomedes on his shoulders so that he could climb but when he reaches out his hand Diomedes doesn't take him in and goes for the Palladium himself. When he comes back apparently Odysseus asks him on it and, according to Photius who quotes Conon, Diomedes "knows his cunning" and says that he didn't find it. That a spirit stole it and that he has another one. Odysseus realizes he is lying so he eventually draws his sword to kill Diomedes and take the Palladium to the Greeks himself. Apparently as he goes to stab Diomedes in the back, his sword casts a shadow by the moonlight or the glint of the weapon, Diomedes sees it and deflects him. He draws his own sword and threatens Odysseus with it wishing to "punish him for his cowardice" but eventually he decides otherwise (arguably knowing that the war needs him) and thus he drives him back to the camp while hitting him on his back with the flat of his sword. And according to Photius this is what gave the famous phrase to Greek language διομήδεια ανάγκη (Diomedes Need) which basically means "do something unpleasant out of necessity for the greater good"

So as you see the story does seem pretty bizarre. First it implies mutual distrust and rivalry between the homeric heroes for Diomedes doesn't take Odysseus in the temple, Odysseus asks him on the Palladium obviously with intention to steal it and Diomedes lying to him and of course the actual act. For starters Odysseus ready to kill Diomedes for the sakes of fame (while he literally saves his life in the Iliad) and not only that, be greedy and stupid enough to hold a sword to the moonlight. So it holds many contradictions to the entirety of Epic Cycle even Iliou Persis which also shows a more unpleasant side of Odysseus.

My guess is that the story is mostly linked to traditions of later years especially Roman sources and is not directly linked to the Epic Cycle. Even art of later years doesn't depict the Palladium Heist as a negative aura between the two heroes. If anything they seem to be cooperating just fine. And as I said this myth as told by Conon shows BOTH Diomedes and Odysseus as rivals and equally antagonizing and deceiving each other which doesn't usually appear to the Epic Cycle. Although of course we cannot be 100% sure given how the Epic Cycle is lost, it seems to me more like a roman legend that usually depict Greek heroes of Troy in general and Odysseus in particular, in the most negative light possible given how Odysseus is known for taking Troy, the mythical city of origin to the Romans (given how Aeneas who barely escapes with his life from Troy is the ancestor of the founders of Rome)

I hope this answers your question; to summarize it seems to me that this story of the Palladium Heist has as much connection to the Epic Cycle as Ovid has to Medusa legend; seems more like a version either created or told by Conon based on traditions of his time and the general anti-Odysseus climate.

[tgmsunmontue]

Saga of Solitude 15/21

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA and afterwards. DADT fully in force. IceMav AU. (Begun prior to 'It's not who you know' - the non-angsty version). (Side Hangster, which is ALSO angsty).

PROLOGUE (He remembers)

HANGSTER FIRST MEETING (Lonely Nights - set 2009)

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS

ONE (2000) TWO (2001) THREE (2002) FOUR (2003) FIVE (2004) SIX (2005) SEVEN (2006) EIGHT (2007) NINE (2008) TEN (2009) ELEVEN (2010) TWELVE (2011) THIRTEEN (2012) FOURTEEN (2013)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – 2014

                Tom has it narrowed down to three candidates. He’s been chipping away at figuring it out, not making it a top priority, but definitely something he keeps circling back to. The man who he wants to keep a closer eye on, even if it’s been five years he suspects that Bradley hasn’t exactly forgotten him. He had tried gentle probing questions, only to have them deftly avoided. Clever of him, and Tom knows he’s no doubt had practice from when he was younger and serving under DADT as well as protecting Tom and Pete’s own relationship.

                However Bradley hasn’t even told Natasha, because he’d also carefully asked her and she’d simply blinked at him in surprise before shaking her head, saying she didn’t know anything, but that if Bradley had slept with anyone he’d been very discreet, because she heard gossip, and there hasn’t been any about Bradley. Well. Other than him apparently being secretly married to her. Tom doesn’t know why he should even care so much, other than Bradley is his son and he wants to protect him as much as possible, despite the fact that Bradley is now over thirty and more than capable of looking after himself. He has his own house, not that he stays there very often, preferring to be in the center of things and being here in the family home with Tamsin and Petra.

                Except Tamsin and Petra are growing up too, Tamsin in her last semester of high school. She’s been accepted into California-Irvine and he’s so proud but he is also not prepared at all for her to move away. He’s glad she’s decided to stay within state at least, and he knows Bradley likely helped sway her in that decision. Which is why he wants to find some way to ensure Bradley is never held back in anyway. So he’ll keep trying to work out exactly who it is that he still so hooked up on.

…            …            …

                “She’s going to prom,” Pete says again, and he knows he’s maybe belaboring the point, but also he can’t believe that Tamsin is in her last year of high school, is so capable and accomplished and intelligent. Hell, she runs circles around him on the regular and yet he can’t fathom how the little baby girl he held in his arms over seventeen years ago is now taller than him. A fact everyone seems to great joy in pointing out to him, however he can still pick her up and carry her. Her boyfriend hasn’t stopped trying to impress them, and Pete can’t say he likes the young man, and he has tried, thank you very much Bradley.

                “Wish I could have gone to prom with you…” Ice says, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around Pete’s waist. He leans into him, never feels safer than when he’s like this.

                “Yeah? You want to dance with me?”

                “Always…”

                “We pretending we’re at prom?” Pete asks with a grin and Ice smiles, the soft-gentle half smile he uses when he’s feeling particularly sentimental. He feels Ice’s arms tighten around him and there isn’t any music, but then Ice starts humming quietly and his own smile grows wider and he presses a kiss into the side of Ice’s neck. “God I love you…”

                “Love you too. So much Pete… Did you ever think we’d get to have this life?”

                Pete startles a little, surprised at the question.

                “Of course…”

                “Seriously?”

                “You didn’t?”

                “Not in my wildest dreams. Every day I am grateful I get to have… all of this. You. Bradley, The girls. Sarah and Melissa. Hell, even Aubrey is a blessing.”

                “We are very lucky. Want to get luckier?”

                “This was a nice moment…”

                “It’ll be even nicer soon. Let me take you to bed?”

                “Yeah. Please.”

                “Mmm. Begging already. I like it.”

                “Begging you to stop talking. You used to be a man of action, not words…”

                “Pfft. I’ll show you action…”

                “In a bed Mav, come on.”

                They undress with no haste, helping each other, trading kisses and running hands over bare skin as it’s revealed, Ice’s touch on him causing repeated full-body tingles, they always have. He hopes his own touch has the same effect, thinks it does with the way Ice shivers and presses against him, murmurs his name quietly under his breath and kisses at the soft skin just behind his ear. He presses a gentle kiss over the newly healed port scar from Ice’s cancer treatments, suddenly overwhelmed that he too is grateful that he gets to have all this. He’d have been content with just Ice to call his own, but to have his odd little family, to have a son and two daughters who are all turning into these amazing individuals.

                “Pete…” Ice says, voice deep and raspy, the way it gets when he’s just woken up or when he’s getting really turned on. Then there are warm dry fingers wrapping around his cock and he follows Ice down onto the bed, lets his hands find purchase on Ice’s hips as he rocks against him. It’s warm and comforting, and despite wanting everything else to go fast in his life, this, with Ice right now, is something he’s happy to draw out. Knowing they don’t have to rush, not the hard-fast-desperate times that they had in the beginning, terrified of being caught.

                He’s married to this man, it’s on his record and they live together, always come home to the same place. He realizes he didn’t think he’d get to have this, but he had always hoped and dreamed he would. That despite everything he’s damned lucky and he shouldn’t take what they have for granted.

                “You want to fuck me?” Pete asks, straddling Ice’s thighs and grinding his erection in a rocking motion against Ice’s.

                “Yes.”

                He grins then, knows his face is probably scrunched up in happiness but he doesn’t care. They don’t do this very often, it’s more effort than either of them are usually wanting to put in, but sometimes it’s exactly what they both want. He leans back, rolls off the bed and pulls open the bedside table drawer for lube; hears Ice shuffle off to grab towels. He follows, uses the glass on the sink to have two large glasses of water.

                “You planning on working up a sweat?”

                “Yeah… you better be able to keep up.”

                Ice snorts at that, but follows his example and throws back a glass of water, but his eyes stay on him, the light grey-blue shaded darker with arousal and Pete’s cock jerks in anticipation. Ice, being the smug bastard he is, and because he knows him so well smirks, lets one of his hands come to rest on Pete’s flank, fingers digging and rubbing and pulling him close so they can rub together. He’s being moved, Ice using his height and breadth to encourage him back to the bedroom, like he somehow needs convincing.

                “Hi…”

                “Hi. Can we…”

                “Always trying to rush…”

                “Not this. Not with you.”

                “I know.”

                Then he’s on his back, Ice dragging him so his hips are raised on a couple of pillows, which are covered with one of the towels. Ice kisses him, then there’s the slick slide of fingers between his ass cheeks and he reaches blindly for him, needs to touch him so he can feel grounded, know that Ice is there with him. It’s not fast, Ice always takes his time, makes sure now that he’s not going to cause any pain or even discomfit. Pete has learnt that he’s allowed to just lie back and enjoy. The whole preparation aspect is something Ice takes pleasure in, the building anticipation and knowledge he has time, permitted to touch Pete and make him feel good. He does that now, their years together making him an expert in Pete’s body.

                Pete doesn’t often have the patience for this; time shifts and passes in a liquid state, seconds measured in kisses against his skin, minutes in the growing and easing pressure of fingers stretching him. He’s hard and leaking, feels like Ice has been driving him around the edge of a whirlpool for hours and he’s just waiting for them to get sucked down together. He feels Ice’s cock push into him and he lets out a groan, cants his hips to make the press deeper and let’s Ice manhandle him so his legs are around his waist.

                “Ice…”

                “Yeah. I got you Mav…”

…            …            …

                He’s home five weeks early, and they’re managing to pull it off, and god, if he makes her cry and her mascara runs she’s going to kill him. But it’s her prom night and while they’d planned on him arriving during a school assembly to surprise her, they’ve modified it because she’s going to prom alone because her boyfriend is an asshole.

                So.

                Bradley is going to turn up in his dress whites, sweep her off her feet and he’s going to consider himself lucky if Tamsin doesn’t punch him. She’s standing with a group of her friends, nearly all of whom he recognizes, Ice and Mav are failing at hiding behind a pillar, Petra with them and looking bored. A lot of sets of eyes are on him and he can see someone making a signal for the music to be turned down, and that has Tamsin and her group look around and he steps forward, hand out stretched.

                “Can I have this dance?”

                “Bradley!”

                Then he’s being hugged tightly, she looks so grown up and he’s reminded again that parents do this all the time; that he works with some who leave their young kids for months at a time and he’s simply an older brother. He steps back to take in her dress and hair, is pretty sure Mav and Tom probably had collective heart attacks given the split up the side.

                “You look amazing.”

                “I know!” she laughs. “It took hours. I cannot believe that some people do this every day before they leave their homes…”

                There’s applause and he’s got the usual thanks for your service and he nods and smiles his way through it all, because he’s in the service to fly planes because he can’t imagine doing anything else, and if it has the added bonus of serving his country then that’s okay. But he knows what came first for him.

                He dances with Tamsin, can actually dance the more formal and traditional dances but steps away when she starts throwing her hands up to a song he doesn’t recognize. So this is what old age begins to feel like. Ice and Mav have left, and some of Tamsin’s teachers come and introduce themselves, and he finds it a little alarming that one of them is in fact younger than him, the others only a few years older and he hopes his freak out about being his age isn’t showing on his face.

                “You’re actually in the Navy huh?” a man asks, and he thinks this is Tamsin’s English teacher.

                “Yes. These are my actual dress whites. Thought I’d try and make tonight better after her boyfriend decided to dump her.”

                “Ah yes, he’s a bit of a social pariah now. Tamsin is well liked.”

                “Good. She’s awesome.”

                “The words of a completely unbiased bystander, I’m sure,” the guy says with a gentle teasing smile and Bradley turns slightly, thinks he’s being flirted with.

                “Protective and proud older brother instincts aren’t ever going to go away. I’ll be in a rocking chair and I’ll still think she’s awesome.”

                The glint of something intensifies and Bradley raises an eyebrow, licks his lips and doesn’t miss the other man’s eyes flick down to the movement.

                He is never telling Tamsin that he got a blowjob from her English teacher, however he also doesn’t feel like he’s so ancient after all, so he’ll definitely count it as a win.

…            …            …

                Tom isn’t an idiot. When Petra turns sixteen he very politely recuses himself from even being an option to teach her how to drive. He did it with Bradley and Tamsin. Petra is another thing entirely, and he knows Pete has already let her drive his motorbikes up and down the airstrip at the hangar, has no doubt that she’s already done the same with a car. He can only hope that Pete doesn’t make any exceptions around safety. He doesn’t expect he will, he never has with Bradley or Tamsin. It’s only his own body he’s a little reckless with. They both come back super excited, fizzing with more energy than he knows what to with and later when they’re curled up in bed Pete admits he knows what he’s going to get Petra for Christmas. Laps at the nearest racecourse.

                Tom sighs.

…            …            …

                “Hey Bradley?”

                “Yeah Pet?”

                “If you try and pull that prom bullshit on me I will castrate you and make you wish you’d never been born. Got it?”

                Bradley snorts.

                “Yeah. Got it. Is that a no surprises ever, or just big public ones where you might cry?”

                “No public ones. Nice surprises are fine.”

                “Okay. Well I’ll try and keep the big public displays saved up for Tamsin.”

                “Yeah. That sounds good.”

…            …            …

                “I have to look over these promotion recommendations before sending them on to the SECNAV. We’ve got a young aviator who chalked up an air-to-air kill, so he’s being recommended for accelerated promotion to Lieutenant… A Jake Seresin.”

                Tom recognizes the name immediately. Jake Seresin. He remembers having dinner with him, he’d been polite and engaging, flown in a way that made him itch to be in the sky again. He’s also on the very short list of men that are potentially Bradley’s ill-advised hookup that he is adamant about leaving the fuck alone. Tom isn’t so sure, but also he’s got a feeling in his gut that this is him. That Jake Seresin is the young man that Bradley hooked up with. Which makes him worth his attention, but it doesn’t stop him from halting the other man’s career trajectory. He signs the paperwork giving his recommendation for promotion and asks for an invitation to the ceremony.

…            …            …

                “Jake.”

                “Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

                Bradley bites back his immediate retort, because he guesses he deserves that.

                “Congratulations on the promotion.”

                “I’m sorry, are you talking to me now?”

                “Well, we’re currently the same rank so I can’t have the fraternization rules thrown at me as a warning. So yeah, I guess I’m talking to you…” Bradley starts, even knowing that the previous difference in their ranks is a weak excuse for his previous behavior.

                “Yeah well, I’m not listening. Catch you around Bradshaw.”

                Fuck.

                So much for trying to apologize.

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Euphemia and James - Writer's Notes

Earlier this year I wrote a fic titled "Euphemia and James," a story exploring Euphemia Potter and infertility. This is the most deeply personal story I've ever written, and it took a few weeks to write it because of the emotions it stirred up for me, but honestly, being able to write this took years of processing emotions. I decided to share some of my notes on this fic in this post, and it includes this lovely cover image from @livelaughlovetoread. This story is also unique in that it's written in second person POV. It wasn't intended to come out that way, but that's how it came out. See below the image for my notes:

Euphemia and James came from these lines from the extra-canonical writings on Pottermore/whatever they call it these days:

"[Fleamont] sold the company at a vast profit when he retired, but no amount of riches could compensate him or his wife Euphemia for their childlessness. They had quite given up hope of a son or daughter when, to their shock and surprise, Euphemia found that she was pregnant and their beloved boy, James, was born."

If you don't know anything about infertility, I envy you somewhat. Studies have shown that a diagnosis or experience of infertility is similar to receiving a cancer diagnosis or losing a close loved one. It took me a while to realize that a lot of the feelings I had surrounding infertility was actually grief and mourning.

So, I put it all into this fic. There are a few points I want to highlight, if you decide to read the fic or want to see some lines, and my feelings around it all:

"When you meet Fleamont Potter a year into your job at the apothecary, you have no intention of marrying him."

I more or less shamelessly wrote Euphemia and Fleamont's relationship to be similar to mine with Mr C. In fact, Mr C aka @rawr-gorg-smash read this work and we were both sobbing messes by the end of it.

"It will happen when it happens, they say. It will come when you least expect it, they say. That’s what everyone says, and you’re ready to punch the next person in the face who tells you to just “relax.”"

Infertile people will get advice like this frequently. It's meant to be helpful or sometimes soothing, I think, but all too often it's an empty hope. Sometimes, bodies just don't work right, no matter how much relaxing you do.

"It’s not polite to ask. Everyone knows where magical, adopted children come from. They are Muggleborn children who are delicately extracted from their birth homes and replaced with Squibs, or sometimes not replaced at all."

This part is world building by me - the idea of adoption in a magical world seemed odd to me. How would infertile magical couples adopt if they can't use potions or charms? I wouldn't put it past them to just take a Muggleborn child, modify memories, and go. I won't touch on real world adoption-there's a lot to unpack there-but this idea gave me some thoughts on magical adoption.

"It seems selfish to want more, when you already have so much. You question, for the first time in your life, if you really want a child."

I have heard people say things to this effect: it's so selfish to want your 'own' children or to want children and bring them into this world, or some variation of that. If this is what you believe, you and I are going to disagree and I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise. But it's something I and many other infertile people have considered. The thing is, people have had children and will continue to have children throughout terrible periods of time. Does it make sense? Not necessarily. Human actions don't always make sense. To me, though, it speaks of hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, for a world that we will build that will be better for the next generation.

"Now you wish for a living child. There are no longer any expectations on your baby or the kind of person they’ll be. You want a living, breathing baby in your arms you can dote on, educate, feed, and guide through life."

I'll say that one of the few silver linings of infertility for me has been re-grounding my expectations of what kind of child I might have. It once was wishing for a boy or girl, or a kid who likes to read, or a kid who won't be into extreme sports, but now it's just a kid I want. I want to love them because they exist. That's all.

"It’s a shame that you only got nineteen years with your son, the one you wished had been born twenty years prior, so you could treasure twice as long with him."

One of my fears for having children later in life is not having enough time with them. Then again, young parents die. Even children die. If nothing else, whatever time I do have, I hope I use it to love whatever family I have to the fullest.

That's all I have for now. If you made it this far, read the fic, commented on it, left kudos, or a bookmark, thank you very kindly for your time. Of all the things I've written, this felt most like putting a piece of my heart into the world.

[orchideae]

A casual note that as Liyue-native, as much as Yelan may be very well-traveled and thus may be familiar to various degrees with foreign cultures, they are still that to her: foreign. If we were to take Fontaine's inspiration of France to heart, it wouldn't surprise me if the common 'informal' greeting of the cheek kiss would be practiced there. Let it be known that if this were to ever be done to Yelan (and even the second, perhaps third, especially from each 'new' individual' as it would take some time getting used to), she'd likely show a semblance of confusion and retreat a little. Not out of uncertainty or insecurity, but simply out of confusion. It's important to remember that she is from Liyue, the nation that is firmly influenced and based on ancient China, and cultural differences are very much a thing. And while I still have much research to do on the social customs in both ancient and modern China (and taking these into account accordingly, just as Fontaine does not bear all customs and traditions from France and/or England by any means whatsoever), I am aware enough that this is not a custom that's shared between those countries.

[fragmentedblade]

It's sort of ironic how fans often link the leaf 🍁 to Dan Heng, considering "Feng" means "maple", but it's also so fitting

[becca-alexa]

buying a tofu press has changed my life

[paragonrobits]

some important calvin and hobbes facts in case you haven't read the original comic strip in a long time or only absorbed stuff on it from memes and out of context bits on here:

Calvin's last name has never been given, and neither has any of his parent's names. This was actually why his uncle Max only showed up for a brief storyline; the creator of the comic, Bill Watterson, ultimately felt that while it was fine to have him as someone for his parents to talk to, it felt far too awkward to never have Max refer to them by name and he never made a return appearance.

The general tone of the comic is fairly light-hearted, with a big emphasis on goofy slapstick comedy contrasted by clever wordplay and often surprising adult-centered jokes that'll hit you like a slap. A big part of the comedy is, as Watterson put it (paraphrased) "It's really funny to me when people express deeply stupid ideas with really fancy terminology." One notable example you might have seen is that one bit where Calvin asks his mom for money to buy a Satan-worshiping rock album and his mom replies that there's nothing genuine about them and they're just putting on the attitude for shock value, and comisserates with Calvin as he deplores that mainstream nihilism can't be trusted. He concludes that childhood is disillusioning.

There is a LOT of criticism of the extreme materialism and selfish mentality of the late 80s, when the comic was initially written. This may go a long way to explain how its aged so well; much of what it criticizes resonates well with people today.

Bill Watterson views comic strips a legitimate form of artwork, and repeatedly fought to have more space to draw more beautiful and artistic backgrounds, which was a very hard fight and unpopular even with other comic strip artists. He eventually did win some compromises and a lot of Calvin And Hobbes' artwork shows it, with the use of space to indicate time as well as a sharp contrast between the often plain environments of mundane life contrasted by the wildly beautiful imagery of Calvin's imagination (which often sports realistic depictions in an art shift of sorts).

Hobbes is explicitly not an imaginary friend, by word of Watterson himself. We don't know WHAT he is exactly, and Hobbes is apparently unaware of the strange nature of his reality; people look at him and only see an ordinary stuffed tiger plushie, but he has a tangible effect on the world that would be physically impossible for Calvin to do on his own. He's apparently been around for a while, and was apparently around when Calvin was a young baby.

On that note; Hobbes has implicitly killed (notably treated as both a gag and also with the vibe of 'he's a tiger, duh') and while he doesn't do it again on-screen, he doesn't have any moral issues about it. Calvin claims that he's never had trouble bringing Hobbes to school because the last time he did, Hobbes killed and ate a bully named Tommy Chestnut and simply comments that it was gross and he needed a bath. Calvin's tried to repeat this again, but Hobbes was grossed out at the thought having to eat a kid raw and not being allowed to use an oven first, or complaining that children are too fattening.

Hobbes became gradually less human-like in body language and more like an actual cat in both body language and behavior; this was due to Watterson drawing more inspiration from his cat, who also inspired a lot of Hobbes' running gags, such as pouncing on Calvin when he got home. Several years into the syndication of the strip, Watterson's cat passed away, and he did a tribute to her with a comic strip of the two of them agreeing to try to dream together so they can keep playing when they have to sleep; Watterson's commentary (if I recall right), remarks on his cat: "We can see each other again in dreams."

[pepperyduck]

ridin' nanamin for the first time...

a/n: nsfw, riding, methinks this fits older boyfriend nanami so let’s say implied age gap😊 18+ mdni!

"ken, i wanna try to ride you."

your immodest request had taken your boyfriend by surprise, such forward ways of speaking often foreign to you. you had "tried" to ride him before, though it was more of a little grinding while you were on top. this time was going to be different, though, you were going to ride him.

"oh?" he'd all but coo, lacing his words with a slight mockery, "is that so?" kento's cunning, rare smile towards you afterwards almost makes you give in; but no, you're determined.

not without a little teasing, you set yourself up atop the older man, legs hiked up on either side of his waist with your feet planted firmly into the bed. reaching down, you guide the thick head of nanami's cock to your already sopping entrance, easing your hips down to take all of him.

you swat at kento, signaling you need some type of leverage, and his big, experienced hands come to interlock fingers with yours. it's sweet, really, how his arms hold you up so effortlessly while you struggle to remain composed on top of him. his muscles become more exposed and veinier as he continues to balance your weight against him.

conjuring up whatever strength you have, you lift yourself up with your legs and plop! back down, eyes completely focused on the reaction you're to receive from kento. yet he only finds it amusing how attentive you are to his pleasure, and he gives you to go-ahead to try it again.

this time, you try a series of multiple little bounces, each little 'plop' becoming increasingly heavier with each drop of your pelvis. but the one thing that drives you to not stop, to keep going without the need for hesitation, is the expression that comes over your boyfriend's face.

it's...intense. kento's eyebrows furrow together, his eyes close lightly, and every previous appearance of a smile is wiped from his lips as they form into a small 'o' shape. he looks as if he's focused, even with his eyes shut, on how your body tries so hard to pleasure him.

and the thing that really kills him is that you keep going. because he was so used to you being fucked dumb so easily, giving yourself up to him within the first few seconds of his intoxicating touch.

but kento can understand the thrill of the power he's giving you.

you muster up all the adrenaline left in your cells, legs burning with such fever you hate yourself for taking on this feat, pushing into your boyfriend's arms to keep yourself upright. strings of slick connect from the base of nanami’s cock to your cunt, a downright obscene sloshing and squelching coming from where the both of you interlock.

though your body aches for you to stop, you can't, not now. the constant unwinding of kento's brick wall attitude is too inebriating for you to quit.

[nkogneatho]

HOUSE OF ORGASMS

favorite spot at home where jjk men like to fuck you.

— cw: fem!reader, exhibitionism, praise kink, temperature play, water play, hair fisting, cunningulus, fingering, cum eating, slight degradation, breeding mentioned.

— a/n: thank you beyoncé. take me off your list please.

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍

Kitchen is Satoru's favorite place in house. He is a foodie at heart. When he comes home from long, draining missions, the first thing that pulls him in is the aroma of the delicious food.

Satoru never announces when he is home. He likes to surprise you by hugging you from behind, hands locked on your tummy. He nuzzles his face in your neck, taking a whiff of your scent.

“I am home, sugar,” he announced. The vibration of his low voice sent shivers down to your core.

“Toruuu. Don't mess with me when I am cooking,” you purred

“mmh hmm,” he chuckled. “and how am I messing with you, my love?” His hands traveled around your body, enticing it more, and stopped only when they reached to your cunt.

“No panties, huh? Were you expecting this?” He whispered in your ear. Your hands trembled as they stirred the soup.

“Wanted to give you easy access.” A giggle escaped your lips, knowing how easy it is to tease him.

“Then let me make use of it, yeah?”

You turned off the stove before Satoru turned you around, picked you up and placed you on the counter top in the middle. You watched him get on his knees, loosening a few buttons of his shirt. He spread your legs apart, licking his lips at your glistening pussy, inviting him for a taste.

“Thank you for the meal” was the last coherent sentence that was heard from his mouth because he spent the next twenty minutes slurping, slobbering and spitting on your pussy. Even if a few praises managed to escape his mouth, they were caught by your clit the way he was trying to speak while being face deep in you.

You watch him unbuckle his belt with one hand to free his strained cock, his tongue not leaving your pussy for even a second. Fuck. His moans were driving you crazy. Your pretty fingers tightened around the white locks of his hair, and that's how satoru knew you were close. He shoved two digits up your cunt as he teased your sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue.

“fuck fuck fuck I'm close. Anh! Anh! Anh! Yes toru fuuuuuuuck” you cried as you came all over his tongue. He licked the remnants of your cum off his lips and asked you to clean off his soaking wet digits. The way you started kitty licking them, holding his wrist and slurping on them, made his cock shoot a load on the fabric of his pants.

He looked at you with a pink face, “shit. Tell me if your curry needs some sauce.” You lightly hit him as he laughs it off.

𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐘

Toji is a possessive man down to the core. Every so often a little too much. Any man who dares to even spare you an innocent glance looks away in seconds when he finds a 6 feet tall figure burying daggers in his body with just his look.

So when the man next building started interacting with you, toji knew what he had to do. Especially, when it’s really convenient that his window and your balcony were parallel. 

“Tojii  please. Someone will catch us,” you cried.

“Let them. I want them to know who ya belong too.” It was too much. Your legs were losing control. Your limp body pressed against the glass windows with your hair wrapped around toji’s fist, he was rutting against you mercilessly.

He gripped your hips tightly, pulling you against him as he angled deeper into your

“Fuck, you're so delicious, baby. If I could, I would fuck you in front of the whole city so them motherfuckers know to keep their dirty hands off my pretty slut”

He started pounding into you harder, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the night air as he claimed you with fierce possessiveness. When you tried to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out too loud, toji leaned forward and pulled you into the deepest kiss, making you vulnerable to scream the most desperate moans.

“I hope that pervert’s watching… wishing he could be in my place, splitting you open and making you scream like this.”

He growled low in his throat, the hold on your hips tightening to the point of bruising as he fucked you with ruthless intensity. He felt your pussy clench around his cock, signaling your impending orgasm as you arched your back, your spot craving more for that sweet release.

“Tojitojitojitoji” you cried. You were sure that people saw you two but your brain was so fucked out that you couldn’t care less.

“hmm” he chuckled in amusement. “Looks like lover boy’s watching us, doll. Scream my name more, yeah? Fhhuck-” Your walls clenched around him. You could feel the thick veins as your walls hugged them tightly.

“attagirl. atta.fucking.girl. Just like that baby. Cum f’me”

“tooojiiiii fhuuuuuck” your wails of pleasure echoed through the city.

“I know baby. I know. I’m close too. Keep throwing it back, hmm?”

He threw his head back with a loud groan as he followed you right after your edge, his cock pulsing violently as he filled you with his warm cum.

“Y’er mine… All mine… Never forget it, doll” he sighed in your ears, catching your limped body, trailing kisses all over your back. He definitely had a good sleep that night knowing he would keep his hands off you from tomorrow.

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐔𝐁

Suguru is a caretaker at heart. He knows what you need, even when you don't. When you come home, all he wants is to wipe away all your stress.

You walked through the door and the calming scent of lavender lured you in the room.

“Suguru? Suguru, love, I am home.” Amidst of calling him and seeking him with your doe eyes, two large hands appeared on your waist and locked against your stomach.

“Been waiting for you, my love,” Suguru purred in your years with the deepest yet softest voice. “Follow me”

He tugged lightly on your wrist and guided you to the warm bubbly water of the bathtub. The scented lavender candles painted the night with dim yellow. Big hands undressed you, kissing your skin as he pulled each piece of clothing with gentleness. He got in the tub first, then guided you in. The warm water immediately making you feel better. The soft foam enveloped your body as he pulled you against him, your back pressed against his chest.

“Mmm, baby… This is where you belong, wrapped up in my arms” he said as he kissed your bare shoulder blade.

He trailed his fingertips lazily over your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks until they hardened against his palms.

“Mhmm, suguru...” you moaned.

“Shhh… Let me take care of you, love. Just tell me what you want, mkay?” You nodded.

He gently pinched and rolled your nipples between his fingers, watching with satisfaction as you arch into his caress.

“I could spend hours just playing with these perfect tits… But there's so much more of you that I need to take care of.” Long fingers started traveling down, feeling the gentle curve of your hips, until they reached the place that was yearning for his touch.

You squirmed when he pinched your clit lightly. “Hmm…sweet little pussy.” He chuckled. “Always so eager for me.”

“Just for you.”

“I know, darling.” He started stroking your folds with his fingers, coating it in your slick, the warm water stimulating your clit more.

He leaned in to capture your mouth in a slow, sensual kiss, his tongue delving deep to tangle with yours as he put his hard cock in your pussy with increasing intimacy in the warm, soothing water.

Suguru started rubbing your clit underwater, his cock was tucked inside your walls, not moving an inch. He knew he needed you to relax first. You didn't know if it was the water, the ambience, or the fatigue of the whole day, but you were close, sooner than usual. Suguru could feel your body tightening as you held on his arms tightly.

“Sugu…'m close”

“Let it go, baby. Cum for me.” His command sent you over the edge as you orgasmed, hands holding the edge of the bath tub so tightly.

“Good girl.” He praised as you clashed your erratic body on him, chest heaving.

“Wow. That was…"

“Amazing, right?” He kissed your head.

“Mhmm. Now…how about I ride you in here.” You turned to face him as you suggested.

“But you're tired, baby.” Suguru's worried voice melted you.

“Never for you.” You winked at him as you aligned his cock with your entrance once again. Honestly, Suguru gave you a reason to skip work.

𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇

Being a king throughout 1000 of years, Sukuna has grown a liking to sitting on his throne with his thighs spread out and face resting on one of the hands. So, guess how he fucks you? Like the king that he is.

He sits on the couch with both his arms stretched and resting on it, all while you squirm as you struggle to put just his flushed tip in.

He smirked down at you, eyes gleaming with lust and pride as he watches your expressions.

“Need a hand, woman?”

“Shut up, sukuna. Give me a—ngh a s-second.” You scowled, trying to fit him in.

“Sure. Take all the seconds you want. Also," he leaned in, unresting his back from the couch, “… If you want to run your mouth like that, then better do it after you manage to get it in. It doesn't sound convincing when you stutter like a slut.”

He was clearly pushing your buttons, and you were pushing down your cunt out of fury and frustration. And you managed to get it in, moaning out his name desperately, hands immediately falling on his shoulder to maintain balance.

“Easy. Easy tiger.” His hands supported your back. “Hmm…don't hurt yourself.”

“I-I won't. Lemme ride it, kuna.”

“All yours,” he smiled.

He grasped your hips firmly, guiding you to sink again onto his length in one smooth motion

“Mmm, yeah. Just like that. Take what you need from your king”

He let out a low groan as you begin to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm that had both of you panting with pleasure, only sukuna wouldn't make it obvious on his face. He is too cocky for that.

“Shit. You're so tight.”

He leaned forward to capture your lips in a deep kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he savored the taste of your moans

“That's right, baby. Ride it good. Make those pretty tits bounce.”

He broke the kiss to gaze at you, his hands sliding up to palm your breasts, teasing the stiff nipples between his fingers.

“Look at you, sweetheart. So gorgeous, trying to be in control. I love watching you take what you want.”

He started to thrust up into you, meeting your downward strokes with increasing urgency as your bodies moved together in perfect sync.

“Fuck…kuna. Too deep. Ah!”

“Obviously. Wanna give up?”

You vigorously shook your head. “No…feels good.” He chuckled at you.

He reached beneath you to rub at your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to send shivers of delight through your body. “Come on, pretty thing. Drench this cock with your juices.” You start moving faster, losing your composure as you chase your high.

“fuck. Ah! Kuna kuna yes! Gonna cum. Anh! Anh! Fuck. Aaaah!" You screamed in pleasure as you came, head rolling back as sukuna's grip on your waist tightened as he shot his load in you.

“Fuck! Agh—shit” his thighs trembled. “Take it Take it. Take it.” He growled as he emptied his balls in you. His forehead crashed on your shoulders.

"Shit. Think you ready for a little brat just like you?"

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎- 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐃

Nanami is a classic lover. He believes in change, but he also believes that some things should remain the same. Like how he likes to spoil you with flowers and letters, no matter how cliché they are considered. How he reads poetry to you every night. And how he fucks his cock deep in you on the bed in missionary.

Nanami lifted you onto the bed, laying you out on the soft sheets like an offering to be worshiped

“Ah, darling. You look so beautiful like this.”

He kicked off his pants and climbed onto the bed, soaking in the pretty sight of you.

He positioned him between your thighs as he drank in the sight of your glistening pussy. “Mmm, look at that. So wet and ready for me already.” He mumbled. You covered your face with the back of your hand. “Don't get all shy on me now.”

He lined up his throbbing cock with your entrance, rubbing the tip against your sensitive clit to elicit a moan from your lips. “That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear how much you want this.”

He grasped your hips firmly, holding you in place as he slowly sunk into you, relishing the feeling of your tight heat enveloping his hard on inch by delicious inch

“Fuck, baby. Just like always, you feel incredible,” he moaned out.

He started to move, setting a steady, deep rhythm as he claimed you with long, intense strokes.

“Ken…oh my g-god. Feels so good.”

“I know, baby. I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours, “Every inch of you.”

“Love you, too, K-ken—Ah Fuck yes! Right there.”

He seized your mouth in a heated kiss, swallowing your whimpers and moans as he continued to pound into you with increasing fervor.

“I love feeling you tense up around me, sweetheart. Fhuuck! Knowing that you're com-completely lost in pleasure, mindless and consumed by the need for more.”

He broke the kiss to gaze into your eyes, his own burning with raw desire as he picks up the pace, driving into you with reckless abandon

“You're mine, sweetheart. Go ahead. Claim me as you cum.”

He continued to pleasure you with slow, deliberate movements, delving deeper to stroke your inner walls with his girthy cock, coaxing you closer to the brink of ecstasy

“I want to hear you, sweetheart. Say my name.”

“Ken! Ken! Yes, Ken! Make me cum. Fuck.”

You reached your high, and you locked your legs tightly around his waist. Your clenching walls sent Nanami over the edge, and he climaxed with a guttural roar, slamming into you one final time as he erupted inside you, painting your insides with wave after wave of his hot release.

“Ah, fuck yeah. So good, sweetheart.” He crashed onto you like a weighted blanket, chest heaving. “Did you feel good?”

“So good. I love you, Ken.”

"I love you more, darling."

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress company I worked for the first time no longer exists. It was long ago eaten and assimilated by a bigger company. But when I started it was an incredibly intense five weeks of training. I was told I was extremely lucky to be selected, and I was. From a pool of a hundred applicants only fifteen of us made the cut to entering the training program.

The course covered how to talk to customers, how to ask open ended questions, how to close a sale, and product knowledge. I learned a lot, and truthfully my greatest takeaway was a lot of social scripts that I could use in other areas of my life.

We also had a midterm exam and a final. Both included a roleplay element with a trainer and a written portion. They told us when we started that the course was challenging but it was still a shock to come in after the midterm and realize half the class had failed.

I was named valedictorian of training- a dubious honor as it meant I’d done the best in the class, but popular lore had it that valedictorians struggled the most on the sales floor. Lo, I struggled.

Not because I wasn’t good. I was. But because my manager set out to systematically destroy my self esteem. Every sale, every interaction I had was scrutinized and criticized.

If I sold a bed with protectors, moveable base, and pillows he’d ask why I hadn’t managed to sell pillow protectors too. His first trainee had thrived on being challenged and he’d never bothered to learn a different way to coach.

It was wretched. My performance started strong but nosedived after a few weeks with him. My trainer, a man I loathed for stonewalling me in my interview, came in to inform me I was on new hire probation. If I couldn’t get my sales numbers up I’d be let go.

His actual phrasing was, “When you have a bandaid do you like to rip it off or pull it slowly?”

Since it was eminently obvious why he was visiting and because I thought it was condescending I sweetly informed him that I liked to soak my bandaids in hot water so they come off on their own.

He was briefly startled at this derailing but then got on with the bad news. I signed some forms stating that I understood my job was in peril.

I went home furious. I thought long and hard about why I wasn’t succeeding and how frustrated I was with my manager. I came in the next day and my anger had crystallized into a cold sharp edge.

My manager opened his mouth to address the probation and I snapped, “Just leave me alone. Go in the back if I have a sale. If you must address a serious issue then you will give me praise on two things I did right and present it as a compliment sandwich. Otherwise just say good job and shut up. Your constant nitpicking just makes me anxious and I do worse. Back off.” Belated and begrudging I added, “Please.”

He raised his eyebrows in dim surprise but I’d gauged him well. He backed off. Dutifully he’d meander into the back when I had a sale and praised me when I closed it. I resented knowing it was only because I’d demanded complimented but they still boosted me up. My numbers skyrocketed, I landed my first split king sale, and I exited probation with flying colors.

The trainer came back in to congratulate my manager for turning things around. To my gratification he gave me credit for setting him straight and said I’d taught him a different way to lead. My manager would often genuinely praise that moment when I’d stood up to him, impressed with my stubborn refusal to fail and my insight into what would help.

My biggest takeaway from the whole thing was just that people need positive reinforcement to succeed. Praise people for doing a good job. If you’re ever in a position where you need to criticize someone put it in a compliment sandwich instead of just saying the negative.