#bre-is-stoned

[writer-rider-flirty-thirties]

Tom and Sabine hang out with some of the other parents. 16/25 of Fanfic Wars (2023)

[fortjester]

just did the math, and including wip's, I've written nearly 250k words already this year. and yet somehow, i still have imposter syndrome. anxiety/autism/adhd brain just built different ig

[highlifees-blog]

[bumblehaven]

y'all what if my truesona was a selkie

[angel-of-the-moons]

Marc x reader smut where reader is down in the dumps and is getting insecure of not being good enough (compared to Layla) and hates that but can’t help it so Marc figures this out and fucks the insecurity outta reader?

More Than Enough

Marc Spector x Fem!Reader (Implied Steven/Jake x Reader)

TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, Feelings of inadequacy, unprotected PiV, Mirror Sex, Praise, Mostly-clothed sex, Marc has a few of his own issues and is not a licensed psychologist

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I am so sorry this has been sitting in my ask box for so goddamn long, enjoy the word vomit aksbldbldbld

You knew it was a stupid thing to worry about, your insecurity. You felt... sub-par.

Compared to other people, compared to other women, compared to... her.

You could tell they had something special at one point, something almost-unbreakable. But then the issue with Steven realizing who he was, hunting Harrow, fighting Ammit, finding out Marc was there when her father was murdered... Jake goddamn Lockley...

Layla el Faouly was, honestly, a head-turner. She was funny, smart, beautiful and had a way of getting people to open up to her.

Even you, to a point. But you still felt inadequacy, even a bit of envy when it came to Layla. She was with Marc for so long--hell they had been married!

You couldn't keep lying to yourself, and you couldn't keep lying to them. So... You came clean. And the look Marc gave you made you wilt.

It was even worse because he was silent. You couldn't bear to be under his scrutiny so you turned around and wrapped your arms around yourself, staring into the floor-length mirror with a mixture of shame and embarrassment.

Your eyes darted towards Marc's reflection. At first, you thought he was looking at you; but then you realized he was having a mental conversation with Steven and Jake about the situation. You wished you could be privy to those conversations, worrying about any possible arguments that may be waging behind his eyes.

Your shoulders drop and you sigh, eyes closing. "Just--forget I said anything? Please, I'm sorry that I..."

Your eyes open and you instinctively gasp--Marc was standing right behind you, his dark and stormy eyes locking with that of your reflection's. "M-Marc--"

"You fuckin' kidding me, doll?" Marc asked you, frowning. The tone of his voice alone made you wince.

"I--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." You try.

"Damn right you shouldn't have."

You squeeze your eyes shut once more, hating yourself as that stone of regret pings around in your belly.

That is, until he growled, hands bunching your shirt at your waist, yanking you against him, his lips barely curling into a snarl at your ear, "Cause that's my girlfriend you're fucking talking about."

You shiver, a small gasp coming from you as Marc's mouth was on your throat; licking, kissing, mouthing away at your skin, making goosebumps prickle across your body.

His mouth comes to a halt for a split second, his eyes focusing on his reflection once more; "...Right. Our girlfriend."

He takes a small bit of your skin between his teeth and nips; "And we know for a fact that our girlfriend isn't doubting for a single fucking second if she's "good enough" for us."

"I... I just..." You babble as his grip goes white-knuckled in your shirt.

You gasp loudly when he grips just a fraction tighter and rips your shirt open, the buttons flying in different directions in the room, skittering across the floor to be hidden until Steven's next "cleaning day" spree.

"M-Marc! My shirt--"

"Is hidin' you. Gotta show you what you're blind to, baby." He muttered against your skin, his hands spreading over your belly, one going up to pluck at the bra you wore. It wasn't fancy or sexy by any means. Just one of those stretchy, mesh, wire-free ones you opted to wear when you didn't want your skin irritated by the wires and elastics fo your typical ones.

"Wearing Steven's favorite one, today." Marc hisses in your ear, groping at one of your breasts through the fabric, running his thumb over the bump of your nipple as your heart begins to pound.

"I... I didn't--"

"Wanna know why he likes it?" Marc asked, biting onto your earlobe, grabbing the loops of your jeans to tug you against him; allowing him to grind the growing bulge of his cock against the curve of your ass.

One of his fingers pluck the stretchy fabric, letting it go to ever so slightly smack against your skin; "Because it don't fucking hurt you. Because, it looks way more natural--way more comfortable."

He chuckles warmly, a soft smile playing on his lips, "That, and the way that they bounce more in this bra than the others tends to distract him, too. Makes these," His index finger swirles over the bump of your nipple once more. "way more visible."

Shame and the heat of your self-esteem make your cheeks flush, and you look away. Marc frowned stubbornly, "Baby..."

"Marc, I don't think that I'm..."

He growled again, the typical sound that came from him when he was frustrated. He'd never used it on you, before; so the sound made a thrill run down your spine.

He shoves his hand from your bra to the front of your pants, yanking the button open and pulling your fly down. He hastily shoved the denim down your thighs, revealing your soft, lacy panties.

They were a dark gray color, with bits of green and red--vines and roses across the lace. They left very little to the imagination, but they were so soft sometimes you'd forget you were wearing any at all.

"Damn, baby... wearin' Jake's favorite, too?" He grinned against the skin of your shoulder, staring down your reflection with the hardened gaze of a soldier sighting down his target.

His rough and calloused hand stroked over the fabric, his fingers dipping low to tease the seam of your panties, feeling a damp spot that was slowly spreading. It never failed; you were light a string in a guitar, waiting to be plucked so the most melodious of tunes would come from your weet lips.

Marc continued to stroke your damp panties for a moment, humming against your soft skin. "Wanna know what the favorite thing that you're wearin'?"

"Wh-what?" You breathe.

Marc withdrew his hand and gently encapsulated your fragile wrist in his fingers, holding your left hand up, where a gold ring was snugly fit around your ring finger; "This. This here means that you're mine. That you're ours. So don't you think for a minute that you're second-best, that you're not good enough for us."

In that moment, you felt stupid all over again. How could you forget? The weight of the ring felt so obvious to you, now. Marc's fingers caress the cool metal, smiling in a gentle way at your hand.

"Baby, you gotta understand... You're right."

Your heart thudded against the delicate cage of your ribs as he let that sentence hang in the air, keeping you in suspense.

"You're not Layla. You're nothin' like her." He continued, "You're you. You're funny, you're soft-spoken, you have a habit of always finding animals to play with and pet when we go out... And that little giggle-snort you do when you laugh so hard you're outta breath? All. You. We fucking love every single goddamn piece of you, baby. So... Please stop comparing yourself to Layla... If you keep doing that, you'll just tear yourself up inside until you're all hollow. Believe me, I did it so much that... well, you know what happened."

He brings your hand up and kisses your knuckles, "And we can't have you falling apart on us... you're the closest thing we have to normal... we need you."

Your heart squeezed in your chest and you sniffled, feeling tears well up in your eyes as your lip wobbled. Lingering feelings of doubt still clung to your subconscious, even in the face of all of Marc's affirmations, "But... but I don't feel like I'm good enough, Marc... Sometimes... sometimes I just feel so useless, and..."

Marc grunts, the sound coming from his nose in a hefty exhale as he drops your hand. "Alright... Maybe you need a little extra convincing."

You almost turn, confused by what he meant, when his hand flattened between your shoulders, shoving you against the mirror so your hands were spread across the reflective glass.

"M-Marc--!"

"Shush, and don't you stop looking at that mirror. Want you to see how fuckin' pretty you are while I fuck you." He murmurs, leaning back to undo his own jeans, hastily shoving the and his boxers down to free his cock, red and throbbing.

His rolled his hips against you, his cock grinding against the soft lace of your panties, smearing a small droplet of precum onto the fabric. Marc lifted his eyes to lock with yours in the mirror.

"Don't look at me, baby. Already told you."

Your breath leaves you in a stutter, your eyes dragging down to look at your own flushed face; your parted lips and torn shirt, your breasts heaving, the soft fabric stretched across them as their soft weight swayed and bounced as Marc maneuvered your body.

He slides your underwear off to the side, gripping the base of his shaft as he slides the tip of his cock through your budding wetness. Your eyes go wide when you feel his tip catch at your entrance, and you barely have a moment to breathe as he slams his hips against you, sinking inside of your body in one fluid thrust.

The stretchy was sudden; the lack of proper preparation left you with a stinging sensation that battled evenly with the pleasure of having his thick cock settle deep inside of you as he pressed against you; the dark hairs at the base of his cock tickled the skin of your ass.

"Baby, you're--fuck." He whined, his brows creasing as a stray curl falls over his forehead as he bows forward, relishing in the moment how good it felt to have your soft, velvety heat wrap and cling around him.

"Shit, honey." Marc sighed after what felt like eons; his hands stroking and gripping the flesh of your ass in his meaty palms. "You're like fuckin' heaven..."

He pulled back once, and slammed back in, making you cry out as the burn and ecstasy once more fight each-other in a bare-handed brawl; making your eyes roll back and flutter closed. God, why did it feel so good?

His mouth was at your ear, his voice tight and strained as he rocked his hips into yours, his cock sliding in and out of you easier and easier as the pleasure began to mount; tickling your spine. "...and I should know, angel..." Marc grunted. "I was in heaven for a little while..."

"Marc..." You whimpered, dropping your head as he began to pound into you, your chest burning with every heavy breath you took as Marc roughly crammed his cock inside of you, pressing hard on every single spot inside that had your head swimming with euphoria.

"Gh--fuck!" Marc barked, grabbing a fistful of your hair (carefully, ind you, he didn't want to hurt you at all) and pulled your head back so he could see your face, "I told you... watch yourself, baby. Don't look away."

You hiccup. Marc was fucking you so roughly from behind that you were almost concerned the pressure you were putting on the mirror would shatter it.

"That's it..." Marc groaned, his eyes rolling back with a blissful sigh as he tipped his head back.

You could see his Adam's apple bob, his jaw tighten as he fucked into you like a rutting dog. His hand lets your hair go and slides down your back, beneath the fabric of your torn shirt to caress the curve and contour of your spine.

Marc's eyes meet yours in the reflection, and his lips quirk up as he gives you another sharp thrust; your voice punching out of you in a breathless cry.

"Baby... do I gotta tell you again?" He sighed, gripping you by the back of your elbows and yanking you upright against him, so your back was pressed against his chest.

You groaned in bliss as you felt him shift inside of you. This position was new... and not unpleasant.

One of his hands curls around you, gripping your chin and jerking your head up, snarling in your ear; "Fuckin' watch, baby."

Your eyes slide down, and between your spread legs, your panties hastily shoved aside... You could see Marc's cock pull out almost to the tip before he slammed his hips up, rutting up into you in another frantic thrust.

"'m gonna show you how fuckin' good you are to us... Even if it means I gotta prove it to you all night long."

He slammed into you once more, his lips curling against your ear as he watches himself disappear inside of you.

"Even if Steven and Jake gotta take over after. I'm done with you."

[novaursa]

Here's my request: Aerion Brightflame has always been creepily obsessed with his shy quiet sister who has always been scared of him due to his treatment of her. He is determined to take her as his perfect Targaryen bride but he already knows that his family will likely turn down his idea of marrying her. So he decides to sneak into her chambers one late night to claim her as his knowing his family will likely have no other choice but to wed her to him after he sullied her.

When questioned about the incident the next day, being the liar that he is, Aerion tells everyone that his sister came onto him and being the kind caring older brother he is he couldn't reject her. His sister tries to say what really happened but Aerion claims that she's lying because she's too ashamed to admit to her behavior the night before. Their father Maekar has always been willfully ignorant of Aerion's true behavior and so he hesitantly believes Aerion's version of events and lets Aerion wed his sister much to his sister's horror.

Consumed by the Dragon

- Summary: Aerion coveted you since he was a boy, and like the dragon he believed himself to be, he took you.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aerion Targaryen (Brightflame)

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (Aerion is warning just being him)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The corridors of Summerhall are dimly lit as you make your way back to your chambers. The evening air is cool, and you pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders, your footsteps echoing in the empty hall. You’ve always preferred the quiet, the solitude of being alone with your thoughts. Here, away from the prying eyes of the court and the watchful gaze of your parents, you can breathe freely, without the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

But tonight, the silence feels different. Heavy. As if the shadows themselves are watching, waiting.

You turn a corner, your heart skipping a beat when you see him leaning casually against the wall, his hair glowing faintly in the torchlight. Aerion. Your brother, your tormentor. His presence in the quiet hallway feels out of place, as though he has stepped out of a nightmare and into your reality.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a serpentine hiss that slithers through the darkness. His smile is a slash of white teeth, predatory and hungry. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Your heart pounds, your instincts screaming at you to turn and run, but your feet are rooted to the ground, as if the stone itself has come alive and trapped you in place. “Aerion,” you manage to say, your voice barely more than a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes off the wall, taking a slow, deliberate step towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I was looking for you, little sister,” he murmurs, his tone deceptively gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

There’s something in his gaze, a darkness that makes your skin prickle with unease. You take a step back, your shoulders pressing against the cold stone behind you. “It’s late,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound calm. “I should go.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” He moves closer, his body looming over yours, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. His hand comes up, fingers brushing your cheek, trailing down to your neck, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. “You’re always running from me, Y/N. Why is that?”

Your breath hitches, your mind racing for an excuse, for anything that will get you away from him. “I’m not—”

“Liar.” His voice is soft, a mocking whisper, as his fingers trail lower, skimming the neckline of your dress. “You’re always so frightened. But I would never hurt you, little dragon. You’re too precious for that.”

The endearment, so similar to the words he will use years later, sends a shiver down your spine, dread pooling in your belly. You try to push his hand away, but he catches your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “Aerion, please...”

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and the words he whispers make your blood run cold. “Do you know what I am, little sister? I’m a dragon, trapped in human flesh. I can feel the fire burning inside me, the power coursing through my veins.” His voice is a dark, dangerous purr, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “One day, I’ll unleash it all. I’ll set the world ablaze, and you... you’ll be right there beside me. My queen. My consort.”

You tremble, your heart thudding painfully against your ribs as he continues, his words wrapping around you like chains. “You and I, we’re meant to be together. Blood of the dragon, bound by fire and flesh. When I am king, you’ll rule at my side. We’ll burn anyone who dares stand against us.”

He’s so close, his body pressing against yours, his scent—smoke and something sharp, metallic—filling your senses, making your head spin. His hand slips lower, his fingers grazing the curve of your breast, and you flinch, panic clawing at your throat.

“Aerion, no—” You try to twist away, but he pins you in place, his hand tightening around your wrist, his body a solid wall of heat and strength. He laughs softly, a low, wicked sound that vibrates through you.

“Shh, little dragon,” he whispers, his lips brushing your neck, sending a wave of revulsion and something else—something dark and unwanted—through you. “You’ll see. You’ll love it, just as I do.” His free hand roams lower, his touch burning through the fabric of your dress, and you gasp, your body rigid with fear and confusion.

He murmurs in your ear, his voice a dark, twisted lullaby. “I’ll make you mine, Y/N. I’ll teach you things that will make your pretty little head spin. I’ll make you scream my name, beg for me to touch you.” His words are crude, filthy, the things he describes making your cheeks burn, your stomach churn with a sick mixture of dread and something you can’t name, something that makes you feel like you’re falling, spinning out of control.

His hand cups you between your legs, his fingers pressing against you through the fabric, and you cry out, your body jerking against his. “Please, stop,” you beg, your voice breaking, tears stinging your eyes.

But he only chuckles, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, his gaze fixed on your face, watching every flicker of fear, of confusion, of helplessness. “You’re so sensitive, little dragon. So responsive.” His breath is hot against your skin, his voice a wicked caress. “Imagine what it will be like when I finally take you. When you’re writhing beneath me, begging for more.”

The things he says are vile, each word a knife twisting in your gut, and you can’t breathe, can’t think, your body trapped between the cold, unyielding wall and the searing heat of him. His fingers press harder, and a strange, terrifying sensation builds within you, something that makes your thighs clench, your breath hitch.

And then, as suddenly as it began, he pulls away, his hand leaving you, the cold air rushing in to replace his touch. You’re left gasping, your body trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks as you stare at him, your mind reeling.

He smiles, a cruel, satisfied curve of his lips as he steps back, his eyes gleaming with dark triumph. “Remember this, little dragon,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender. “Remember what I can do to you. What I will do to you.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving you alone, your body shaking, your heart pounding, your mind spinning with the horror of what just happened, of what he plans to do.

You don’t move for a long time, your back pressed against the cold stone, your knees weak beneath you. When you finally find the strength to stumble back to your chambers, you feel hollow, your body numb, your mind struggling to grasp the full, awful reality of what Aerion has just promised.

You know, deep in your soul, that this is only the beginning.

(a few years later)

The candles in your chamber have long since burnt low. The night is quiet, and the only sound you can hear is your own breathing, soft and steady as you lie in your bed, staring at the canopy above. You try to calm your mind, but your thoughts are restless, swirling like the winds beyond the window. You’ve always been anxious in the dark, your dreams haunted by things you dare not name aloud.

The creak of the door startles you, making your heart lurch painfully in your chest. You sit up, clutching the covers close, your eyes wide as they lock onto the figure standing in the doorway. His presence is unmistakable—the silver-gold hair that shines even in the dim light, the sharp, angular features that are both beautiful and terrifying. Aerion.

Your older brother steps inside, closing the door softly behind him. There is a glint in his dark violet eyes, a hunger that sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve seen that look before, in the darkened halls when he would corner you, whispering words that made your skin crawl and your cheeks burn. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, your voice a timid whisper.

"Aerion... what are you doing here?"

He takes a step closer, the distance between you shrinking as he beckons with his hand. “Come to me, little dragon.” His voice is smooth, almost gentle, but there is an edge to it, a dangerous undercurrent that makes your pulse quicken with fear.

You shake your head, your body refusing to move. “Why are you here?” you manage to ask, though your voice trembles, betraying your unease. You’ve always been wary of him, your wariness turning to dread as you grew older and his attention on you became more... intense.

His smile is slow, predatory. “You know why I’m here.” He closes the distance between you in a few strides, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist, pulling you to your feet with a force that makes you stumble against him. His other hand cups your cheek, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lips. “So perfect.”

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, his body pressing against yours. “Aerion, please—” Your plea is cut off as his mouth crashes down on yours, silencing you with a bruising kiss. You freeze, your body going rigid as his lips move against yours, demanding, insistent. His hand slides down your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the hard lines of his body through the thin fabric of your nightdress.

You tremble, confusion and fear warring within you as his hands begin to tug at your clothes, the cool air of the chamber brushing against your skin as he bares you to his gaze. “Don’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking, but he ignores you, his eyes dark and filled with something that makes your stomach churn.

He undresses you with a kind of reverence, his hands lingering on your skin as if committing every inch of you to memory. You want to scream, to push him away, but your body feels heavy, your limbs unresponsive as he strips away the last of your clothing. You are left standing before him, vulnerable and exposed, your cheeks burning with shame.

“Aerion, please, don’t do this,” you plead, but he only shushes you, his fingers trailing down your arm in a caress that makes you shiver. He pulls off his own clothes with a casual grace, his eyes never leaving yours as he reveals himself to you, the heat of his gaze making your skin prickle.

He nudges you back towards the bed, and you stumble, the mattress catching you as you fall onto it. He follows, his weight pressing you down, his body a cage that you cannot escape. “Spread your legs,” he orders, his voice rough, and you hesitate, your body trembling with fear and something else, something you don’t want to name.

His hands are on you then, parting your thighs, his touch firm and possessive. You gasp as his fingers brush against you, your hips jerking involuntarily at the strange, foreign sensation. “You’re always so sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice filled with a dark amusement. “Have you thought about this, little dragon? Thought about me touching you like this?”

You shake your head, a whimper escaping your lips as his fingers slip inside, the intrusion sending a shock through your body. “No, please—”

“Shh,” he breathes, his lips curling into a smirk. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way you blush when I’m near. You want this, don’t you?”

You shake your head again, but your body betrays you, a soft, helpless moan escaping as his fingers move inside you, a strange heat pooling in your belly. “Stop,” you beg, but he only laughs, a low, wicked sound.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he whispers, his mouth descending to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes you shudder. “You’re going to scream my name, little dragon. You’ll see.”

He moves over you, his body pressing you down, and you feel something hard and hot against your thigh. Your eyes widen, panic clawing at your throat as you realize what he’s about to do. “No, Aerion, please, don’t—”

But he’s relentless, his hips driving forward, a sharp, searing pain tearing through you as he enters, breaking the last barrier between you. You cry out, your body arching in agony, but he swallows your scream with a fierce, punishing kiss, his hands pinning your wrists to the bed.

“Quiet, little dragon,” he growls against your lips, his voice a harsh rasp. “You’ll get used to it.” He holds himself still for a moment, his breath ragged, and you feel tears slipping down your cheeks, the pain radiating through you, blotting out everything else.

And then he begins to move, his thrusts deep and powerful, each one driving the air from your lungs. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but the pain is too much, the sensation overwhelming as he claims you, his body relentless, unyielding.

“Mine,” he whispers, his voice raw with need. “You’re mine, little dragon. No one else will ever touch you like this.”

Your body starts to react against your will, the pain slowly giving way to something else, something dark and shameful. You can feel yourself tightening around him, your hips lifting to meet his, and the realization makes you want to die of shame. How can you be feeling this, how can your body be responding to him?

Aerion’s laughter is low, almost triumphant as he feels your surrender. “Yes, that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I knew you’d love this. You were made for me, Y/N.”

His words are filthy, the things he says making your cheeks burn, your skin tingling with mortification and a sick, twisted thrill. He moves faster, his thrusts becoming erratic, his breath harsh in your ear as he drives you both towards the edge.

You can’t stop the sounds that escape you, the cries that mix with his name, your body shuddering beneath him as something inside you breaks, a wave of pleasure crashing over you that leaves you gasping, trembling. Aerion’s voice is a harsh, guttural sound as he follows you over the edge, his body going taut above you, his grip on you almost bruising as he spends himself deep inside you.

He collapses against you, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against yours. You feel broken, shattered in a way that has nothing to do with the physical pain, and everything to do with the man lying atop you, his arms wrapping around you in a possessive embrace.

“You’re mine now, little dragon,” he whispers, his voice soft, almost tender. “No one else will ever have you.”

And as you lie there, your body aching, your mind numb, you know he’s right.

Morning comes too soon, and with it the cold, harsh light of reality. You stir, the ache in your body a bitter reminder of the night before. Aerion’s arm is draped possessively around your waist, his body pressed close, his breath warm against your neck. Panic flares in your chest as you remember, but before you can move, a shrill scream pierces the air.

Your eyes fly open to see your chamber door thrown wide, your handmaids frozen in the doorway, their faces pale with shock and horror. The sight of you and Aerion tangled in the sheets, both bare beneath the thin fabric, is unmistakable. You instinctively try to cover yourself, shame and fear flooding you, but Aerion only laughs softly, his hold on you tightening.

“Good morning, ladies,” he drawls, his tone mocking as he props himself up on one elbow, the blankets slipping to reveal his bare chest. “I trust you’re not too shocked?”

The servants avert their eyes, their hands trembling as they drop to their knees, mumbling apologies and making hurried excuses as they scramble to leave. Your cheeks burn with humiliation, your entire body tense with mortification. Aerion watches them go, amusement dancing in his eyes, his lips curled in a satisfied smile.

“They’ll spread the word,” he says, his voice low and pleased. “It won’t be long before Father hears.” He leans down, his lips brushing your temple. “We’ll be married by the end of this moon, little dragon. Just as I promised.”

You swallow the bile rising in your throat, your heart hammering with a desperate, futile hope that this might still be a nightmare. But the stark reality of Aerion’s weight against you, the soreness between your legs, the mocking light in his eyes—all of it is real. All of it is happening.

You try to push him away, but he only laughs again, a low, mocking sound as he lets you go. “Get dressed, Y/N. We’ll have an audience with our dear father soon enough.” His words are a command, not a request, and you obey, your hands shaking as you fumble with your clothes, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

The morning drags on in a haze of dread. You are summoned to the throne room, your steps heavy as lead as you make your way through the corridors, Aerion’s presence a dark shadow at your side. When you enter, your father, King Maekar, is seated upon his chair, his face a mask of anger and confusion. His gaze shifts between you and Aerion, his jaw clenched.

“Is it true?” His voice booms through the chamber, the weight of his authority pressing down on you like a physical force. “Have you... done what I’ve heard?”

You open your mouth to speak, to tell him the truth, but Aerion steps forward, his expression a perfect mask of remorse and sincerity. “Father, it’s true,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “But you must understand, it wasn’t as it seems.”

Your heart stops, a cold knot of dread forming in your stomach as he begins to weave his lie, each word like a drop of poison. “Y/N called for me last night,” he says, his eyes meeting Maekar’s without a flicker of guilt. “She... begged me to come to her chambers. She pleaded with me to take her innocence.”

“That’s not true!” The words burst from you before you can stop them, your voice desperate and shaking. “He’s lying! He came to me—I didn’t want this, I—”

“Enough.” Aerion’s voice cuts through yours like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He turns to you, his expression softening in a way that makes your blood run cold. “She’s only ashamed, Father. Ashamed of what she asked for, what she begged me to do.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm in what might seem a tender gesture to anyone else. But you can feel the threat beneath it, the unspoken command to stay silent.

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes as you look at your father, trying to make him see, to understand. “Father, please, you have to believe me—”

“We love each other, Father,” Aerion interrupts, his voice filled with a false warmth, a twisted sincerity. “She told me so last night. She said she loves me more than anything in this world, that she couldn’t bear the thought of being married off to someone else. She asked me to make her mine, and I, loving her as I do, couldn’t deny her.”

You stare at him, your mouth dry, your heart pounding so hard you can scarcely breathe. The audacity, the sheer gall of his lie, leaves you speechless. You glance at your father, seeing the uncertainty, the hesitation in his eyes. He doesn’t want to believe it. You can see that much. But he’s always been willfully blind to Aerion’s true nature, to the darkness that lurks beneath his handsome face.

“Aerion, she’s your sister,” Maekar says finally, his voice weary. “This... this isn’t right.”

Aerion’s smile is a thin, cruel line. “She’s more than my sister. She’s my other half. Our blood is pure, Father, as it should be. We belong together, and she knows it as well as I do.” He glances at you, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. “Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You feel as though you’re suffocating, the room closing in around you, your father’s gaze heavy on your shoulders. There’s no escape, no way out of this web of lies that Aerion has spun so effortlessly. You open your mouth to deny it again, to scream the truth, but the look in Aerion’s eyes silences you. It’s a promise, a threat. If you say anything more, if you contradict him, there will be consequences. And you know, deep in your heart, that no one—not even your father—can protect you from him.

“I... I don’t...” Your voice falters, the words choking in your throat.

“See, Father?” Aerion’s smile is triumphant, his grip on your arm tightening. “She’s just overwhelmed, embarrassed. But we love each other. We want to be together. Make it right for us. Let us be married.”

King Maekar rubs his temples, his eyes closing for a long moment as if the weight of the decision is crushing him. When he opens them again, they are filled with resignation. “If this is what you both want...” His voice is slow, reluctant. “Then I will not stand in your way.”

The world seems to tilt, your vision blurring as the full horror of his words sinks in. Aerion’s hand squeezes yours, a mockery of comfort, his smile a dark, twisted thing. “Thank you, Father,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’ve made us both very happy.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think, as your father’s decree seals your fate. There’s no escape, no way to turn back. Aerion’s grip is a shackle, his presence a dark shadow that you will never be free of.

“Now, little dragon,” Aerion murmurs in your ear as you leave the throne room, his voice soft, almost tender. “We’ll be together forever. Just as it should be.”

His words are a prison, and you are trapped, caught in the web of his obsession, with no hope of rescue. There is no way out. Not anymore.

[smallestapplin]

Will you cherish what I hold dear?

Leon Belmont x vampire reader!

Sex is implied but never described, bite marks and blood drinking mentioned, children are briefly mentioned, angst.

-

-

It’s a nice summer night, the window to your shared bedroom is open allowing the nice breeze to roll in. The moonlight shining in on you and your beloved, gazing down on you two after a night of passion. Leon is curled around you, his arms securely around your body holding you to his chest.

The smell of your shampoo and natural scent bringing a level of comfort to him, yet he can’t seem to fall asleep, his mind racing with different thoughts. Your children are away in their own rooms, sleeping just as you two were suppose to be, and yet here he is wide awake.

The marks along his neck and chest silently throb in mild pain, you had drank from him just as you always have since he started courting you, but it’s also a silent reminder of what he’s not.

He’s aging, day by day he’s growing older, he’s not once the young twenty something year old bursting through your castle doors, to him that day seems so far away.

His blonde hair slowly filling with greys.

“Love, are you awake?” His voice barely a whisper.

“Mhm, what is it?” Your groggy voice does little to soothe him, despite how much he adores hearing you speak.

“If I may, can I ask you something personal?”

He smiles faintly at the feeling and sound of your chuckle vibrating against the skin of his bare chest.

“Why, Mr.Belmont, you wed me, settle down with me, and think a question could be personal at this point? By all means, go ahead.”

You nuzzle back into his chest, getting comfortable as you listen to his heart beat. He’s silent for a moment, as if listening to the curtains rustle in the wind.

“Have you…ever thought about turning me?” Hesitant in his words, as if afraid of the answer.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused by the sudden questioning after so many years together.

“What kind of question is that, of course I have.”

He blinked, surprised at how quickly you answered that.

“Really?”

“Leon, there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think about making you a vampire just so you could stay by my side forever, but…”

You shuffle, moving away ever so slightly from him to look up at him.

“Did you hear how selfish that sounds? How I sound like I can’t handle you being human and stripping you of a key part of yourself?”

You bring a hand up to cup his face, smiling as he leans into your touch. Your thumb gently rubbing against the slowly prominent wrinkles.

“I love you, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to give you my heart. One day you won’t be with me, it’s going to break me, but I know I’ll never truly be rid of you, our children just down the hall give promise to descendants of us, of you. I’ll be surrounded by the love of you, everything you held dear will be seen in them.”

You smile at him, softly cooing at him as you wipe away his tears that he hadn’t realized were falling.

“I will stand by your side, by their side, and fight to protect all that you love.”

He’s read stories of immortals growing distant and angry to out live all they loved, his own former friend likely becoming just that when he took the crimson stone and left.

He feared, deep down, that maybe his death in the future would hurt you, make you grow bitter and angry with the world.

He didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

Leon leans foreward, his lips pressing gingerly onto your own in an impassioned kiss. Pulling away he rests his forehead against your own.

“Promise me you will protect and love the world which I hold dear.”

“I promise you, I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”

“Thank you..” finally his body grows tired, eyes heavy as sleep is catching up with him.

You cuddle back into him, smiling as your husband begins to go limp and his breathing evening out.

You can’t imagine a world without him, though you know you will have to get use to the idea in the next several years, as much as it breaks your undead heart to know your husband will no longer be with you.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 26

The Question | Loki x Reader

The clean up of Tønsbergbegins and you settle back into life with Loki at your side. But there's still some questions still left to answer.

Warnings: 18+ A bit of angst, language, sexism & mysogyny antagonist character death and discussions of prisoner death. But also...FLUFF, suggestion of sex.

A/N: This is the penultimate full chapter! We have Chapter 27 and then a short post-credit sequence epilogue. Thank you to everyone still reading!

Divider by @reveriesources and @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

There was only so long the cloak could keep you covered with so many others at risk. You were sure another may have been able to hang onto its protection for longer, but the soldiers, beaten back as they were, were becoming desperate. Those still in the village had begun smashing windows, hammering on doors and climbing the walls where the stones allowed, searching for ways into the strongholds of the villagers. The very homes of the Asgardian people were at risk and, despite the blood still seeping from your side, you knew that they were far more vulnerable than you or Loki could ever be. 

Before you could make the decision consciously air rushed around you, the lights were brighter and the sound louder. The bubble you’d been protected in with Loki was gone but, so was a large portion of the village. 

Bres and the Vanir Prince rounded on you immediately, savage grins on their faces and blood dripping from their swords. 

“There you are,” the Prince growled. As quickly as you could you pushed up from the ground, supported by growing vines and leaves, to your feet. Your spear glowed blue, spitting fire at the approaching attacker. 

Beside you, Loki rose too. His leg, still at a strange angle, seemed to be healing slowly. Despite his odd weight distribution he revealed his daggers and flipped them both, eyeing Bres’ approach. 

“My lady said no, Bres, it’s time to retreat.”

You could feel the well of magic around you, Loki’s sedir gathering at full force. Your own magic, currently burning through its energy, knocking soldiers out of the way to return to you, flared a rich blue leaving burnt land and then flowers in its wake. 

Loki couldn’t take anymore of the desecration of his home, the disrespect shown to his family. He grabbed your hand and at once you felt your magic gather, a vacuum in it’s place and then. Loki. 

Together, my Goddess

Together

 A blast of green and blue magic shot from your joined hands, hitting Bres full in the chest and throwing him backwards. The Vanir Prince rallied his own, meagre, power but it was no match for your shared strength, he went flying, careening into Thor and Jane who held him down with Mjolnir. 

He maintained the assault with his left hand, magic flowing through him and out onto the battlefield, his right he wrapped around your waist, pressing on the flow of blood and supporting you to stand. 

“We win this together, my darling, I want you by my side.” 

You lifted your own palm, allowing the ebb and flow of your magic to dance inside of you, the hollow feeling before the blast becoming more and more familiar as it grew, crashing onto the enemy before you. 

Bres fell further and further back, his men now fleeing left and right until he lay on the harbour cobbles, sprawled at your feet. 

Loki stared down at him in disgust.

“I ought to kill you for this. This was war, Bres, and you know it, this is not the way of things in the Nine Realms any longer-” Loki’s jaw ticked in anger. 

“Nine Realms?” Bres scoffed, still attempting bravado. His only back up was now being dragged to the centre of the village by Thor, Stormbreaker balanced on his shoulder. “I believe your homeland was destroyed, Loki, Prince of nothing and no one.” 

The Prince cowered at Loki’s feet though, looking up with pleading eyes. 

“He knows not what he says, Prince Loki, please show mercy upon us.” 

Loki stared back, then turned to you. 

“My darling, this is your kill. Last time I performed the deed for you, now you are strong enough to do this for yourself.” 

Silence fell, Thor and Jane stood behind the prisoners, Brunnhilde watched from the wharf, making sure no one climbed back up. Korg was helping villagers from their homes, righting people, doors and flower pots with equal care. 

“I have never taken a life.” You whispered, looking at Loki, searching for the right path. 

“If you do not wish to start, you could grant them clemency, we have a prison here.” The Vanir nodded in agreement, eyes wet with tears. But Bres looked cold. 

“I knew you were a coward, Loki. And you’ve made her cowardly too. Think of all she could have achieved with the Vanir, all the battles she would have ended if you had simply stepped aside like the second son you are. This is no place for you.” 

“Bres,” the Vanir Price sobbed, “stop!” He pleaded, crying fully now. “I thought it was the right thing. I did. I wanted a new world, a new realm and I was greedy and foolish. Please show mercy, Princess Estrid.” He gripped your thigh in his muddy hands, tears making tracks in the blood that coated his face. You’d only really seen him on the battlefield but now, stripped of his helm, he was just a boy, young and lost, betrothed as you had been for reasons beyond his own desires. 

“Thor?” 

He looked at you, shocked, but waiting. 

“Take him to the prison.” You declared, coldly. If you could put off this decision then you would, for now. 

“Let’s go.” Thor took him roughly by the arm and dragged him to his feet, but he went willingly, calmly. “I’ll come back for that one.” He pointed at Bres, but you shook your head. 

“I’ve not decided about him yet.” 

Bres spat at your feet while you spoke, but you burnt the filth away before it could even land. 

“Why would you want them to make a new world, when this one is so beautiful?” The question came out as a whisper, your confused evident.

His sneer returned, teeth blackened by drying blood. “He’s a boy, that one, a welp the same as you, I would never have let either of you keep that land. But I did very much enjoy Ragnarok. Your boyfriend took care of that for me, thoughI knew you could do it again.” He eyed the charred grass where you’d been fighting. “You would have burnt the world to the ground and then it would have been mine.” 

There was another hand on your back now, Brunnhilde’s. 

“Put him in prison, decide later.” She suggested gently. 

“Okay,” you rubbed a hand over your eyes, smearing blood from your fingers. 

“You look a true warrior now,” Thor laughed, returning from the prison, “a true warrior, I will escort our friend here -” before Thor could finish his thought Bres had moved, sliding a broad sword from his seemingly empty scabbard, he lurched towards Loki. Daggers flashed catching the sword, then it slipped, falling to the cobbles in a shower of ashes.

Everyone turned to look at you, your spear out, the tip touching where Bres had once stood, his own ashes blowing in the wind. 

In the aftermath you found yourself under Loki’s cloak, the deep velvet so intoxicatingly him that you felt safe and warm despite the wound in your side and the scars on your heart. 

Brunnhilde, with the surprisingly organised help of Korg, managed to set up a triage and refuge in the Long Hall. Before long the smell of stew was permeating out from the kitchens and the usual cacophony of chatter was filling the space. 

Despite Jane explaining that she “wasn’t that kind of Doctor, Thor.” With a roll of her eyes, she still helped the local doctor and nurse bandaging up any wounds and sending more serious cases off to the hospital. 

Thor had tackled the swarm of journalists at the edge of the village as best he could, trying to distract them with little effect and eventually sending them away with the promise of a full interview with the entire court as soon as they had the village in order. 

Yet all you saw was Loki, his eyes sparkling in the candlelight, romantic despite its necessity since the powerlines had come down. And all you knew was that you loved him and he loved you in return. 

“Do you think we could just…go?” You whispered, tugging on Loki’s hand, “I’m so tired, I already got stitched up. Or do you think we need to stay, as a sign of strength or something?”

“My darling, after how you defended our people today, I don’t think anyone could be upset with you needing to rest.” He cupped your cheek again, wiping away what was left of the mud after you’d washed your face in the bathroom. 

Loki didn’t comment on the house, the smell of burning that still lingered from your uncontrolled rage. He didn’t comment on the way the bedroom was a mess, your clothes everywhere and the sheets still rumpled from your restless sleep.

He didn’t have time to comment because his lips were distracted kissing every inch of skin he could find, his hands carefully guiding you backwards onto the bed, propping himself over you on an elbow so he could continue to pepper kisses down your neck and collar without hurting you. 

His cloak lay beneath you, his presence hovering above and you closed your eyes in bliss. He was home, safe, apart from some battle wounds that were already well on the way to being healed. And although he would take time to move past the mental weight of being trapped, the pain of his sedir being restricted, you were at least together and together you could weather any storm. 

By the morning the village looked better, most of the debris had been cleared away and everyone was in fine spirits, organising for a feast in celebration of your victory. Loki had been clear that you weren’t to lift a finger while he tidied the house, the magical way, of course, and had settled you in an armchair wrapped in only the bedsheets with a huge mug of coffee and as many pastries as the bakery could muster. 

Today was going to be a special day, he’d decided. 

He’d woken before you, running out of the house and returning with everything he needed before you could stir. Thankfully you’d slept late after taking your pain medication, giving him lots of time to plan. 

After your coffee he ushered you into the bathroom where a full bathtub steamed, complete with healing herbs and extracts would help you sooth away your pains and help the wound in your side heal. Asgardian healing was incredibly advanced, the stitches growing new skin and sinew as well as holding the wound together, so Loki had no doubt you’d be fighting fit in no time. With you in the bathroom he could make some calls. 

That afternoon Loki coaxed you out from the warmth of the cottage to take a brisk walk through the village. 

“We were supposed to do this, do you remember? I promised you a walk on the cliffs.” He said, his normally long stride was tempered so you could keep up and enjoy the view together. One of your hands was tucked into the crook of his elbow for warmth, the other touched the budding plants that had covered the battlefield in just a single day. Although Loki had been hurt too, he’d healed quickly and now there was no way to tell that there had ever been anything wrong with his strong, lean body. Not unless you peeled back the layers of his sweater and wax cotton jacket to find the scars beneath. 

One the other side of the cliff the land swooped down towards a second beach, less hospitable to the boats and so more widely used in the hot summer for bathing. Now, with the winter still nipping at your noses, it was deserted except for a single green blanket, folded on a dry rock. 

“Loki…” You gave him a sideways look, clocking his mischievous smile. His eyes though, there was something else in them you couldn’t quite place. 

“Yes, my darling?” 

With a flourish he opened the blanket, letting it float through the air before landing on the soft wet sand. Inside magic shimmered - a picnic basket, cushions and a large umbrella to protect against the wind appeared, artfully arranged on the green wool. 

“Loki! This is gorgeous! Did you do this for me?” You dropped his arm, running forwards to touch the delicate tassels on the umbrella. “How did you even do this kind of magic, it’s amazing.” 

Lost in your excitement you didn’t notice the movement of the sand behind you, or Loki kneeling down on the blanket. 

“Can we - oh!” 

You turned and there he was, right behind you, on bended knee. “What are you doing? Loki…”

He merely smiled up at you, “Asynja, my darling, my goddess. I should have asked you this question all those years ago on Asgard, I should never have left any doubt between us how I felt.” He held his hand out, taking yours gently and kissing your knuckles. “You are the most wondrous person I have ever met and I would be a fool not to want to spend the rest of my life, however long it may be, worshipping you as you deserve.” 

“Oh, Loki!” Tears sprang into your eyes, he turned your hand over, kissing your wrist where your pulse beat wildly in anticipation. 

“My darling, will you marry me?” He slid his palm across yours, leaving behind a gold ring, the band was engraved with a tangle of flowers and vines, so fine and delicate you could barely see them, they led to a flower of gemstones with diamond petals. The central stone appeared to be a light blue sapphire, but as you turned it in the light it flashed emerald green. 

“Of course I will, Loki, I love you so much there’s no one else I could ever want to be with!” 

Grinning, he slid the ring onto your finger and swept you backwards onto the picnic rug, kissing your cheeks and nose as you laughed with pure happiness. 

Thor could only hold his excitement in for so long, rushing to the Long Hall and throwing the doors open as soon as you told him. 

“My baby brother is to be wed!” He boomed, startling the Knit & Natter group that had the hall booked for the afternoon. “Where’s the King?!” He bounded into the room, hugging each member of the group around the shoulders before rushing to the back office and throwing open the door. 

You’d both told Thor over tea and cakes in your little cottage, the afternoon had spread out before you like the picnic blanket, giving you both time to enjoy your new excitements and dreams, as well as reminiscing on your old memories and love. 

Loki had requested that Thor visit as soon as you’d made it back to the cottage, thrilled to share the news with his overexcited older brother. 

Brunnhilde’s momentary shock was soon replaced with similar excitement as she followed Thor from the office and back out into the Long Hall where she found you both smiling and being fawned over by the knitting group, when Madam Gina would let them get close enough. The ancient lady, the grandmother in chief of all the village elders, had your cheeks cupped between her wrinkled hands, squeezing tightly and whispering to you with tears in her eyes. 

Thor and Brunnhilde gathered round too, patting you on the shoulder and back and mixing their congratulations with the voices of the others. 

“We must have a party!” Thor announced, lifting his hands, “a large party with ale and mead and feasting, oh and music. There must be music and dancing!” 

Loki watched him indulgently, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders and pulling you tight against his side. You looked up at him, his sharp jaw relaxed for a change, a twinkle in his eye and a healthy flush covering his cheeks and nose from your swift walk over. 

“Your highness, there must be a ceremony first.” Madam Gina interjected, tapping her papery hand on Thor’s forearm. 

“Well we shall have an engagement party, then the wedding ceremony of course and then an even bigger party after. We can’t have too many celebrations can we, not when my little brother is marrying such a fine woman.” He grabbed you both, kissing Loki on the forehead before bending to kiss you on the cheek. 

“Thor!” Madam Gina wrapped him on the knuckles with the end of her knitting needles, making the prince flinch and step back. 

“Please, Madam, tell us about the ceremony.” Brunnhilde offered, pulling her chair back out for her. 

“Well -” she coughed, “as you know Bres took you, my dear, to ascend and then be married.” She nodded, her eyes milky as her memories cast back through the centuries. 

“Yes, but I was never married.” Your heart was sinking, is there where she announced you had, in fact, been wed at some point. How did Asgardian’s get divorced, could gods get divorced? Your thoughts spiralled. Loki, sensing your anxiety building, lay a calming hand on your thigh, squeezing gently. 

“No, dear, you weren’t. Lugh took you and hid you and protected you from all that nonsense. But -” her cough was worse today, Loki noted with a frown. “You didn’t ascend either, you never joined Bres’ court as a named goddess.” 

“But, I joined the Asgardians, I’m a member of this court aren’t I?” 

“Of course!” Brunnhilde lept to agree, “we made you a warrior of the court, you are Loki’s betrothed now too, a Princess.” 

Loki squeezed you tighter at the word Princess. He’d whispered it to you countless times, mostly while he was buried deep inside of you, and now it had an almost pavlovian response.

“A warrior, yes, a court member, of course.” She patted your hand again. “But she has no role as a Goddess, no responsibility as Loki and Thor do.” 

“Could I ascend? Do we know how to make that happen?” 

Madam Gina looked at you and then narrowed her eyes, “of course I can dear, what do you take me for!” 

<< Chapter 25

Chapter 27>>

[bean-bean2000]

The Maid - Part 4

Pairing: Loki x reader (on going series)

Warnings: Angst, abuse, mental health (depression, mentions of suicidal thoughts), swearing, mentions of torture and rape.

Please read at your own risk. Your own media consumption is not my responsibility. Please read and review the warnings before proceeding.

Thank you and enjoy!

Part 3 Series masterlist Main Masterlist

🧹🧹🧹

You don't see the king for a few days following your conversation in the kitchen, however, he specifically requested you be placed back as his personal maid exclusively and indefinitely.

You were surprised to have not seen the snake in a while, assuming he had taken some time off. However, once word got out that the king specifically requested you as his maid, the energy in the maid's quarters shifted negatively towards you.

The guards, albeit not the snake, continue to beat you every chance they got.

"You think you're special because the king requested you?" one asked as he hit your face.

"Is that why the snake is missing? What did you do to him? What did you say to the king?" he yells at you as he grabs the collar of your shirt and punches you once more. You can hear the bone of your eye socket lightly crack.

"We knew you're a witch. You cast a spell on him. That is the only reason he chose you. Admit it!" another yelled at you and kicked your side.

"Where is the snake?! Did you curse him you filthy witch?!"

"Maybe we have to burn her at the stake!" one shouts.

"Maybe, the king chose you because you're just a really good whore" followed by another slap.

"Shall we indulge in what the king is so intrigued with, hmmm?" they snicker as they approach you menacingly.

You're too weak to fight back as they tear off your night shirt.

Doubled over in pain, they notice the bandages around your torso.

"Oh, what is this? I heard the snake had you whipped. Who would want to fuck a whore with such ugly scars?" he spat at you.

"That's revolting. How could anybody ever want you. You're disgusting." another spat at you again.

Your eye is swollen, lip bleeding. They laugh as they walk away and leave you in agony, bleeding and barely conscious on the damp stone floor.

You cough as blood spills to the ground and you push yourself up to walk back to your cot.

Exhausted and in pain, you leave your bandages on, without airing out your wounds and cleaning them. You can feel that they ripped open again, blood spilling onto the bandages, soaking them once more.

You're too tired and broken to care.

You fall to your bed, laying on your stomach and pass out.

The next day you are scheduled to clean the kings office. You wake up and notice your cot is stained with blood, so you go to the common bathrooms to bathe. You turn around and notice your night shirt is also soaked in blood. You take it off but it sticks to your skin, and you observe your back. They bandages are soaking wet and the skin around looks yellow.

You're eye is purple and swollen, your lip is split so badly it hurts to speak.

Banner isn't here for another few days, you ran out of the balm, medicine and have no spare bandages. You decide its best to leave them as is, and simply wash the rest of your body with a cloth. You convince yourself that you can survive a few more days before his return.

You're slower than usual, your back pulsates in pain, unable to properly heal from the constant movement of your work and the never-ending abuse from the guards. You can feel yourself getting warmer and stickier everyday, sweating more than usual.

Walking to the kings wing proved to be extremely difficult in this state. Every movement cause pain to shoot through your body, crumpling you over and having you groan out loud. It takes you significantly longer to reach his office, for which you are scheduled to clean for the day.

Unfortunately, it is the one area of his quarters that requires the most stretching to get between shelves and corners. You sigh and grab your supplies.

Taking a deep breath you start to climb the ladder and stretch to clean the top shelf of the library. You hiss as you work, doing it as quickly as possible to minimize the pain.

Are the consequences of the king's disappointment in my subpar work better than sustaining the current pain I'm in?

You slowly walk down the ladder.

Taking deep breaths you focus on finishing the each task and distracting yourself from the pain. It has been long over 2 hours by now since you started cleaning. Clinging onto the library, you feel your head spinning, you're panting and sweating.

You place your head down against the shelf to steady yourself.

The door to the office opens with a loud click and you pause in fear. You hear shoes clicking on the tile, bracing yourself with fear that it is the snake or any other maid manager that has come to reprimand you for being so slow.

"P-Pardon my tardiness. I- I am aware of my sluggishness. I am unwell and f-finishing soon.'

You're shaking, you can't bring yourself to turn around and face who may be there. Suddenly, you feel yourself swaying, your vision gets blurry. You grab onto the shelf to steady yourself but your weakened state has you slipping. Somebody catches you and you scream out in pain from the pressure on your back. The last thing you hear before passing out is "What happened to you?".

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You wake up, laying down on your stomach. You shiver at the cold and realize your back is exposed. Your heart starts beating erratically as you push yourself up in an attempt to flee.

"No! I'm sorry, please!" you scream as you try getting yourself up.

Your shoulders are pushed down roughly and your head is forced down to look at the ground. You being to sob and shake.

"No... please.... stop..." you whisper between sobs.

"Hold her down. This is going to hurt."

Your head snaps up at the familiar voice. "Banner?!"

He simply shushes you and tells the man holding you down to keep me still.

You hear some liquid sloshing out of a bottle and spilled onto a rag. The doctor approaches you and places it on your back, dabbing the flesh. You screech in pain.

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. It's severely infected. I have to clean it with alcohol. Be brave for me." Banner says to you as he continues cleaning your wounds.

You're screaming and crying out in pain until you can't anymore. Eyes sucked dry from tears and throat raw from screaming.

Suddenly you hear the door burst open.

"What is going on?!" he sees your wounds as you lay bare on the table.

"Norns, what happened?" he says in disbelief.

"I don't know. I went looking for her and found her in your study. When I approached she fainted and screamed when I caught her. That's when I noticed her back. Her entire attire was soaking in blood and sticking to her open wounds. I have to clean them, they're severely infected. She may die." Banner explains.

"Couldn't you have knocked her out first?!" he questions angrily.

You can't see who is speaking and you can't hear over the pulsing in your ears. You're mind is focused on the pain in your back that you don't notice him and Banner approach you. One more dab to your wounds and you pass out from the agony.

He curses and grabs the rag out of Banner's hands.

"Bring her to my chambers, carefully. Make sure nobody follows." He commands to the guards.

"I need to figure out what is happening within my castle's walls. This is not how I rule my palace and this is not how I will let the guards treat my staff." He turns on his heel and walks out.

Reaching his chambers, the guards gently place her on her stomach in his bed. He reaches his window and opens it, as his beloved pet flies to the ledge. The crow caws for greeting.

"Hello my pet. I have a job for you. Find out what is happening in the maid's quarters. I want names and details. You have never failed me, don't start now. Report to me by morning." The crow caws in response and flies away.

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Part 5

Tag list:

@gruftiela

@elegantcheesecakecrown

@chxco-hyujin

@cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson

@i-am-amora-the-enchantress

@cakesandtom

@dorck26

@buckitostan

[atarathegreat]

Heyyyyy, I was thinking some bakugo x princess reader... except Reader is not ANY kind if princess...Reader is an absolute menace of a princess, why? Well first of all she wasn't even royal blood, she just kicked her way in trough murder and intimidation...second of all, reader is also a witch...but...a pretty witch...she is brutal, cold, and wont think twice before destroying whatever is on her way, Bakugo decided to try and challenge her to a fight, and just JUST when he entered her room, he saw her, Right out of taking a warm bath...Reader confuses Bakugo with one of her servants and feeling a bit funny she decides to...well...you know what i mean right? ;) well, at the end she finds out about eho bakugo really is and decided to make a deal with his tribe...

She ruled her own small kingdom, having even the king bow to whatever she wanted. Y/n wasn't too far from a barbaric ruler, the only thing keeping her from being completely evil was the fact that the kingdom began to thrive under her rule. Despite the harsher enforcement of the laws, many of the villages loved her and praised the way things began to turn up.

But Bakugo fucking hated it. Who was this low-class sorcerer that thought she was the best? Some seed stain on a pair of discarded trousers who had high hopes of becoming known. Bullshit! Second-rate duelist with a beginner's tool bag!

Bakugo glared up at the castle, remembering the last time he was there. A grand feast with the biggest animals that could be hunted and the best ale that had ever been made. Wenches at the ready, though Bakugo hardly messed with any of that, he was too busy trying to out drink his father. He always failed.

"Come out, you stinking boars ass!" Bakugo shouted as he hurried down the halls. Not to be confused, Y/n's maids tried to stop him, but there was little to be done when a barbarian was crashing through vases, tables, and benches. "Wench! Show yourself!" He threw a door open, only to freeze.

The room was ugly and barren, but the one inside...

Bakugo turned red as the woman stood from her trough, body bare for the gods to see and servants to touch. Soft thighs, plush hips, wet bre-

The man shook his head and turned the other way, growling.

"Oh, good. You're here. Fetch my clothes." Y/n walked calmly across to her bed, ass jiggling as if there was no structure beneath. He'd never been so stunned that he obeyed anyone, but he would blame it on the witch and whatever plants hung around her room. "Here." He threw the clothes at her and crossed his arms, not really in the mood to watch her dress, he liked her naked.

Y/n stared at him, her eyes a little angry and a little amused. "You throw my clothes at me? How brave. Why do you do such a thing?" It was the way she twitched her lip, that had to be the way she enforced her spells, her incantations. Why else would his tongue feel too thick for his mouth, or his throat too dry? "I will not be dressing you. It's not my job." Bakugo crossed his arms, trying to fight the magic. She was attractive, that had to be a part of her craft. She was putting him under a spell, clouding his mind with her dark ways.

"Come closer, young man." Y/n propped her leg up on the bed, exposing her most vulnerable to him, "Get on your knees, here." Her hand! When she pointed, Bakugo felt the absolute need to do as she said. How strong was this woman that she didn't need a wand? A staff? A stone? Just her little pointer finger and an order...

"Since you want me naked, I shall be naked. But you will pleasure me as payment." Y/n beckoned him closer.

Bakugo knew his place at the top of the foodchain, but this womans magic was making him forget it. To take back an ounce of his power, Bakugo gripped her thighs and dragged her closer, growling, "You'll be paid tenfold."

Gods above, she was delicious! Bakugo never wanted to pull his mouth from her heat, delving his tongue as deep as he could to taste all of her. Like honeysuckle or peaches. He wanted more. She gasped as Bakugo forced her other leg up, spreading her further to allow him deeper. "Yes, right there...good job, good job." Y/n threw her head back, gripping the furs beside her, "Oh, gods, slow down. Let me enjoy this."

He doubled down, applying more pressure with his tongue as he moved slower. Pride welled in his chest as she grabbed his hair, ordering him to give her more. The sound of a powerful witch begging for him to do more to her. Bakugo stood, ripping his trousers open and leaning over her, "You taste pretty, I want to know how you feel wrapped around me."

Nothing in the world, no sensation in the world would ever prepare him for the way his breath was snatched from him. "So fucking tight." Bakugo bullied into the witch, grunting as she squeezed tighter around him. He put her legs together and rested her ankles on his shoulder, making it a tighter fit, "There ya' fucking go, sweetheart. Now we're moving."

"Fuck...who are you?" The witch gasped, breasts bouncing in tandem with each of his thrusts, "None of my servants are so foul mouthed." Bakugo chuckled, beating his cock deeper so he could see the outline of himself in her gut. "Bakugo Katsuki, barbarian prince."

Her magical grip on him slipped as he got closer and closer to dumping his seed. Y/n shivered as the barbarian nipped at her ankles, leaving his own silent marks on her body, a mark that he had claimed her. But not his seed. Bakugo pulled free, fisting his dick until he covered her stomach in his mess, just to stick himself back in to finish her. "Oh, there! There!" She gasped, knees bending. It was then that she fully lost her grip on the spell laid over him and Bakugo was able to fully abuse her tight body, lifting her by her legs so he could stand at his full height.

"Gods above!"

Bakugo wished he could've tasted her orgasm, but he was happy enough to feel the way she squeezed him, riding out her high so she would come down easy.

It wasn't a traditional victory, but Bakugo had conquered the witch. Seeing his seed on her belly was like seeing blood on a hunt. Her spells, her magic, it all meant nothing now that he had won.

"Your magic is null now." He chuckled.

"I never used magic."

[bitchy-rakdos-enchanter]

The Smelting Quarter never sleeps.

From the undying fires of the forges to the relentless hustle of goblins with seemingly boundless energy, there was never a quiet or still moment to be had among the dingy, soot-streaked walls.

But now, it was Bre's turn to make sure that sleep remained evasive once more.

Staged in a cluster of unused warehouses near Gore House, and thus not far from the watchful Boros in Kamen Fortress, almost three hundred Cultists made final checks before the show was to begin.

Chain-flailers retrieved their instruments from vats of oil, guaranteed to make an even greater spectacle when they caught a stray flame. Cacklers bounded off of walls and each other, riling themselves up into a bloodlust that would see a majority of them dead before the night was over. Imps scurried to and fro, carting extra knives and bottles of oil and alcohol to be stashed in easily-accessed hatches in the quartet of floats that would be trundling through the streets.

Above, relaxing in the rafters with a bottle of something flammable that blistered her throat on the way down, Riot Mage Bre surveyed the brewing mayhem. From a broken skylight, an imp fluttered down toward her, his small wings beating furiously to keep him aloft.

"The other warehouses are ready to move, on your signal, ma'am," he panted, swiping at a sweaty brow likely generated from a breakneck flight between buildings. Bre had the final say in this evening's affair and though there were other Riot Mages involved in the other warehouses, they deferred to her.

She took one last swig from her bottle and lashed out at the imp with it, shattering it against his skull and dropping him from his hover. He fell like a stone and splashed into a vat of oil on one of the floats. Nothing emerged aside from a slow procession of bubbles. "I am not fucking old enough to be 'ma'am,'" she growled down after him.

With a final tug at her bladed gauntlets--still a Shredfreak at heart despite her elevated position--she lazily rolled off the beam, catching it at the last second to swing herself towards the tallest of the floats; this one bearing a wood and wire mesh statue of Trostani. She caught an arm around one of the dryad's necks and hung there for a moment before dropping to the float, tucking and rolling off of it to land her feet on the dusty floor of the warehouse.

Bre brought her hands together in a sharp, ringing clap before cupping them around her mouth to announce, "Places, everyone! We're as ready as we're going to be! Trumpeters, drummers, forward!"

The musicians, five of each, scurried up to a large rolling door that would open out to the street, forming neat lines and preparing as the warehouse fell silent. For those few seconds, the quiet reigned. The tension in the air was stretched tight enough that even a blunted spoon could cut it. Somewhere, a Cackler let out an impossible to contain titter of excitement that made Bre grin when it made the whole crowd of cultists shiver. She left them hanging there for a moment, to savor it.

She raised her fist and the assembly drew in a sharp breath.

Her fist fell. And the doors flew open, releasing the low howl of the horns to signal the other waiting troupes to begin their wicked march. The drums began to rumble their infernal heartbeat; slow for now, but meant to reach a fever pitch that lacked even melody.

The Smelting Quarter never sleeps.

And tonight, Bre would see to it that every precinct in the district wouldn't see a single wink.

...

End of Part One

[mutilatemyheart]

Heart on the Floor Summary: Sev sees everything, and he knows about your crush on Fixer. Warnings: I don't think any Pairing: Future Fixer x reader. Word Count: 798

The mess hall is fairly quiet when you find a seat tucked away from the others. You still haven’t fully gotten used to being here full time. The room the GAR gave you to stay in while your apartment is being renovated is tiny. You’re grateful they’re letting you stay, but you miss the luxury of having a space that is wholly yours. Your heart aches at the thought that the men around you have never known what that’s like. In a lot of ways, it must be nice to be surrounded by your brothers, but you wonder if they ever wish they had their own personal space to be alone.

A shadow comes over you, blocking the light. You turn your head and look up into the glowing t-visor of Delta Squad’s sniper. Sev is imposing in his fatigues, but he’s outright frightening in his armor. You glance around him to focus on any other member of the squad, but he’s alone.

He pops the seal of his helmet and pulls it off. “You got a second?”

You nod, ignoring your breakfast completely. They were supposed to already be gone on their way to wherever they were being sent, so why is Sev swinging his foot over the bench you’re on and leaning close to you?

“Is everything alright?” You ask. You sound nervous even to yourself.

He stares at you a moment, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to think of how to word the thoughts in his head or if he’s purposefully drawing this out.

“I see everything, you know?” he tells you. “I don’t miss anything.”

His eyes never leave yours, and you’re not sure what to say. The intensity on his face and the posture of his body reminds you of police interrogations you’ve seen in holofilms.

“Okay,” you say, shifting in your seat. “That’s…good? I bet that comes in handy with you being a sniper.”

He deflates with a sigh. That was clearly not what he wanted you to say.

“I saw your eyes light up.” He gives you a look like those words should trigger the conversation he’s really wanting to have. You stare at him blankly. He frowns. “Your eyes light up every time you see Fixer. What’s your plan there?”

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock. Is he really implying what you think he is?

“My plan?” You question. “Sev, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. My plan for what?”

A low, irritated growl leaves his throat. This is not going how he wanted it to, but he doesn’t seem to know how to get it through to you fully. He drums his fingers against the top of the table and glances around the mess hall.

“I know you’ve got it bad for Fixer. Scorch sees it, too. Are you going to act on it?”

So much for implying it. Sure, you’ve been increasingly more interested in Fixer, but you didn’t know you had been so obvious. How long have they known? Does Fixer know? Does he want you to act on it? Would it even matter if you did? Fixer had never acted like he was interested in a relationship when he was around you. Have you missed the signs?

“Sev, I don’t… I don’t know what to say. No, I don’t have a plan. Has he said anything about this?” You ask, searching Sev’s face for any clues he may leave unsaid.

“He-”

Whatever he’s going to say is cut off by the noise of his comlink going off.

“Sev, where are you? We should already be on the ship,” Boss’s disembodied voice says. He sounds annoyed.

Sev stands up and grabs his helmet off the table. “On my way. I’ll meet you at the hanger in a moment.”

“Now, Oh-Seven. We’re running late as it is.”

Sev’s eyes meet yours at Fixer’s words. He gives you a smug smile when you glance at the comlink on his gauntlet as if you would actually see his brother.

“On my way,” he says again. He looks back to you. “You have some time to work on that plan. Just don’t drop his heart on the floor because I’d hate to rip yours out.”

You know he’s not serious…or you hope he’s not serious, but he delivers it stone-faced. He doesn’t say goodbye as he walks away from you and your breakfast that’s beginning to grow cold. Not that you’re exactly hungry anymore. Maybe you should talk to Fixer about this. Maybe you should work on a plan to voice your feelings to him. You’re not sure how long they’ll be gone, but a sinking feeling in your gut tells you that their time away from Coruscant is going to feel a lot longer this time.

[boredzillenial]

Day 3: of @flightlessangelwings fawktober!

King John upholds his scandalous reputation and takes what he wants.

Themes: DEAD DOVE - DNE, degradation through Exhibitionism, hurt no comfort, Dub-con/non-con, power imbalance, mentions of blushing, f!reader servant, pinv, creampie, oral f!receiving, cuckholding if you squint

A.N: I do not condone any of this - this is a safe place to explore kink and erotica as writers and readers, not beta read, cranked out in a couple hours when struck by inspiration, exhibitionism is not my usual thing so lemme know what y’all think!

Word count: 1267

You knew as you headed into the castle the reputation of your new master. That his beauty was the only thing to rival his cruelty.

You had hoped that keeping your head down, keeping quiet, and keeping out of the way would save you from his wicked nature. Your hopes were dashed on your first meeting.

He lay sprawled in bed, a concubine beside him and his cock laying limply across his stomach.

He sat up to watch you as you moved about the room, his length springing to life as he watched your figure move silently about the chamber.

You managed to get about halfway through your morning tasks before he slipped out of bed and came up behind you, rutting against the curve of your ass as you bent over. Your panic sent you reeling forward away from him as a wicked grin spread across his face.

“You’re a quiet one…” he observed, stepping closer. You shimmied out of the way and ran out of his chambers, catching your breath in the hall.

The next day you found his chambers empty, sighing with relief for a moment as you go about your chores. As you emptied a basin of water out of the window you felt him come up behind you again, pinning you against the stone windowsill.

You felt him lean forward, his breath fanning across the back of your neck as he murmured, “quiet girl, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He threw your skirts up around your waist and rutted against you, your body betraying you and soaking against the pressure of him sliding into you. He moved slowly at first, drawing out his movements to pull anything out of your throat more than a soft whimper.

He huffed and began to move faster after a few moments of failing to make you so much as groan. The sound of him slapping against you echoing in the stone chamber as you got your hand up to your mouth to stifle your cries.

“No!” He huffed as he yanked your arms behind you, using them as added leverage as he slammed harder. “Nothing still?” He growled and you grit your teeth together and swallowed as much noise as you could.

“I love a challenge.” He growled and kicked your feet apart. Adjusting his grip he held both your hands in one and with the other he snaked around finding your clit and circling roughly. You couldn’t fight your body’s urge to arch back as you cried out, the sound echoing in the street below. “That’s it!” He he laughed cruelly as he continued to pound into you, sending you reeling and your knees nearly buckling as he ripped your orgasm from you and planted his own deep in your channel.

By the time he was finished you clung to the windowsill and managed to keep your shaky legs under you. You glanced out of the window as you adjusted your skirts, seeing a couple of weary guards looking around for the source of the cries they’d just heard. Shame peppered your face pink as you ducked out of his chambers and continued about your day, his hot spend and your slick slowly trickling down your thighs.

You made yourself scarce the rest of the day, breathing a sigh of relief as you saw him ride out with most of his knights the following morning.

In the weeks he was gone, you grew close to a young knight he had left behind, well mannered, strong but soft spoken, and he had even made his intentions known to start courting you. You thought your luck had changed until one chilly morning you heard the distant thrum of hoofbeats. The King had returned…

You nervously helped carry food to the long ornate breakfast table. Praying that keeping with the cooks and his long travels would have him too tired to try anything.

You flinched and backed away as the doors to the hall slammed open. The King threw his helmet down as he stamped inside, grime and sweat from the road caked his armor as anger etched the contours of his face. “Out! All of you!” He shouted.

You courtesied and moved to leave with the other maidservants till you felt his grip on your wrist. “Not you.” He growled, pointing at the seat beside him.

You felt as if your heart was going to leap out of your throat as you sat beside him. He began tearing into the food laid before him. Taking a bite then throwing whatever he was holding aside. “No. No. No!” He threw his plate aside, “What the hell has happened to the cooks since I’ve been away.” He grumbled, his lips tilted in a wicked grin as he looked over to you. “Now, there’s a meal...”

You gulped as you tucked your legs tighter against one another. In one swift motion he hoisted you out if your chair onto the table. Pulling your legs apart and shoving your chest hard enough to press your back into the wood. He yanked you roughly toward him and locked his arms around your legs as he dove his face under your skirts. Nibbling and licking like a man starved, up your thighs to your center.

He licked and sunk his tongue deep into your cunt, drawing out the slickness and relishing in it. His low rumble and moans of pleasure vibrated through you and sent your mind into a haze. He truly was eating you for his own pleasure but you couldn’t help reaching the edge after many a night with only your own touch that left you unsatisfied.

“Your grace.” You heard someone’s voice clear as you looked to see some of his knights standing awkwardly in the doorway. Shame rushed through you like wildfire as you lay locked in the king’s grip.

He pulled his head out from under your skirts, eyes half lidded with lust and face soaked from your wetness. He drew a hand over his mouth and wiped some of your slickness on the ornate cloth lining the table. “Can’t you see I’m eating?” His tone a warning to the men awkwardly watching your horrified expression unfold.

You locked eyes with the knight you had been courting, cheeks blazing as you saw his hand reach for the pommel of his sword.

“And what, pray tell, do you think you’re doing.” John spat at the young knight. “Best you leave before I make you stay and watch me take what’s mine. And leave the door open on your way out!” He dove back under your skirts, this time biting up your supple thighs. Drawing yelps and cries from you to make his point known.

The young knight released his sword and stormed out along with the others. Leaving you sprawled across the table at John’s mercy. Weary eyes peaked in through the open doorway as the king had his fill of his choice of breakfast. Shuffling away quickly but their expressions would be plastered in your minds eye for weeks to come.

You had never come so hard or so many times as that morning, and John reinvigorated his cruel reputation as your overstimulation turned you into a twitching babbling mess sprawled across the table. Never stopping despite your pleas till he was fully satisfied. Once he was done he stood slowly, smiling down at the mess he’d made of you and glancing at the open door. “Be sure I start every morning like this.” He cooed as he leaned over you and wiped his face on your skirts.

—————————

Taglist: @melodygatesauthor @lunar-ghoulie @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[irelandseyeonmythology]

Mizenhead, Co. Cork.

Photos mine

(Mythological commentary under the readmore)

I was able to take these pictures and train as a Celticist because of the passion and dedication of my mentors and colleagues in my MA department. If you enjoy these photos, please consider signing this petition to save the Bachelor Celtic at Utrecht, which is still taking signatures.

This was...probably a more difficult entry to make than I thought it would be. I know people probably voted for it on the idea of 'R loves Bres and R loves Balor, so this should be an easy post for them to make!' But it's...almost specifically BECAUSE I'm so emotionally invested that I struggle to make it. Are people looking for an academic, objective account for this? Are they looking for pretty photos? Both? Yes? No? 

But...well. You all voted for this in a poll posted by me, knowing my interests, so you knew this wasn't going to be 100% objective, either. So...let's get into it. 

When I visited Mizenhead, it was the culmination of over a decade of dreaming of getting to see it in person.

Many Americans, when they go to Ireland, have a certain idea of what they want to see, what they want to do. This can range from the Book of Kells to Irish run breweries to the Blarney Stone to the Cliffs of Moher to half-forgotten familial holdings to Cong, where The Quiet Man (starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara) was shot (sidenote: that village is also close to where the First Battle of Magh Tuireadh, ie Cath Muighe Tuireadh Cunga, took place.) For me, when I first got off the plane to Ireland, I knew that this was a site that I desperately *needed* to see (besides, of course, my uni), and that was Mizenhead. In the old days, of course, it wasn't called Mizenhead, it was called Carn uí Néit, or "The Gravesite of the Grandson/Descendant of Nét" (the 't' was softened to a 'd' as time went on, leading to its modern form of Carn uí Néid.) Sometimes, I still forget to call it by its more well known anglicized name, meaning that I'm constantly having to clarify, because that's the name I heard first, and it's the name that rings truest to me.  

According to the Dindshenchas of Cairn uí Néit, written the better part of a millennium ago c, this was the spot where Bres Mac Elatha died at the hands of his rival, Lugh, being tricked under geas to swallow over 300 vats of bog water, in the guise of milk.

A dindshenchas poem details the most well-known story associated with the site, as it was known in the Middle Ages (translated, in a style a little too flowery for my taste, by Edward Gwynn, but, if I want to be honest, it has taken me too long to get this out as it is and I know that if I translate the entire thing, it will NEVER get done) : 

[...]

6. Bress, a kindly friend was he, (he was a good friend) noble he was and fortunate, ornament of the host, with visage never woeful, of the Tuath De he was the flower. (Note: the BEST, what were you DOING Gwynn, lay off the medieval chivalry)

7. The drink of a hundred for each roof-tree was brought to the chieftain without fail, of the milk of dun-hued kine: he suffered from that fare.

8. In the reign of Nechtan bass-chain, of dear fame, of enduring purpose, at the cost of the King of the two Munsters, occurred the cause of the enduring name.

10. The kine of every townland in Munster — lasting harm! — by Nechtan's orders were singed, over ferns, till they were black of hue.

11. A mess of ashes was smeared by the noted men of cunning on the kine famed for fatness [...]

12. They fashioned stout kine of wood — that whole host noble and slender: Lug, who was dutiful on all occasions, chose them and brought them together. 

13. Pails in their forks were set with cheerful nimbleness; red stuff, with no bright shining fatness, that is the milk that filled them.

14. Three hundred, that was their number on the road to that gathering: at this contest, through his cheating illusion, there was not a cow of these kine alive.

15. Bress, hot of valour, came to the middle of the field to judge them: thereby, without prosperous issue, he perished and died.

16. From the drove were measured three hundred measures, bitter-harsh, for the spear-attended king to drink: it was a preparation of ill-presage.

17. Bress had a vow not to refuse any feat that was offered him: he drank it off without flinching: I know not what it brings.

18. At the Carn of radiant Ua Neit it killed the stern scion, when he had drunk without dread a draught of the dark ruddy liquor

19. By reason of this unfair demand, without due observance since the failure of his vow, without rightful and seemly honour the grave of Bress covers him.

Stokes provided an edition and translation of the prose version from the Rennes Dindshenchas: 

Then Bres came to inspect the manner of these cattle and so that they might be milked in his présence, and Cian (Lugh's father) was also among them. Ail the bogstuff they had was squeezed out as if it was milk of which they were milked. The Irish were under a tabu to corne thither at the same time, and Bres was under a tabu to drink what should be- milked there.

So three hundred bucketfuls of red bogstuff are milked for him, and he drinks it. Some say that he was seven days and seven mouths and seven years wasting away because of it, and he traversed Erin seeking a cure till he reached the same cairn, and there he died. Whence Carn uí Néit is named.

In other texts, the owner of the grave is changed: In the Early Modern recension of CMT, Cath Muighe Turieadh, it is actually Balor's death site, not Bres', Lug hunting his grandfather across Ireland until they have their fatal showdown there. John Carey, in "Myth and Mythography in Cath Maige Tuired", has argued that the attribution of this site to Bres was actually after the fact, with the attribution to Balor being the earlier of the two. On the record, I agree, on the basis that (1) Bres' usual haunt is Maginnis, in what is now Lecale, Co. Down and (2) Balor is consistently referred to as "Uí"/"Ua Néit", unlike Bres who, outside of this poem, is generally referred to purely as "Mac Elathan." 

Generally speaking, Bres is not the figure from Cath Maige Tuired that most academics will say that they like, when they'll admit that they *can* like any of the characters, beyond a detached sense of general interest. The boisterous Dagda, the haunted and embattled Nuada, the exemplary Lug all gather far more positive reactions. On an anecdotal note, though, I've had a number of overwhelmingly queer people, usually in their late teens or twenties, approach me over my time doing this, and tell me how important Bres was to them, how interesting. Bres taps into something that, perhaps, many older academics, who are used to the rigid structures of academia, do not want to acknowledge: a willingness to defy society, to rebel, to question. The feeling of being torn apart by competing forces, of being conflicted, of being frightened and lonely. The feeling of being watched, of being judged, of being a player in a game by much older, much more experienced people, but still trying to play it anyway, even if he flounders in his execution. Because the truth is that Lug is easy to like, particularly in Cath Maige Tuired where he's at his least manipulative. He can do everything! He unifies people! He's charismatic! He's dutiful! He does everything exactly as he's supposed to and, as a result, has all the emotional depth of a thimble. (I like him best when he's taking bloody revenge, when the mask of the ideal hero comes off and he's allowed to be a little bit messy.) With Bres, there is no illusion that he's perfect, that he's flawless. No one finishes reading CMT and thinks that, really, it would have been better off for everyone if Bres had won. Not many of us can be Lug, but all of us have been Bres at one point or another, the question is simply whether we want to admit to it. All of us have fallen short, at some point or another, all of us have disappointed someone, including, at times, ourselves. All of us have watched as someone came onboard -- maybe they were younger, better with people, more competent, naturally talented, and left us in the dust. It's why people come away from Amadeus sympathizing with Salieri, because, at some point in our lives, we all venerate the Patron Saint of Mediocrity. 

In an academic environment, I'm often asked why I'm so drawn to Bres. The truth is that there are very few academic explanations that can fully explain it. The answers that I give -- the complexity of his character, the insight he can give as an antisocial character, the parallels he has to Lug and to the broader world of the Tuatha Dé -- are not lies, but they can't fully capture the reality, either. In truth, the relationship I have with Bres isn't devotion, not in a religious sense, at  least, but it is the sort of pure bond you can only form with something when you're a teenager, grasping for a piece of driftwood to cling onto through the waves of adolescence. He's been with me every single step of the way, in all his flaws and all his thoughtlessness, his melodrama, his rashness. He tells me that sometimes, I don't need to be perfect, I just need to survive. What it means to embrace liminality, even when society demands that we be boxed into neat little categories. He saved my life. In many ways, he gave me a life worth living. And, in turn, I crossed an ocean for him. I faced down a pandemic for him. I faced down hell for him. All to stand at his gravesite. I don't know if my pagan friends are right and that the Tuatha Dé's presences still linger in Ireland; I've never seen any cause to believe it, but, frankly, I've studied them long enough to know not to tempt fate on that score. I don't know if there ever is or was any trace of the man who I've spent so long studying that still lingers. I don't even know if anyone else ever stood by that cliff, looking down in the cobalt blue waters, the white tipped waves crashing against the rocks that jut out from Manannan's kingdom, and took a moment to think of him. Or what thoughts emigrants might have thought as they left in ships and, all too often, never saw their home country again, the grasping rock their last sight of their country. But I do know that on one autumn day, an American international student stood there and finally, finally took the chance to thank him for everything he'd done and to tell him that it was enough. 

[garfinkelstingle]

magic and maybes | draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader (implied slytherin!reader but only once i think)

warnings: swearing; implied mentions of verbal abuse; this is not in chronological order, but i do think it makes sense this way (especially if you've listened to the song); angst

word count: 5,2k

summary: based on “wendy” by maisie peters; loving draco is like something out of a fairytale. but not all of those always end with happily ever after, do they?

a/n: oh my!! hi!!! my first full-length fic in over a year!!!! so exciting!!!! this came to me while listening to wendy (which you should defo listen to if you haven't yet; the whole album is too good!!) and i just sort of rolled with it. i will never understand why i keep coming back to draco, but i just do. i have never written anything like this, and i certainly have never written draco like this, but the song called for it!! and also, let's be honest, this really matches draco better than it would most other characters. oh and i put it in the warning, but please beware that this is not written in chronological order. it's supposed to showcase the rollercoaster of relationship that reader and draco share, and i thought this was the best way to do it! let me know if you like it, it would really mean a lot <3 happy reading babes

masterlist

rolling like a stone / laughing like a kid

She had never seen him like this before.

Correction: She had never seen him like this before in front of people that weren't just her. Because this is the only way she had ever seen him, really seen him. She knew the charade he kept up, could see right through it better than anyone else. And if you took all of that faux meanness and excruciating ass-ness away, this is what you would be left with, what she's been left with all these years that she's known him. A silly kid, rolling around in the grass, holding his stomach laughing, eyes glistening with tears and shining brighter than any star ever could.

This is how she saw him, always, and how she hoped she would get to see him forever. This, and nothing else.

calling like the future / closed up like a fist

It was always the same. He always did this, and she swore that one of these days she would hex him into oblivion for it.

"What do you mean I can't come with you? We've been planning this for months; I told my parents to make plans without me and they have. What am I supposed to do now?" They had been at it for close to an hour now, going back and forth, nowhere close to having this argument reach its conclusion.

Usually, she didn't mind backing off. He was stubborn; she knew that. This wasn't something she had discovered only recently. She had known him for longer than she hadn't, so she was acutely aware of this quality of his. It didn't surprise her, but that didn't mean it didn't annoy her, either. So she'd just let it slide and move on—one of them had to.

This time, however? She wasn't going anywhere.

"I'm not responsible for you and how you spend your time," he provocatively stated, his eyes ablaze with fury that nearly matched hers. How dare he? As if this was in any way, shape, or form her fault.

"You have got to be kidding me! You were the one who invited me to spend Christmas break at your house! You were the one who wanted me to meet your parents! You were the one who made all these grand plans, and now you just blow me off the day break starts and talk about responsibility?" She couldn't believe him. She really, truly, couldn't.

Except that, maybe, she should. This wasn't the first time Draco blew off their plans. In fact, it wasn't even the second or the third. But he usually had a not-so-terrible reason for it, and the worst thing he had ever cancelled before was a Saturday in Hogsmeade or a picnic by the lake. This, however? This was huge, a plan that had been set into motion during the summer, when they had sent their owls into a frenzy, corresponding through multiple letters a day and vowing not to spend another break apart. She had told her parents before she boarded the train to take her back for another year at Hogwarts, that she would spend the Christmas break with her boyfriend and that they should take that trip to the sea they've been dreaming of forever. And since they did just that, and she didn't feel like ruining their holidays as well, she would now have to spend hers at the dingy castle, with people she barely knew and couldn't care less about.

She didn't even need him to change his mind at this point. While the reason he was giving her sucked, she was sure the real reason didn't—even if he wasn't planning on telling her. What bothered her so much was his refusal to just simply apologize for screwing up and leaving her hanging. If he would just say that he was sorry, she'd let this go. But she knew him well enough by now to know that the chances of that happening were non-existent at best.

"I will not apologize for your lack of a backup plan," he said, with a voice so cold that she could feel actual shivers run down her back. "I will see you after break is over. Merry Christmas." And with that, he turned around and made his way back to the castle, without even sparing her a backward glance.

And all she could do was stare after him, seemingly frozen in place, with tears flowing down her cheeks freely, and wonder if this was what loving someone was supposed to feel like.

lost my page when you kissed me

She hadn't meant to fall in love with him. They had been friends, or at least something very close to it. Draco believed that only people who had nothing else to their name cared about having friends, and she somewhat agreed with him. Friends were feeble; people came and went. There was no use getting attached to them, not when you couldn't ever be a hundred percent certain that they wouldn't just up and leave one day.

But he—he was something else. They had known each other for years, attending the same balls thrown by both their parents and their associates, riding in the same train compartment on their first trip to Hogwarts, reading the same books side-by-side on their common room's couch. They were put in each other’s orbits due to their inescapable proximity, yes, but they were welded together by baked goods that they would steal from the kitchen and share in some dark corner of the too-big houses they would be dragged to, shy smiles and squeezing of hands followed by it's okay, you're not alone's, two a.m. conversations in front of the fireplace in which they discussed whatever books they just finished reading and, sometimes, maybe even more. That's what made her the first person he would say "good morning" to at the breakfast table, and what made him her preferred potions partner. Nothing more and nothing less. They weren't friends, but they were each other's person. Whatever that meant.

It made sense, and it worked, and neither of them needed more. Or so she thought. Because when Draco kissed her after one of those infamous two a.m. conversations and told her „You just looked too pretty not to kiss", after she asked him why he would do something so ridiculous, she came to realize that maybe they were wrong. Maybe getting attached to someone wasn't the worst thing there was. It couldn't be. Right?

i know the girl you want / it scares me

He was scared. He was scared, but so was she. The future was uncertain and terrifying. It didn't make sense on a good day and was simply revolting on a bad one. So much could go wrong at any given moment in time, and not knowing when or what could happen made it sometimes feel like, maybe, life just wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

And when you add love to that equation? You're pretty much just signing off on a death sentence. Draco knew that, and so did she, but unlike him, she believed it to be worth it. Love was never something she saw herself needing, or even wanting, but now that she had it, she was certain it was worth all the heartbreak it might possibly entail. Draco, however? He still didn't trust her enough to let his walls down completely, to give her the power to destroy him and believe her when she said that she would never, ever do that.

She loved him, and she was certain that he loved her, too, but she also knew that he might never be able to let her know that himself. And she knew that he expected that to be enough, that her own knowledge would suffice her and that she would survive without his confirmation, and maybe she could. She just wasn't sure if she wanted to. Spending your time with someone who was emotionally closed off to everyone around you and made them feel like they were replaceable was one thing, but spending your life with someone who was emotionally closed off toward you and too proud to tell you that the one person he could never replace was you? She wasn't sure if she was strong enough for that. She doubted she ever would be. And that terrified her more than anything else ever had before.

pretty like a girl / vicious like a man

He was beautiful. She had always found him inexplicably beautiful; his was the kind of beauty poems were about, a beauty that ran so deep and was so intricate that she sometimes wondered if he wasn't put on this world solely to be admired and stared at.

Even now, when his face was laced with fury and his knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping his desk, he was still beautiful.

She wasn't even sure what they were fighting about now, stopped paying actual attention to the ugly words leaving his mouth. Instead, she was questioning her judgment. She had always found him beautiful on the outside, just as everyone else did, but unlike them, she had also always considered his soul to be beautiful, too. And yet here she was, target to his livid shouts and insults, wondering if maybe that was just another thing that she had been terribly, terribly wrong about.

give up like a ghost / leaving halfway through

It was moronic at best, really. They had spent a fortune on these tickets and had been excited for this game for months now. So, the fact that they were now letting it all go to waste? It was pure idiocy.

Especially when you looked at the why. He was being a child, a petulant little toddler who got upset at the idea of giving his girlfriend of nearly four years a kiss in public.

And the worst thing is that she hadn’t even been upset because it hadn’t surprised her in the slightest. She knew Draco, knew that he liked keeping their PDA to an absolute minimum, and she didn’t mind it in the slightest. Or, well, not enough to be actively affected by it. So, when the kiss-cam panned to their faces, she blew it a kiss and winked for good measure and went back to talking to Draco about how pathetic Potter and his friends looked standing there on the very far side of the stadium, most likely not even able to see the scoreboard. She had moved on, and so had the camera, but for whatever reason, Draco didn't.

Instead, he started huffing and puffing about Salazar knows what, getting upset at her for what, exactly? For respecting his need for privacy? For not pushing him to do something she knew he wouldn’t be comfortable with doing, even though she really wanted to? For, once again, putting him first and foremost? Is that what he was trying to punish her for? Because he certainly didn’t seem to be able to put it into words, storming off like an actual imbecile instead, leaving halfway through the match.

And of course, she had to follow him like the ever-loyal girlfriend that she was, trying to catch up with him and calm him down, even though she was seconds away from losing her bloody mind herself. She was sick and tired of his juvenile behaviour, was just so exhausted with having to put up with his shit instead of just enjoying herself, and yet it seemed as if some invisible string kept on pulling her in his direction, not allowing her to choose her own needs and herself, ever.

She wondered if he would ever grow tired of this pretence of his, or if this was what being with Draco Malfoy would entail, forever. She didn’t want to believe it, but it became harder and harder with each passing day. Maybe this is who he was, who he always would be.

But maybe it was just a matter of time before he would finally give it all up and be who she has blindly believed him to be all this time. All she could do, it seemed, was to hope that she wouldn’t be the one to give up, first.

if i'm not careful we'll be married

"Do you ever think about the future?" His voice broke through the quiet reverie they had both found themselves in. She was used to him being the first one to speak up after a long beat of silence; he didn't find it quite as peaceful and tranquilizing as she did. Not that she minded, though. She liked his voice, and she liked talking to him even more. To say that the question surprised her, though, would be an understatement.

Putting the book she was currently reading to the side, she snuggled further into him. The fireplace was providing a fair amount of heat, but the chill seemed to be inescapable in the Slytherin common room. It was also just very nice to be able to have him hold her close like this, even if the only reason he did so was because it was far past midnight and everyone else was already fast asleep.

"Sometimes, yeah," she said. "Do you?"

"Yeah." She didn't expect him to elaborate, so it stunned her when he did. "I see us. You and me, together. Married. But not like them. Like us. Does that make sense?" It did. She knew exactly what he meant. Not like them. Not like his parents, who didn't love each other in the slightest and could barely stand each other most days. And not like her parents, either, who cared deeply about one another, at least as much as you could care about someone you didn't choose to marry. They found a way to be friendly and cordial, mainly because they didn't want their daughter to grow up with parents who were constantly at each other's throats, but it was still far away from the real deal.

Were they the real deal? That's what Draco was implying, wasn't it? That if they would get married, it'd be because they loved each other. He's never even said it, she thought. And he hadn't. But he's said this now, hadn't he? And that should be worth more than any stupid three words ever could be, right? Because he wanted to marry her, really marry her, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. It rarely happened for people of their status, so she should be beyond delighted that it was happening to her. Plus, she loved him, too, and unlike him, she hadn't been afraid to say those three words. Marrying Draco was what she was supposed to want; finding out that he wanted to marry her, too, was supposed to be the greatest news she's ever heard. So why was there some nagging part of her brain that knew that saying yes would be the worst thing she could possibly do?

"I know what you mean," she said. She had never lied to him before.

you want me / you're sure

Blaise Zabini was flirting with her. Then again, Blaise Zabini flirted with everything that had legs and a mouth he could kiss, so it did nothing to impress her. It did, however, do its damage by making Draco furiously jealous. After all this time together, she prided herself in being able to read him like a book. Him storming off like a petulant child made her think that, in this instance at least, even a visually impaired person would be able to deduct the fact that he was (unreasonably) upset.

Sighing, she made out to follow him, annoyed that she had to make yet another excuse for her friends. It shouldn't be her job to smooth things over every time his tantrums killed the mood at a get-together, and yet it seemed like part of the "Dating-Draco-Malfoy" package.

She found him at the lake, the same way she always did. She wondered if there was any specific reason he chose this place to run off to , but she doubted he would tell her even if there was. Some secrets just weren't worth the effort of trying to figure out.

She expected him to be upset with her, to accuse her of leading Zabini on and whoring herself out to him—Salazar knew it wouldn't be the first time. It used to upset her beyond measure. There would be a good amount of crying and screaming on her part; calling him a pretentious douche, telling him to screw off if he really thought so little of her. It always ended the same: he would storm off, eventually, and disappear for a good few hours. Then, he'd come back, without something even remotely close to an apology, and tell her he wasn't mad anymore. She knew what he really meant when he said it: I expect you not to be mad anymore, either. And even when she was, she was usually too exhausted to keep on fighting. After a while, she decided there wasn't even any point in being upset in the first place. Draco was who he was; she knew what she was getting into. Or so she kept telling herself.

This time, however, seemed different. She was sure he could hear her approach him—he always did. So why wasn't he turning around? Why wasn't he yelling at her and making her feel as if the affection of others was her fault?

He stayed quiet until she finally reached him and made to stand next to him. "I don't like it when others try to make a pass at you," he said. She waited a beat, wondering if he was going to add anything else. He did. "I know I have no right to be upset with you." This was new. It surprised her. So much so that she wondered if she might've misheard. "It's not your fault Zabini has no respect for boundaries, or anyone else, for that matter. I just... it's paralyzing, sometimes. Realizing that you could leave me for someone else at any given moment, and there's nothing I could do about it. I want to be with you. I know I'm not always good at voicing it, but I do. I'm certain. That's why I get upset. Because it terrifies me."

She took his hand in hers and gave the back of it a soft kiss. This was possibly the most vulnerable he had been with her, ever. She understood him; of course she did. Didn't he know that she was just as terrified? That a life without him in it didn't seem to make any sense whatsoever to her? She loved him, and now she was sure that he loved her, too.

Nothing else mattered.

lose the world that you live in / pretend that it's what you wanted

“This isn’t okay, and you know it.” Maybe she did. Maybe she knew that this wasn’t right, that this wasn’t how it was supposed to feel like. But it’s all she’s ever known, and sometimes it felt as if this was all she’d ever want to know. Because when it was good it was great. It was all she could ever want and then some, and she honestly didn’t think she would ever find anything better than it.

Draco wasn’t perfect, but neither was she. She had her flaws just like anyone else, so to expect him to be something she herself couldn’t be? That seemed unfair and illogical at best.

“Look, you don’t get it, alright?” And she didn’t. None of them did. Not her mother or her father, not her friends or his. They were complicated and messy, but they were right. Right for each other, right in all the ways that mattered. She loved him, and he loved her. If there was anything in life she was sure of, then it was that.

“You can’t let him treat you like that.” That’s what it always boiled down to. Every fight she ever had about him—and there were probably too many to count—always came to the same conclusion: She shouldn’t let him treat her like that. But what did that even mean? No one would ever treat her the way he did. No one would ever look at her as if she was the reason they got up in the morning, as if she hung the moon and the stars in the night sky. No one would ever be able to make her feel like she was the thing they lived for, someone they’d die and kill for in the same breath.

So, what if he’d yell at her and insult her and make her question her worth sometimes? He’d never allow her to question herself out loud to him; he’d make sure to show her how important she was to him. And Salazar forbid someone else dared to say the wrong thing when it came to her—he’d made sure it’s the last thing they’d ever say.

Maybe she knew it wasn’t okay, what they were doing. There were a million words to describe their relationship, with toxic and unhealthy being the prime examples. But no relationship was perfect. Why should theirs be?

it's a life i could have, i know

They were invited to someone's birthday. She didn't even know whose, just knew to wear "that green dress that makes you look like actual royalty". There also had been a promise by a certain someone that the dress would later be carefully taken off, and that there would be some... not so careful actions afterwards. It was the prospect of that that kept her from making up some excuse as to why she suddenly had to leave this awful and hollow house and curl up with a book and one of Draco's sweaters in her bed.

The party in itself wasn't awful; on the contrary, it was lovely. The music was played by a live orchestra, and the entire house was decorated in different shades of blue and silver. There were white roses everywhere, and the food was exceptional, too. But she didn't know anyone here except for Draco; she didn't even know the birthday girl. She was a couple years older than the two of them, and from what she understood she was the wife of a son of a business partner of Draco's father. Or something like that.

She was currently standing in a corner all by herself, with a champagne flute in hand, trying to find Draco in the crowd. He had snuck off some time ago, claiming that he had to make the rounds or else "my father is going to chew my ear off about it", convincing her that it wasn't necessary for her to introduce herself tediously to every single person he would have to shake hands with. He wasn't wrong, but somehow standing in her lonely corner appeared to be an even worse fate.

Eventually, she locked eyes with Draco and gave him a small smile. She knew it was pointless to beckon him to her; he'd just shrug her off. Instead, he sent a quick wink her way, before turning back around to speak to whatever important person he was speaking to right now.

This could be my life, she thought. Going places with Draco, having him wink at her from across the room, promising to take her dress off at the end of the night and make it all worth it. This could be the rest of her life. She could see it, could see herself be one of the important men’s wives, gossiping away in some lonely corner just like hers, on their fifth or sixth flute of champagne already, trying to hide the hollow look in their eyes. This could be it. It was nothing like the life that she had wanted for herself all this time, and yet it didn’t seem to bother her nearly as much as it should.

throw your rocks / scream that you hate me

She didn’t even know how long it’s been. All she knew was that her mother had been up twice to tell her that she was this close to hexing him away from their property, and that she had begged her just as often not to.

“He has every right to be upset,” she had said, and could feel the bile rise in her throat at the bitter taste of the lie. Because no matter how often she told herself just that, it didn’t sound any more truthful to her ears than it did the time before. Yes, maybe Draco was allowed to be upset. She certainly was. But standing below her window, completely wasted, and throwing rocks at it, whilst yelling profanities at her? No one should have the right to do that.

And it wasn’t as if it was her fault, either. She had given him a choice; she shouldn't have had to do that. She hadn’t even meant to. It was supposed to be clean cut. She was supposed to tell him that it was over, that it should have been over a long time ago. If he still couldn’t tell her that he loved her after five years together, chances were that he never would. And she was just so tired of not hearing those words.

But she had looked him in the eyes and something—something made her believe that maybe, just maybe, he would realize that she was worth so much more to him than his pride and that being with her was worth more than being whoever he kept on pretending to be.

She should have known that her stupid, childish hope would be the death of her.

So here he was now, screaming that he hated her, that he wished that he had never met her, that being with her had been the greatest mistake of his life. And what if he wasn’t wrong? Would things had been different had she been different? Would he have been able to tell her how he felt if she had been more like Daphne? Would she have been able to leave him sooner and protect her own heart had she been more like Pansy?

It was driving her mad, the never-ending question of “what if?”, and yet her silly mind didn’t seem to be able to put an end to it. Because no matter how awful being (or in this case not being) with Draco may have been, it was still the most magical time in her life so far. And she didn’t even doubt for one second that the rest of her life might have been just as magical, too. Except that there was only so long a person could survive on magic and maybe’s, before eventually having to put an end to the madness and realize that the whimsical dreams weren’t anything other than nightmares hiding behind a pretty façade.

She loved Draco, loved him with her entire being, loved him more than she could ever imagine loving or even wanting to love anyone else. But, somehow, along the way, she had come to realize that just because she couldn’t see ever loving herself even half as much as she loved him, it was still enough to realize that leaving him was the only way she could ensure that she wouldn’t lose herself completely.

So, when her mother came up for the third time, this time with her father in tow, she didn’t fight them when they suggested to call the authorities to remove the Malfoy boy from their property. After all, just because Peter never wanted to grow up, didn't mean Wendy couldn’t.

i could love you / wait 'til you're ready

It was the little things more than it would ever be the big ones. She knew Draco, knew that the only way she could expect big romantic gestures from him was if someone were to put him under a spell, which is why she came to appreciate the small gestures and hold them as close and dear to her heart as she possibly could.

It was the little enchanted paper cranes that would hold little love notes of “your hair looks pretty today” and “how lucky I am to be dating the smartest witch in this castle”.

It was how he would lend her his robe without a second thought when he would see her rub her hands together in a fruitless attempt of warding off the cold, even though he had adamantly tried to convince her to wear a jumper underneath.

It was how he would press a kiss on her temple first thing in the morning, without fail, every single day, no matter if they had fought the previous evening or not, letting her know that he wasn’t going anywhere.

It was how he would rub her feet at the end of a long day in Hogsmeade, knowing that her boots were a size too small but that she loved them too much not to suck up the pain and go out with them anyways.

She loved him, and whilst she had no problem with telling him just that, he had no problem with showing her, either. And maybe he wasn’t lying when he told her that he just needed time, that she ought to just be patient, that sooner rather than later he would feel ready enough to say it, too.

The question wasn’t whether she could wait or not; she knew she could.  The question was whether she loved herself enough to know that she shouldn't have to.

forever 20

Twenty.

That’s how often she had said it, and how often he had stayed quiet. And every time he hated himself just a little bit more because he knew that with every time that she would say it without hearing a reply, he would get closer to hearing it for the last time.

And now here he was, stuck at twenty, forever, because he knew her well enough to know that it was over, really, truly over, with no one to blame but himself.

The worst thing was that for every time she said it, he had wanted to say it tenfold, had wanted to shower her with those words until she grew sick and tired of them. Had, on the worst days, wanted to just grip her by the shoulders and shake, shake, shake her and tell her, over and over, that he loved her, that he had loved her all this time and would love her for all the time to come.

But he never did, and now she was gone beyond his reach and as much as he hated it, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that, maybe, this was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The best thing he had ever done for her. And that had to count for something, right?

[wolframtheregulator]

Mors Dictares Joint Task Force

—Kill Team Project Megapost—

Our Kill Team campaign will start shortly, my friends had a session 0 the other day and atm were racing to get our models finished in time for the first night of matches.

Here’s what I’m starting the campaign with.

Moritat Bres, the Spitebound (Chosen with plasma pistol) [FINISHED]

https://www.tumblr.com/wolframtheregulator/757282462536810496/should-fortune-turn-away-turn-to-me-ancient

[UNNAMED] Balefire Acolyte [WIP]

[UNNAMED] Anointed [WIP]

[UNNAMED] Icon Bearer [WIP]

[UNNAMED] Heavy Gunner [WIP]

[UNNAMED] Gunner [WIP]

[UNNAMED] Butcher [FINISHED]

https://www.tumblr.com/wolframtheregulator/761089425946099712/regulators-butcher-badulf-transferred-to-the