#even if they were to separate he is still without a doubt her flesh and blood
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eggonthemoon · 17 days ago
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Life is not very daijoubu
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They look so much like each other omggggg
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swifty-fox · 4 months ago
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my kingdom for a kiss outtakes
somewhere around the james arc i decided to save anything I deleted so here's some stuff that didn't make the cut into the final draft! (including a more corny ending)
Gale muffles another noise into his flesh, bites down hard enough he feels the bones of his wrist shift against eachother. The pain stokes him hotter, shatters his gentle fantasy for good. He was no woman, no pretty thing for John to make a home with. He’d killed men and commanded them to their deaths. He was broad and mascluline even in his soft features. He dealt in death and flew in the skies where no human ever belonged regardless of what was between their legs. He’d had other mens blood in his mouth, knew what rotting corpses smelled like. He was a soldier, all softness trained out of him in the service of god and country. A weapon, a missile, unthinking and unfeeling.
There was no love-making in his world, if John were ever to have him it would be like this. On his knees and mounted, hands heavy in his hipbone drawing him back into the press of John’s body. 
-
“I love you.” he whispers into the shameful folds of the sweatshirt. Inhales deep and brushes a thumb over the blushed head of his cock, hips twitching and breath hitching.
“I love you.” Gale spills into his hand, mouth open and wet and dampening the gray fabric as he crashes his way through his stolen orgasm.
-
“And you don’t have to tell me you love me back, not after-” John seems to chew on his words for a moment, “after everything I’ve put you through, after all I have to make up for.” 
There’s something young and vulnerable in John’s eyes, his voice and Gale is suddenly wildly angry. Not the untamable rage of his father or the forest, but a more icy sort of wrath. His own brand of fury that had carried him through missions and imprisonment and escape. Angry for John, protective of him and the ways the war had spit him out with untreated wounds. They hadn’t senf him home in a pine box like John Sr. feared, but parts of him were dead and needing buried all the same.
“You don’t have to make up for what they did. You own no part of those motherless fuckin’ Krauts’ sins.” 
John’s chin wobbles and he looks off to the side, clearing his throat and going to shove his hands in his pockets before appearing to remember he was still without.
“Is this the first time you’ve spoken of it?” Gale asks quietly.
Words tight and quick, John opts to rub the tops of his thighs instead, “Yes.” 
He should tell him. He should bare all the ugly bits himself the way he’d done to Marge over the phone. Tell him about how scared he is and the way he almost begged if he didn’t fear it would get back to his men and shake their confidence; if they would have any in him left if they learned what happened. How he thought to imagine John for the briefest moment before shoving him so far from his mind and that room that they may as well have ended up in separate universes. He opens his mouth.
Closes it. 
Opens it again, “I don’t think less of you.” 
John’s shoulders tense up around his ears and then slump as if a great weight has been cut from them. 
-
“What was your mother like?”
Gale lets the petal drop,“Is that what we’re talking about tonight? Mothers?” your mother has held me and comforted me like one of her own. Your mother brushed the hair from my forehead and the tears from my cheeks as she might a child. She didn’t have to do that. 
“You never talk about her. You talk about your old man, bastard that he is, but I’d say you sprung fully formed for all you mention a mother.” 
Suddenly regretting not indulging in a third cigarette, Gale grunts
“My Ma,” John laughs, “I almost think she’d be okay with all this. She likes you that much.”
Gale’s stomach lurching, “You can’t John. That’s not- this is the life. This is all it is. If it’s not enough you should decide that now.
-
The couch isn’t the most comfortable, but Gale doubts he’ll ever struggle again to sleep on a clean non lice-ridden surface. It’s nightmares that interrupt his sleep, throwing him straight from pale blue skies and a farmers rope around his throat into violent wakefullness. He’s silent with it, he knows, jaw clenched so tight it aches, but he’s sweating and breathing like he’s just sprinted a mile in full gear. There’s low voices coming from the kitchen, one deeper and masculine the other softer and quicker, and the faint smell of coffee. John’s parents, come to play out a thirty year old routine, it seemed. A house full of soldiers, a house full of ghosts. He thinks Ma Egan might be the strongest out of any of them.
Their words are too quiet for him to make out, but there’s a comforting warm quality to their cadence. Gale rolls to face the back of the sofa, face pressed to the clean smelling fabric and lets it soothe him back into sleep, the sound of their conversation soothing something shy and needy in his chest. 
 -
Joh- Bucky?” 
John’s head snaps up to look at his father standing in the doorway, shoulders deliberatly relaxing in an affectation of ease. 
“Need some help out in the shed, if you’re finished eating.” 
There was a cautious air between the two men, but no hostility radiating from John so when he hesitates Gale knocks his knee quietly against John’s own to spur him into movement. 
“Yeah, yeah I’m done,” He drains the last of his coffee, steals a strip of bacon from Gale’s plate with a wink and follows his father out of the room. From behind, only the larger amount of grey in John Egan Sr.’s hair marks them apart. 
“More coffee, Gale?” 
He holds his mug out eagerly for more to cut the sick-sweet taste, watching thne drink swirl darker, “Thank you.” 
She sets the percolator back on the stove, polishes at a spot-free section of the counter with her apron, “I imagine your fiance is upset to have you traveling again so soon.” 
“Marge likes her privacy,” he smiles to himself faintly, “And we’re only going to be a few days.”
The last half of his statement is a careful open door, and Ma Egan takes it.
“I do hope she won’t mind a permanent guest. Most newlyweds prefer to enjoy their new home alone.” 
Gale sips his coffee, feeling a bit like he’s flying through a flak field, “John and her are good friends,” Not really a lie in the long term, “And it’s pretty rural out there, she probably will feel better with an extra presence around the farm.”
“A farm,” Ma murmurs in suburban shock.
“I’ll take care of him,” Gale promises her, “I’ve been taking care of him for five years now.” 
This doesn’t seem to please her as much as he expects and she frowns at him with something close to grief, though it doesn’t seem directed entirely at him. She sits with it for a few moments before carefully smoothing her face out into something more lovingly exasperated. A woman who’d send her husband and son both off to war and knew how to wear that pain quietly. 
“I hope Marge has a few single friends, at least then,” She sighs, “I think he’s turns his nose up at every girl in our Church at this point.”
“A few,” He says, mouth dry.
-
“He’s far too grown for me to cling to him,” Ma Egan says, voice wobbling, “But then, I did lose a few years.” 
-
He’s asked John, loud bombastic life of the part John Egan, to live a quiet life with him. 
Gale cups his hands around his mouth.
“I Love John Egan!” 
A bellow, full bodied and from his chest. He shouts it to the curvature of the world, to the clouds and the blue-blue sky.
It’s not the first time he’s said it, not by a longshot. But John beams like it is each and every time.
 Beside him John laughs in shocked delight, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He fights with Bugs for a second, still unpracticed and Gale takes pity on time, drawing the white gelding astride his own mare by the reins. He kisses John, saddle creaking as he leans over. John presses their foreheads together briefly and then turns, whooping in delight, the sound echoing over the mountains of Wyoming.
After a moment, laughter on his cheeks, Gale howls along with him.
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xipool · 1 month ago
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Wade talks and talks, like a decapitated chicken still running even after its head has been sliced clean off. His words run fast and relentlessly, as if compensating for something else, as if he can’t stop- won’t stop for fear of the consequences. Unable to relax, to rest – he just has to keep going.
He talks so his hammer of annoying references and crude remarks can slam down and suppress the spiral of horrid thoughts that worm their way into his head. How he deserved every bit of torture and pain that sears through his veins, how the people around him don’t deserve to live around a sick fucking freak like him. How he abandons and strands the crowd around him, leaves them to drown. They’re better off without him.
Every rough pock mark on his skin serves as a reminder of the abuse Francis dragged him through – Vanessa made the attempt to ease the insecurity, saying they were scars indicating his survival, how he’d crawled out of purgatory and lived to tell the tale. But he knew – a snapshot – when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her eyes would flash with slight contempt. Whether it be kindred to a bubbling disgust for his appearance or just the man he is.
“You had a girlfriend?” 
He had snorted to himself at the question, but didn’t blame the man. He barely knew him, and even those who gave him their undeserved time could probably offer the same curiosity.
Inevitable, their separation was. Wade Winston Wilson is not a soul that can keep company clinging for long. Hanging up the red and black spandex just kept the wheels turning, hurtling towards a final argument that was a long time coming.
“I’m right here.” 
No he fucking wasn’t. They both knew it – he was detached, flippant and unserious. He could never care about something bigger than himself.
“I know how to fuck people up for money, but you know how to save them.”
That’s all he was: a mercenary. A bad guy paid to fuck up worse guys. He wasn’t a hero, he wasn’t even a decent human mutant. Generally, he was an asshole – at the very least, a menace to society. He jaywalked and scared the fuck out of innocent, unsuspecting kids by pulling the most horrid face he could contort his features into. He stole and he bitched. And he fucking enjoyed it. He practically got off to pissing people off. 
He ignores the guilt that settles in his stomach. He couldn’t possibly care about something bigger than himself. 
Until he saved the world, fuck that- he saved the multiverse. He’d spurred himself on with the thought of Vanessa, that everything he’d aspired to do, everything he did – was for her. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
His motivation’s doubt settled in during the tussle in that godawful vehicle, the Honda fuckin’ Odsyssey. He craved violence and turmoil, the low, dull hum of the cancerous aches were simply tedious but the sting of something breaking skin and ripping flesh, even tearing bone was heavenly. Each splatter of blood quashed his inner critic, without the need for mindless commentary: his self-hatred had simmered down. It wouldn’t be out of left field to assume the man had developed some kind of arousal for the sensation, but the way the Wolverine broke him down and tore him apart in that fucking car left him with tingles running wild under his skin long after their scuffle had ceased. He’d admitted it, it fucked hard.
Wade had often turned to dirty sex – no strings attached – to quiet the voices, in the hopes of achieving some sort of post-orgasm stupor that would shut the sound up, but his efforts were to no avail.
And he knew, he fucking knew. His mutation may not have granted him heightened senses, but he could practically smell Logan’s bloodthirsty reciprocation. He too, found himself in ripping limbs and slashing muscle, in painting his surroundings crimson and vigorous stabbing. The savage grin that played on his lips as blood dripped onto his face, into his beard and mouth and painted his skin red, it practically goaded the merc on. His simple return of the cut-throat favour kept him going, kept his onslaught powering through, despite the absolute decimation of the Odyssey.
Vanessa might have matched Wade’s crazy, but Logan matches his freak.
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purple-plum-petals · 5 months ago
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Help my family. War is devastating. There is nothing left for life. No schools, no universities, no home, and no dreams. All dreams have been destroyed.
https://www.gofundme.com/f/dydb36-gaza -palestine
⊱ The Scars That Remain ⊰ || Boothill and Aventurine Angst Headcanons
╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮        Character(s): Boothill and Aventurine (Separate, Honkai: Star Rail)        Warning(s): Spoilers for Boothill’s and Aventurine’s Backstories, Discussions of Survivor’s Guilt, Mentions of Suicide/Attempted Suicide/Suicidal Ideation, Implied Alcoholism, Religious Trauma, Overall Theme and Discussion of Death/Genocide.        Genre: Headcanons, Angst.        Word Count: ~1000 words        Author’s Note: I know that Boothill and Aventurine are fairly popular characters within the fandom, and one of the reasons why they’re so beloved is because of their backstories. Both of these characters are victims of war – victims of genocide and a massacre at the hands of the IPC on their respective home planets of Aeragan-Epharshel and Sigonia.
There is a genocide happening to Palestinians at this very moment, and thousands of people and families are being displaced and murdered simply because of the land in which they live. Please, if you are financially able, help this family. If you’re not able to contribute to their evacuation, spreading the word about this family may reach those who are able to donate. The family’s gofundme can be accessed here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/dydb36-gaza -palestine ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯
⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆
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🌾: Sometimes Boothill wonders what his family would think of him now, wondering if his fathers and siblings would even recognize him after what he had become. He was no longer made of flesh and blood – he was no longer human. He tries not to dwell on the thought for too long. After all, there was no point in thinking about hypotheticals. He would never know what his loved ones would have thought because, if they were still here, he wouldn’t have taken the path that he did.
🌾: When Boothill hears the sound of children laughing and playing, or when he walks past small dresses decorated with beads and ribbons and lace, he can’t help but wonder if he would have been a good father if he had just been given a chance. He thinks about that little girl he had found and taken in as his fathers had with him on lonely nights. Nights when he absentmindedly strums the strings of a recently stolen guitar, remembering the one he had carved for her, the one she would slap with her small palm and giggle at the noise it made. Would she have grown up to play the guitar, or would she have picked up a different instrument? Those were more questions he would never get an answer to, and the memory of that high-pitched babbling laughter haunted him.
🌾: Boothill frequently wonders if his fathers knew how much he loved and appreciated them, the two men who had taken him in and raised him as if he were their own. He thinks about the times he could have done more for them, or his mind thinks about all the words he could have told them so they knew without a doubt how much they meant to him and how much he cared for them. Even though Boothill wasn’t the one who gave the order, sometimes he feels as though their blood is on his hands.
🌾: He suffers from immense guilt at the fact he was the only one from the farm who survived the bombing, wishing that he was either fast enough to have made it there in time to save them, or fast enough that he could have died there with them in his arms. He wishes he could have had the time to make graves for those he lost but, in the fiery blaze left in the attack’s wake, there wasn’t much he was able to do.
🌾: Once he enacts his revenge on Oswaldo Schneider, Boothill will most likely choose to end his own life, going back to his home planet and the farm that had been reduced to nothing but ash. He had already been dead for a long time, and he had a desire to reunite with the people he loved the most in the afterlife. So, he’d settle down on the ground that was once covered in tall, soft grass, and he’d think about the sound the babbling brook used to make as his systems finally shut down. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the rage in his heart subsidized as peace finally washed over him.  
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🎲: It came easy to Aventurine, the ability to put his life on the line without any instance of hesitation. That was something he had done for a long time now, using his own life as another gambling chip on the table. It probably wasn’t normal for one to continuously try and end their own life in the dreamscape just to see if it would stay permanent, either, hoping that deep down they wouldn’t wake up in their room on Penacony. Here he was, though, sitting up in the dream pool as he tried to catch his breath after the latest little “test” to see if a true death truly didn’t exist in Penacony’s dreamscape.
🎲: Aventurine remembers vividly what it was like, floating in the cold water as his clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin while he held his breath, trying not to move. He remembers the warmth of his sister’s hand in his, the water around them dyed a dark red as the scent of iron and rot filled the air. He couldn’t move because of the fear of being found, the fear of those hunting them like wild animals realizing they were indeed alive and not dead like the other bodies that floated around them in an eerie silence. He remembers the shrill cackles of the men who killed his mother that day, a sound that would never leave him.
🎲: He frequently suffers from nightmares, whether it be each and every event that has stained his hands in red, the death of his mother, or his older sister’s final goodbye to him on that rainy day. One dream Aventurine has quite frequently, however, is the “game” that lasted for two days – a game that resulted in him being the final victor while the bodies of the thirty-four others just like him lay lifeless around where he stood. He dreams of their screams, their hands reaching towards him as they shriek “Why? Why you?” He cannot answer them, though, for he doesn’t know why himself.
🎲: Sometimes, Aventurine’s neck burns and itches despite it being years since the mark was blistered into his flesh or since the cold, iron chains squeezed tightly around his throat. On nights when the feeling won’t go away, he drinks until the burning comes from the inside instead, an almost painful sting in his stomach and chest that makes him forget the way he can still recall how hot iron felt searing his skin.
🎲: Aventurine has mixed feelings regarding the “blessing” he was given by Gaiathra Triclops. He wonders why he was given this blessing, and what was the reason for being the only one of his people to survive – what was his purpose. Why was he made to suffer at the hands of a god that was supposed to love him? Why did she not save his family, his people, who all worshiped her until their dying breath? Aventurine feels immense guilt at the mere thought his faith no longer lies within the god of their clan and wonders what his family would think if he didn’t believe in the god who gave him his blessing of “luck.”
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badbatchposts · 3 months ago
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Quiet Corners of the Galaxy, Ch. 25
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Relevant tags/content warnings: Crosshair/Original Female Character, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Periodic Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Alcohol Use, 18+/Explicit
Read the full fic so far on AO3
Read previous chapters on Tumblr: Ch. 1 l Ch. 2 l Ch. 3 l Ch. 4 l Ch. 5 l Ch. 6 l Ch. 7 l Ch. 8 l Ch. 9 l Ch. 10 l Ch. 11 l Ch. 12 l Ch. 13 l Ch. 14 l Ch. 15 l Ch. 16 l Ch. 17 l Ch. 18 l Ch. 19 l Ch. 20 l Ch. 21 l Ch. 22 l Ch. 23 l Ch. 24
Chapter 25 summary: The squad copes with the discovery of the missing clones, and Crosshair learns more of Dara's backstory.
Extra content warnings for this chapter: blood/injury; grief; corpses/mass grave
Crosshair couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where Dara was rooted to the ground, kneeling over a pit containing the remains of the clone prisoners. He couldn’t see what she was looking at from this angle, but he knew it wouldn’t be pretty.
“I—I think you should take Omega back to the ship,” she told Hunter over the comms. “She shouldn’t see this.”
The Sergeant sighed, a tired, defeated sound. “Understood. Come on, kid—we’ll go get the Marauder for a pick-up while the rest of the squad finishes up here.”
If Omega had any objections, she wasn’t voicing them over the comm line as she and Hunter made their way through the forest in the direction of their ship. It would be a few hours before they could return with the Marauder, hopefully arriving around the time of the planet’s early sunset.
Dara still hadn’t moved. “Can the rest of you find some shovels and come to my position?” she requested weakly. “Kriffing Imperials just tossed them in the garbage pit. They didn’t even have the decency—” She cut off suddenly, clearing her throat.
“Affirmative. We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Echo let her know. Through his scope, Crosshair saw Dara finally get to her feet, staggering over to a nearby tree. She held herself propped against it for a minute, then—with a sudden violence that made him flinch—crashed her fist against the bark, over and over, until her blows steadily grew weaker and stopped. Then she was motionless again, fist still clenched, breathing heavily. Her shoulders remained tense, but her face was turned away from him—he couldn’t help but think that it felt deliberate, like she was guarding her expression from his gaze.
Tech, Echo, and Wrecker arrived just as Crosshair climbed down off the roof. Dara took one of the shovels, picked a spot a sufficient distance away, and started digging without a word as the rest of them leaned over the pit. There were bones scattered around its edges, no doubt the result of animal activity; in the pit itself, skulls, femurs, and rib cages were all easily identifiable, emerging from corpses in various states of decomposition, all mixed in with the facility’s other refuse. Wrecker lifted his helmet off for barely a second before he gagged and slammed it back on his head; Dara had pulled off her soiled poncho and wrapped a scarf from her pack around her face and nose. While Tech and Echo worked on disinterring the bodies from the pit, separating them from trash and giving the loose bones some semblance of order, Wrecker and Crosshair joined Dara and set to digging. They were silent for over an hour, interrupted only by the occasional grunt.
“Dara,” Tech called suddenly. He was standing by the pit, holding a small bone, entirely cleared of flesh. “Will you pass me your glow rod?”
She took a break from digging and dug it out of her pack, tossing it to him before returning, without comment, to her task.
Tech disappeared into the facility for a few minutes, returning with a look of grim satisfaction.
“It is just as I suspected,” he informed them. “The remains also glow in the ultraviolet spectrum. We can infer that the substance that we discovered was being tested on the clones.”
The rest of the men straightened up from their tasks and climbed out of the pit and the new grave they were in the process of digging, taking advantage of the distraction to take a few sips from their canteens and open ration bars at a distance from the stench of decay. Dara, however, didn’t even turn to look, just continued to remove dirt by the shovelful.
“So was it the chemical that killed them, or did the Empire just dispose of them when they decided they’d served their purpose?” Echo wondered darkly.
“It is difficult to tell,” Tech admitted. “So far I have not identified any injuries to the bodies consistent with violent deaths, although the advanced state of decomposition makes that challenging to determine. I have, however, scanned several samples and should be able to analyze them later to find out more.”
“How many are there?” Wrecker asked, his expression uncharacteristically grim.
Echo shook his head sadly. “Dozens. Probably everyone on the list that we found.”
As the three continued their discussion, Crosshair watched Dara, who was still digging at an incessant, even punishing pace. Sighing, he dropped back down into the wide, deep grave they’d managed to carve out of the soft earth. They had made good progress, although they still had a while to go before it would be sufficient for a burial.
Crosshair approached her cautiously, like a wild animal. His earlier avoidance no longer mattered to him, his resentment all but forgotten. There was something off about her, a palpable tension that threatened to uncoil at any moment.
“Burk’yc,” he said, as gently as he could. “Take a break.”
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
“No, you’re not,” Crosshair insisted. “At least get something to drink.”
“I said I’m fine,” Dara snapped back, finally turning to look at him for the first time all day, only to shoot him as venomous a glare as he’d ever seen from her. She dragged the back of one hand against her forehead, wiping away sweat and dirt. As she did, he caught a glimpse of her palm: a long gash leaked a trail of blood that smeared along the handle of her shovel. The skin around it was already blistered and broken, red and raw, and her knuckles where she had hit the tree were bruised and bloody.
At the sight of her injuries, Crosshair felt his stomach drop. It was obvious, from the moment she had found the pit, that she was distressed—none of them were pleased, this was a worst-case scenario for what they expected to find—but he hadn’t realized how far she would push. Somehow, against all logic, he was more worried for her safety now than he had been when she was shot. Did she even realize she was hurt? Couldn’t she feel it?
“You’re obviously not fine,” he growled, crowding closer to her and grasping at her hands. He turned them palms up, trying to get a better look past the blood and dirt. Her other hand didn’t look much better, and he winced when he noticed tiny shards of transparisteel still clinging to the skin. “Did this happen when you fell?”
Dara stared dumbly at her wounds for a moment before trying to shake him off. “It doesn’t matter.”
Crosshair only gripped her more firmly by the wrists. “This can wait. You need to—”
“I don’t need to do anything,” she interrupted, pulling away violently. “I’m fine, just— just let me keep digging.” She grabbed her shovel from where it had dropped at her feet and made to continue.
“Just stop!” Crosshair commanded, temper boiling over. “You’re not a clone. They’re not your brothers, they’re ours, so don’t pretend like it’s your job to bury them. Take a kriffing break so I can fix your hands, now!”
Dara did stop at that, fingers flexing around the handle of the shovel as she glared straight back at him. She looked like she was deciding whether to yell at Crosshair or punch him. Finally, she threw down her shovel and shoved past him, scrambling out of the hole. She grabbed her pack on her way past and stalked into the forest without a backwards glance.
Crosshair turned to where his brothers were staring down at him disapprovingly and crossed his arms.
“What?” he barked. “I was trying to be nice!”
Wrecker frowned. “Well, ya did a terrible job.”
Crosshair threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what her problem is!”
“Ah,” Tech began matter-of-factly. “It is likely that she is experiencing some acute psychological distress. Her discovery of this mass grave has, in all probability, reminded her of the Empire’s massacre of her home village.”
The others blinked at him, stunned. “Tech, how was I supposed to know about that?” Crosshair finally demanded.
Tech tilted his head. “Oh—yes. I forgot to inform you all of what I had discovered of Dara’s biography once we learned her birth name.” He cleared his throat and frowned down at his datapad as he pulled up the relevant file and began reading. “Keranji Daranjal, born on Onderon, childhood friend of Steela and Saw Gerrera. Attended university in Onderon’s capital city, where she began advanced graduate training in linguistics, specializing in non-human, primitive cultures. She has published some quite fascinating studies, in fact—”
“Get to the point, Tech,” Echo interjected.
“Ah, of course,” Tech acknowledged. “Apologies. Dara’s research was interrupted during the Clone Wars when her mentor, the linguist Palo Bragus, was gunned down by Separatist droids during a public demonstration. She then abandoned her studies to join the Gerreras in the formation of their insurgent group. After they succeeded in reinstating the former king, she left Onderon; a little over a year ago the Empire sought her out as a means to track down Saw. The village where she and the Gerreras grew up was burned down in the attempt to locate her. Many of the villagers were killed…including Dara’s only family: a brother, sister-in-law, and their two children.”
He cleared his throat again, glancing up at his brothers. “The Empire now has Keranji Daranjal listed as deceased, so I can only presume that she faked her death shortly afterward. As far as I know, Dara has never been back to Onderon. She never had the chance to bury her dead.”
There it was, then: everything Dara had built all those careful walls to protect, the origins of her rage and her grief, what Crosshair had been so eager to see exposed. A war she had fought in and survived, only for more utter violence and destruction to come when she thought it was all over. Death upon death upon death, and at the center of it all, Dara, still alive, but alone.
Her story was a lot like that of the clones, in fact. And he had somehow managed to rub it in that these weren’t even her corpses to bury. 
The men avoided eye contact. Tech and Echo had done the best they could with removing the bodies from the garbage pit and had stacked them reverently to the side of the grave, awaiting their new resting place. They joined the others as they returned to digging, though Crosshair kept glancing out towards the forest, where Dara had disappeared.
Wrecker laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll be alright,” he murmured.
The sun was setting and they could hear the Marauder’s approach by the time Dara returned, carrying a wide, flat stone. Though the hole they’d managed to dig was no monument to wealth, the bodies of the clones were now safely blanketed in soil, deep enough to protect them from further disturbances, animal or otherwise. The squad stood quietly by the grave as she approached and knelt, gently laying the stone at its center.
Her hands somehow managed to have gotten worse, Crosshair noticed. Still, she didn’t seem to feel the pain, only clenched her fists, rose, and went to the ship without a word. On the stone, she had painstakingly carved a one-word epitaph for the clones, the Aurebesh letters rustic and clumsy. It read:
Brothers
Tag list: @stardusthuntress @skellymom @megmegalodondon @somewhere-on-kamino @morerandombullshit @zahmaddog @flaming-dumpster
Thanks again to @cloneflo99 for the amazing banner!!!
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avatar-of-the-web · 9 months ago
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This was going to be a response but Tumblr has the best timing with making me lose a post forever, so the context is TMA "Are there loving God's?" Gerry said, he doesn't believe so.
They appear to all be fear-based.
He specifies, “At least not that I've seen” [they are not anything else]
Smart boy, the information tugs at the edge of the subconscious where you can barely see it. You know it's wrong without the means to prove it.
You know they're beyond your imagination but you still yet cannot help being trapped in a world of fear; this was true before they literally consumed the world. They already had. So caught up in fear that it had practically swallowed it all to begin with. All Elias had really done was make it official, to cut everything else out of the picture.
So there was nothing left to balance, it slides on an incline downward; but this is an ecosystem and the balance is off. They can't feed forever if even they can die—this world was finite.
In a sense, ours isn't. Of course, the flesh disagrees and the clumsy host produces waste without thinking of solutions will disagree; “it's all finite to me” but this energy is never created nor destroyed only moved, only changed.
They'd be different sides of the same entity, not completely different entity's; they're ELDRITCH, or incredibly difficult, dense to comprehend; Different faces, same beast—a different man sees their own unique version of each god as unique as their relationship with it.
To a vast avatar, the vast is a loving god, She changed you for the better; Gave you what you Needed, though She may still ask for payment in an exchange. That's not unreasonable.
Of course how we draw the lines in the sand are circumstantial. One calls it the Eye because they believe this section of the beast is worth separating as its own; and for good reason. In every head, the witness of life observes and fed and fed and fed She changes too. Different forms of course; some continually feeding without consideration, some drink the sea to know to apply, some cannot help this obsession spurred by terror what will happen if I don't see it all? And more.
The Eye is a dominant entity for Her presence is nearly guaranteed. The Web us a dominant entity because it is or lays in the connection of everything.
We section these things to better understand them. The total of it all— it's too overwhelming to process all at once.
But it comes down to this.
You make a relationship with your slice of The Gods.
“In exchange for being my vessel, here is a prize; but you must be calibrated. Not just anybody can be a vessel for # you must fulfill the needs, be capable of performing My actions of thinking My thoughts.
You are My Vessel the embodiment of Me and you must Become to Be.”
Gerry is biased by WHAT HE COULD SEE, the patterns that trapped him, and what he could see was ultimately dictated by the people that insisted on controlling his life; so when he escaped he could only make how he viewed the world his own, so he saved people from fear instead of creating it.
He fought limitation though limitation still lay as it were, he could only go so far but even so
If that's not love, I don't know what is.
So he did not See it for he could not understand it but he could Feel it still; it drove his actions though he separated them.
He only knew these things could hurt people because he Saw what they could do. He only saved them because he Knew. Otherwise, there is no reason to Fear.
Of course, doubt and denial and misunderstanding, misaligning information leads to blindness; one could ask "how could god do that?" thinking of a god as something akin to a man making decisions; but they're far more complex than that.
The human brain does not dictate every little thing the stomach does, and goes through, though it certainly influences decisions we typically don't understand every single thing going on and don't control every single muscle and behaviour inside. A god on a greater scale—as a given consciousness could be a god to it's cells whom practice their devotion by serving their own respective purposes for the greater good of the whole and the individual—this is no different.
In our complicated dimension we have more of a choice.
We get to be privvy, get to know, get to share that know, if we so choose, if we find ourselves capable.
But I can only choose how I'd choose as I am with my life and my knowledge.
I become what I can reach.
And I believe there is every side to them, and an infinite number of ways to slice them. They are only reduced to Fears in a world of Fear.
I make no predication to the angle the podcast will take; but I see the seeds of reality that bloomed to creative ideas in TMA. And I see what cannot be avoided; I see what is being depicted.
In it's full complexity, from the eye of the beholder, from the centre of fear is our vantage point as the audience as it is the writers.
The Witness of Life, The Eye, The Evil Eye. All the same. Whatever angle it takes.
So we will See.
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woodblxssomcrowned · 7 months ago
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Headcanon + fear for Kaname?
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As it dawned that Kaname seemed entirely unable to learn the techniques necessary for ninjutsu, her mother was worried.
Mito sought advice from her grandfather, Ashina, who shared what little he knew of the condition. Although rare, it wasn't entirely unheard of for someone who in spite of being attuned to their chakra to be unable to access the ability for nature transformation and cast ninjutsu, but it had never been received as something positive. Especially for someone born into a shinobi clan as strong and established as the Senju. It was rare, and concerning.
These individuals had often been considered a liability, like a person born with a missing limb or inability to see, or as a sign of misfortune; as power slipping away from the clan, or as a manifestation of some bad karma. Not all shinobi found their talent in ninjutsu. But ones not being able to do it all was not normal, or wanted. They were rejected, and pushed to the side-lines, if not completely abandoned by their clans, or worse. Because of this, records of such individuals were even rarer than the condition itself.  They did not live long, never had children, and their clans wanted to forget they had existed.
Any half-decent sensor could feel the unmistakable signature of Hashirama's chakra within Kaname. He was her father. She was of his flesh, blood and soul. Had that not been the case, if Senju Hashirama not been her father, or if she had been born before he became clan head, or into a different clan, then she may have suffered far worse treatment.
Mito had no intention of allowing such a fate to befall her daughter.
She was very fortunate. With Hashirama acknowledging her, loving and supporting her, Kaname was trained, supported, loved by the majority of her clansmen as well. Those who did have an opinion on the matter did best to keep it to themselves.
It still didn't erase the underlying fear within her that one day something would change, and her family would turn their backs on her. So she had to work hard, and prove she was without a shadow of a doubt still worthwhile. She wouldn't give them a reason to change their minds.
Then Konoha came long. When she was rejected by the academy, she felt like she was on the precipice of that fear becoming reality.
In her mind, her uncle had rejected her by revealing information that he must have known would have her be deemed unfit by people who did not know her, and didn't see or care about her potential, only what she was lacking.
In her mind, her father had rejected her when he asked her to comply with the academy's decision and make peace with it, but then never gave her any real guidance when she didn't know what to do with herself or her life anymore, when she was lost and needed him. In her mind, her father now abandoned her, because she was not worth his time and attention. -- Why? I thought they cared about me? I though they believed in me? Why? What did I do wrong? I worked so hard, didn't I? Was...was I never enough? Did they wait for an excuse? Did they not want to be seen openly rejecting me without a good reason? Did they wait for me to fail? I knew it. I knew it. I knew it would happen. I was so stupid for hoping it wouldn't. I was never good enough to be his daughter. I was never good enough to be Senju. What if...what if none of them ever cared? What if none of them ever wanted me around? Will...will I be alone now? Will anyone want me? I don't want to be alone. --
By being refused the path of a shinobi she was being separated from the wast majority of her clan.
They were frequently occupied with classes at the academy and later missions or preparation for missions, excluding her from their company; her peers grew up being shaped by and bonded over shared and similar experiences as shinobi that she did not have; she was often left in the dark about information she was not privy to as a civilian, even much of the workings of her own clan.
It had never been Tobirama or Hashirama's intention to push her away. But it was nonetheless the position their actions and inaction forced her into, just like Mito had predicted in the rage she had unleashed upon her brother-in-law the day of the entrance exams.
Kaname had been so fortunate that Hashirama had been her father. The Senju had always tolerated her thanks to him, but the words of the exam proctors rang in her head and fanned her fears and filled every part of her with them. The village had judged her, and found her flawed. And her father had done nothing. Nothing, other than asking her with a gentle smile to accept it. If he didn't believe in her ability - her father - if Senju Hashirama didn't support her potential - why would anyone in his village, like those who had judged her on the day of the entrance exam, think she was or would be anything more than her unusual and ill-boding weakness?
What if the Senju would follow? What if the rest of her family would then also realize that she was not worth it, that she never had been? Would she end up like one the nameless shinobi in the past who had been like her? Rejected. Abandoned. Forgotten. Alone.
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fangsandsoftgrass · 1 month ago
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Day 19 Shared hobby./Potion.
unexpectedly got kinda burned out so sorry this is later :/
Cirwedh is stocking up on poisons for a venture, and Fenn wants to watch her process :3
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"A dash of bile, a couple chunks of salamander. It's fairly simple, to be honest-" Cirwedh was interrupted by a plume of noxious yellow vapor as she dropped another bite of amphibian into the bubbling pot before her. "Done!"
From where he stood (which was a fair distance from whatever health hazard she was cooking), Fennorian watched with as little horror painted across his face as he could manage. Alchemy was always measured, always precise. But as he watched the brew boil, something akin to curiosity replaced his apprehension. Cirwedh had shown him what went into her poisons before, sure, but the process of making such things was something he could only describe as concerning.
"Deer," she looked over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of apprehension in Fennorian eyes as they met her, "Oh, don't worry, it's harmless. I just need that glass on the table over there. Could you grab it, please?" she smiled as he handed her a small crystalline jar and clasped his hands in his lap, standing a bit closer as she turned back to her work. "Thanks! I just keep this one in a container I can easily coat my arrows in," she thought for a moment before shrugging, "or anything, really. It's usually arrows, though."
Despite the alarmingly casual way in which Cirwedh formulated the poison itself, nothing could prepare him for when she plunged the jar—and the hand holding it—straight into the vat of foul yellow liquid without a second thought.
"Cirwedh!" Fennorian startled forward, reaching for her hand but freezing as she laughed. He watched as she capped the jar and placed it on the ground before turning to face him, lips twisted in a grin.
"Gotcha, did I?" beside her feet was a separate bucket of water that she dipped her hand in and shook about. When she pulled it up, he saw that all the flesh was still intact, and not even the joints had swollen. She looked utterly impish as she flexed her fingers and grinned. "I'm good, though. It doesn't even burn the soft flesh! I've spit this stuff in someone's face before, but my cheeks were fine!"
"Divines, what am I going to do with you?" he asked, bringing one hand to his chest and the other to his temple, sighing before he picked up another jar and handed it to her. "I swear you're going to be the end of me, Love. Do you at least have some kind of ladle?" He really should have known the answer to that, but some dim vestige of hope remained. Fennorian watched as she continued to repeat the action, filling another jar and sealing it with some kind of enchantment.
"It got erm- dissolved some weeks back when I was working on a new project. Sorry." Her smile said she wasn't, though, and she continued to dip jar after jar into the brew until the last drops were poured.
Fennorian shook his head in mock disappointment and moved to stand by her side, arms snaking around her waist as his chin rested atop her head. While watching her process of poison-making was almost painfully terrifying, Fenn did enjoy learning new alchemical applications for things he'd never have thought up on his own. Her knowledge of toxins was impeccable, and given the region she was from, it came as no surprise. When she moved to gather her stock, he stepped back and took a basket from the nearby counter, holding it still as she organized the collection of jars until they all fit snugly with no room to clink about. They had spent most of the night sharing the small alchemy lab tucked into the corners of Skingrad, but the sun was beginning to rise over the walls, and birds announced the dawn with a song that would no doubt have people in the streets within the hour. His free hand found hers as they began the trip back to the Inn, and a comfortable warmth spread up his arm from where their fingers were entwined; what would have been an otherwise quiet walk was now filled with the distant chatter of lab safety standards.
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findtheflamexvi · 1 year ago
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Title: The moth that goes to the light.
Pairing: Alicent Hightower x Larys Strong.
Tags: Confession, First Kiss.
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She was wearing her nightclothes and her bedroom smelled, as it had every night for years, of sadness and loneliness. Over time, however, she had grown accustomed not only to that, but also to the weight of remorse.
This was now her secret corner, even more so than the garden of the gods had once been. Here no one disturbed her, here she allowed herself to be free, only here did she see him, and only in his company did she confess without fear of judgement.
The trust established between them was such that Larys Strong needed no express permission to enter; yet, as usual, he knocked at the door.
The handle came down, the hinges turned silently, and the room was flooded with the dry strokes of the newcomer's cane. Alicent watched him through the reflection in the window pane: he shuffled his leg slowly, his back hunched, his gaze meek, always giving the impression of a man who was soft, frail, and harmless. Yet there was no real weakness in Larys Strong. The queen had been more than aware of that more than a decade ago, when he himself had let her in on a dark secret.
That revelation had frightened her, no wonder, after all she had learned that she was dining with a self-confessed murderer.
"Necessity creates strange partners," she remembered thinking at the time, as she turned around to greet him. The need for a friendly face; for they were both strangers in a world full of acquaintances.
—Always so punctual, Lord Larys —she intoned with a sovereign attitude. Only when Talya withdrew, leaving them alone in privacy, Alicent softened his stance and intonation—. It's nice to see you again. Thank you.
Why was she suddenly feeling so dismayed? This was something that often happened to her, especially for political reasons such as the division of opinion over the succession, yet it was a feeling that had never occupied her heart when she was in Larys's company. Why? Why did her chest threaten to suffocate her?
Having previously decided not to harbour doubts or intrusive thoughts, Alicent smiled modestly, turning her attention back to the dark night.
—It is I, my queen, your devoted servant, who am grateful —Larys replied behind him.
Not long after these words, Alicent heard the shuffling sound of the man's approach. Still unaware of how his presence seemed to be affecting the queen, Alicent swallowed nervously.
An inch of distance separated them. Once it would have meant nothing, but now, now Alicent's world was not the same. Nor was hers. Nowadays she could see a man for what he was, but also for what he could be: a temptation.
She didn't want to be like those other women she had so often mentally pointed out and criticised, she didn't want to be weak to the flesh. May the gods protect her because she did not wish to christen her relationship with Larys in this sinful way. And yet, having him so close made her anxious.
It wasn't right, it wasn't right, it wasn't right.
—If I may be so bold, you look especially radiant tonight.
Larys' words brought a smile to her lips, but also fuelled doubts and brought her a little closer to the precipice.
Before Alicent was able to say a single word, Larys' fingers assaulted her without warning. Long, slender, delicate even, and soft in their own particular way. She felt the touch for mere seconds, the time it had taken him to tuck an unruly lock behind her ear, an instant so fleeting and yet so effective.
Gathering her courage and fighting the maelstrom that was biting her from the gut, Alicent said:
—And you are especially daring.
—Should I have kept silent?
No. Of course not; she confessed to herself.
Alicent looked into his eyes, whose icy blue was a light in the darkness. Then at his lips, which smiled only for her.
This man was a mystery, a puzzle of pieces that didn't fit together. And he shouldn't be, not to her who was the queen, not to Alicent who was her friend.
—So long together and you are still an unknown quantity to me, Lord Larys. Except, of course, for the crimes you are capable of.
He only smiled shyly in response.
—That is quite a compliment, my queen. But I must ask, how could I find the secrets of others if I were unable to hide my own?
He was right, of course. But that didn't stop her from feeling blind in his presence. Alicent was afraid to address whatever it was she was feeling, and the way she saw things, the best way to regain stability was to move towards the light. Towards the truth.
—Our relationship is based on trust, isn't it? —the queen continued—. So why is it so unbalanced?
—Out of respect.
—Out of respect? —repeated Alicent in bewilderment—. Out of respect for whom?
—I am your humble servant —Larys replied with a hand on his chest and a look as tender as a child's—. I listen to you and give you advice you in the best way I know how. I did not think, I did not expect, that you would ever wish to listen to the crippled man's lamentations.
With slow, clumsy steps Larys moved to the other side of Alicent, right behind her. Candle flames fluttering in the sudden rush of air, the fire splitting the shadows that enveloped them.
—You thought wrong —Alicent murmured. Her hands clasped and resting on her stomach, her eyes lowered, her shoulders slumped. She was ashamed.
—Besides, you told me this very night that I was particularly daring. I am not like other men. I am here to serve you as this candle is here to give us its light.
—Larys...
And at her name all other words were put aside, for when Alicent saw him in the candlelight, her inner world, as well as the beliefs that had sustained her, shattered.
—My queen? —he asked.
—Today, of all nights, I allow you to be bold.
And so it was, in a breath, that their lips met. An otherwise stolen kiss, but did Alicent really expect anything else to have happened? Was she really still so naïve? If only, if only it was the latter. But it wasn't.
Larys sighed, her hot breath hitting her still slightly open lips. An apology followed, a shuffling sound and a closing door.
Alicent put her hand to her mouth as she watched the candles dance, and wondered then which of the two was the moth and which the light.
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dyrewrites · 6 months ago
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Sending hugs always!
😈 a character is plotting or acting against another (evil? Just a brat? Your choice!)
Please and thank you!
Fun! And...I have too many options.
So I give this one, wherein I can say one of them is definitely being a brat--and a wee evil depending on your definition I suppose.
->it is long<-
With the peculiar rage icing in his thoughts cooling my hunger, as much as it amplified what I felt of his, I was struck with a twinge of guilt. While the socialites had stoked my fear of becoming the monster—the demon—my mother’s memory kept calling me...it was there, with those two bright, hot pulsing bodies that it burned.
I knew, without a doubt I knew, that Lucient had no plans to leave them breathing. So where did that leave me, and my wretched aching hunger. Would I stop before they did, could I...did I want to?
Ice the eyes that turned on me, yet not for me, begging as they were while his voice came rich as ever, “They are easy prey, treasure, aching for our teeth and I am so very hungry, as are you, yet you hesitate?”
I waited a breath, then another, lip firm in my teeth for that face, those eyes. But I fell to them and pulled him to me, leaving the lovers to continue—ignoring us entirely.
With Lucient's tongue on mine, I still could not answer, but as his fingers dug into my hair, shoving that chill tongue deeper, he asked more, will you deny what we are, my love, or will you feast?
I had no chance to answer—not that I had one, uncertainty popping still.
As the lovers noticed us. Or, rather, one of them did.
The woman’s harsh voice interrupted, stuttering with the steady rhythm of the man inside her, essentially telling whoever was there to take a number, “Ey, si vous cherchez de la compagnie, vous devrez attendre votre tour.”
Lucient’s smoother one sang back, after he separated from me with a wink that worried, “Darling, you can't even keep the man inside you rapt, and you think you can please me?” on her before she had breath to say more, he threw her client towards me and cooed, “Let’s see if your death can manage it.”
In that chill voice and edge of his tone I was held, mesmerized...but aware enough to grab the half-naked man attempting to flee. Slamming said man into the nearest crate, I took him by the throat as he made to scream, but kept eyes on my dream.
“Je serai avec vous dans un instant, monsieur,” I told choking gasps to wait a moment as the man kicked and yanked at my arm—my voice perhaps too distant.
Oh, the hunger scraped, it raked and growled and gnashed its teeth. But I didn’t care, couldn’t, not with what unfolded before me stoking a greater fire.
Up against the wall Lucient pinned the woman and she moaned beneath his teeth, not kicking or squirming but holding—with more passion than she showed her client. And the sight of those hands so tight on his back burned me, but not so much as the leg that rose to hold him closer. His moans sang with hers, hungry if not lustful, but they seared all the same.
I’d not disturb him, starving as he was, as I was.
Yet all my worries of causing death burnt up in those wretched moans and I gripped the man in my hand tighter and tighter until his neck crackled. Weak as his cry sang, it sputtered in my slam of him against the wall—opposite Lucient and the gasping moans of his meal—and died as I tore into the soft flesh between neck and shoulder.
Filthy though his skin, grimy on my teeth as it was on my fingers, I tasted none of it. That salt-sweet life swelled in my veins, as all others, but I wouldn’t take time to savor it and while it soothed the burn of my skin, my blood, every fiber of my being...it wouldn’t cool what those moans set aflame.
Not a spasm of his muscles were enjoyed—barely even noticed—before I jerked free so roughly I took chunks with me. Hunger sated, my muscles yet twitched, my vision jittering as I spit flesh to the ground and dragged him to Lucient.
Tossing my spent meal at his feet, I waited until he finished with his. He dropped her beside mine and I was treated to the quirked grin of my dream—his thoughts bubbling with desires of being my nightmare.
“Well, that was quick,” he cooed, “Was he no good?”
Slamming him into the wall, in the precise spot he’d had the woman seconds before, I pinned his arms to his sides but didn’t speak.
He did, “Something I said...or, perhaps, did?”
“Testing me again,” I didn’t ask and my attempt not to growl a curse failed miserably, “Tu fottuto monello geloso.”
“Mm, your jealous brat,” he cooed, repeating the insult while carefully omitting my curse, “and I had my reasons. You were hesitating, treasure, about to taste without eating. Again. All the blood you’ve spilled and still you refuse to accept what you are, what we are.” Wriggling his arms free, he gasped as I snatched his wrists, pinning them above him, still he smiled, kept his cooing tone, “We’re predators, meant to kill and feast on the lesser creatures around us. You felt it in Seville, and again in the colonies, I know you did—even ached to devour our crew. You’re not human anymore, my love, you can let the shallow, nagging morality that short, fragile existence forced you into die.”
--
->Taglist<-
// feel free to ask to be added or removed ^.- //
@watermeezer @starbuds-and-rosedust @thespacelizard
@your-absent-father @mr-orion @cowboybrunch @olliexwrites
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observeroflaplace · 11 months ago
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Part 6 - Origins Ever After
Proxy.  That’s what that thing said.
My mind races to the letters on my back that Shelke pointed out.  That she could only make out part of them.  That some were faded or obscured.
[…R O X Y  S A T Y P…]
I knew the name Roxy was nothing more than a make-do label.  I knew it wasn’t even a real name.  I knew I hadn’t so much as worn it for more than a few turns of the sun.
Still, it felt as though something within my heart shattered.  The glass dug into my soul, and from its wounds, I wept in place.  I screamed from the bottom of my diaphragm.
How did this thing know what I was?  Did it know my past?  Did I even possess one to begin with?  Deep down, as I asked these questions, in the pit of my stomach, in the core of my very being, I knew the truth.  A truth which on some level, I had been avoiding.
I was not born of this star, nor of its people.  I was no more than a golem shaped from the clay of this thing’s putrid flesh and cast into the world.
“It appears that you have successfully developed, archetype S.A. Type.  Partial core activation… How very familiar.  It appears then, that I was wrong to cast you out as a failure too soon.  Perhaps that is our fate…”
The thing slithered forwards into a leaning position above me to peer closer.  The shell of pearlescent metal simply thudded, lifeless, like a great coffin attempting to bury it.
“Undoubtedly you have questions of your creation…”
The thing’s back lurched and swole like a puss-filled cyst, expanding slowly until it grew to the size of the warped torso smirking at me.
“No?  But your core’s data would lack the knowledge of the project..  Or perhaps, you’ve simply realised on your own?  Still, I shall banish all of your doubts.”
The protrusion began to pulse, separately from “his” own heartbeat.
It eventually stopped, and from it dropped a lifeless body that fell to the floor with a distinct “thud”.  It lay there, motionless, save for slow, methodical breathing.  
I gazed upon it.
The strands of off-red hair.  Scarlet eyes.  The slender and middling build and height.
It was me.
“A piteous and jealous man once clamored after everything the former Legatus of the VIIth wielded.  Power, a family of followers… and the Ultima Weapon.  His early attempts at mockeries of that Allagan device lay beyond his reach, and he knew this.  He knew the limits of his intellect.  Thus it dawned upon him; if combat data could construct the strategies and performance of combatants, then surely one such Warmachina could simulate the great mind of a scientist who fell in the Ala Mhigan revolution.  Of my mind.”
I tried to glare at him.  I could only feel myself blink.
“Regrettably, this shell of mine was little more than a winged prison.  The pilot’s skills and the body’s mobility were at odds.  She crashed, and with it, almost doomed me before my birth.  We were abandoned shortly thereafter.  It appears my consciousness had not fully developed, even when my core, the Synthetic Auracite within me, began to stir.  It took moons for my brilliant mind to piece the fragments together, but piece them together it did.  I evolved, taking what I needed from her withering body.  If nothing else, she provided valuable nutrients before her time was up.”
So then, that was it.  Perhaps that is why this amalgam’s spawn appeared as it did.
“Know that despite the many fragmented cores left in my care for development, that you are in the presence of Aulus Mal Asina.  The pinnacle of Garlean minds, reborn.  But we can both agree that this vessel will hardly do; and so it is without question that I sought to transfer my core to a smaller, more mobile vessel.  Some functionality will of course be lost in a smaller core; you are testament to that.  No matter, Sas Aurum.  I shall yet iterate.”
“Sas Aurum”.  The name of a Tribunus.  One who fell in battle during the civil war, following the mad prince’s ascension.
Sviette Sas Aurum.  The Grey Jackal.
One whose eyes I gazed through.  Whose hands held her blade as she did.  Whose might and skill and equipment were bestowed unto me as memory.  As a mere fake.  A shadow on the wall, mistaken for a chosen one of the realm.
Was it a coincidence then?  Was the Viera I glimpsed in passing her?  Her name was similar, I think.  Was my first friendship simply the result of my crude emulation of another?
Rather than wail, I shouted, though my lips did not curl them into words.  They did, however, twist into a snarl.
“I alone understand your anguish, Sas Aurum.  We who are born from the shadows of others have no hope of escaping them.  Know that it is foolish to turn your fury to me, my puppet.  And know that by defying the odds and serving my rebirth, you have my gratitude… And my pride.”
I spit.  I twitch and I struggle.
“Thank you, for your services…”
Aulus lowers his gaze.  It is clear he isn’t willing to take any chances with my resistance, as a Vulcan cannon whirs to life, fighting against the rubble to open from a hatch.  Likely the only weapon which could be wielded at such close range that was not buried into the dirt.  Certainly enough for a stationary target, and a normal soldier at that.
“…a…stard..!”
Unfortunately for him, I doubt any of the artificial soldiers whose cores were left for him to raise were ordinary.  Her, not least.
Caught by surprise, he fires at me.  A translucent projection of Hoplites, resembling her - my original - stood firm against the spraying bullets.  They wouldn’t last forever; but neither would Aulus’ invisible shackles.
[…Initiating Oversoul.  Initialisation Complete.]
The phantom warriors fell and scattered into motes of so much aether, but not before one used her large build to hurl me into the air.  The Vulcan cannon whirred and spun, trying to chase me through the air as friction cost me speed.  Still, I had a plan.
I prayed and willed another phantom to life.  She shoved me forward, and herself back in game; covering me momentarily from the gunfire.  A tactic which, perhaps, would be foolhardy, even fatal if performed inadequately.
I was ready, however.  Ready, and with the luck of some devil from the void.
Her strength threw me up in the air, approaching the warmachina’s apex…
And then I began to fall.
Aulus smirks as I descend; seemingly not far enough to reach him, and without enough time to launch another cross-strike.
Instead, however, I surprise him with another technique of the Grey Jackal’s.
I thrust my blade forward, still wreathed in blue flames.  It was a long shot, as I knew not if his core remained in the lattice of flesh and steel within the cockpit, or had forced its way up through his protruding torso.
Still, the flames extended forth from my blade, in a concentrated Lance of flame and plasma, striking right through his heart, as I fell to the dirt.
Stunned, he gazed upon me.
“How dare you..!  A mere puppet..!”
A cacophony of voices rang out from his speakers.  I couldn’t make out what they said.  
[Critical error-] [Opal Weapon systems breached-] [Core Failure Immi-] [Initiate So-] [Error…]. […elf Destruct Sequence in…]
I had no chance to climb up the smooth armour of the Warmachina to reach him from here, nor did I have a chance to pierce its armour even with that technique.
The gun, unable to reach me this close, whirred to a stop.
I had little time to check if he was truly dead.
I willed more phantoms in my retreat, following the path I painstakingly must have plucked free to where I fell from.
The Phantoms aided my climb, and not a moment too soon.  I barely made it atop more of the rubble before I heard an almost deafening explosion.  Almost.  Perhaps my hearing felt unusually sensitive..?
The Phantoms aiding my climb began to fade as my strength failed me.  Despite everything, despite learning that I was nothing more than a puppet to a puppet, I didn’t want to die.
…and then a pair of hands gripped my own.  One which despite appearances, felt metal.  Mechanical.  Another, far shorter but no less strong, and adorned with black scales, pulled me up.
Two familiar faces smirked at me as I aly on solid dirt above ground at last. One winked at me with his only uncovered eye, nearly shoving me to the ground as he dusted off my shoulder.
"You still alive, Rox? Heh, don't worry, I hear medical leave's good."
I drew breath deeply and slowly, finally realising how tense I had been until that point.  Not simply in battle, not simply today.  While my answers were in some ways grim, I finally had them; and could finally unwind.
If things ended there, if my life could simply continue in that direction, perhaps things would have been better.  Perhaps I wouldn’t need to scrawl this all down so hastily.  If only.
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vid-writes · 1 month ago
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The Truth Will Out (Ch. 14)
As always this story is for adults only!
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"Do you have to hold my head for this to work?" I asked the god before me.
"The truth comes from the brain so, yes," Shudmos replied as he opened the door to an oddly normal office space.
"That's freaky," I whispered as he led us into the room.
"Did you think I was taking you to some crazy media room with cameras, a make-up team, lighting, and a director? There's no need for theater in the face of the truth, dear Flora. Sit, please." He gestured to the plush green chairs on this side of his giant oak desk.
I sat down in one of the chairs and looked around the room. Aside from the desk, which had a computer, many typical office things filled the room. A few shelves with various books on them lined the wall to my right. Art decorated the walls in numerous styles, landscapes, portraits, abstract, and minimalistic stuff. A plush couch, two armchairs, and a table in between decorated the farthest side of the room. It was freaky that a god in the flesh kept such a human-like office.
"I stand by my previous statement," I reiterated, "this office is freaky knowing that it belongs to you."
Shudmos just smiled.
He sat in the seat next to mine and remained unnervingly silent. The minutes stretched out before there were three short knocks on his door.
"Come in," Shudmos called.
The doors opened, and a woman with flowing green hair wheeled a cart with supplies into the room.
"The video supplies you requested, Lord Shudmos." She bowed before exiting the room and pulling the door closed before her.
"We would be truly lost without Peninnah to keep the trains running on time," Shudmos commented as he examined the stuff on the cart. He held up a regular video camera, and I almost laughed.
He was an all-powerful god, and he was holding such a human piece of technology. To think Shudmos would prefer this over some type of psychic communication or something. Truly freaky.
"Alright, dear Flora, give me a few minutes and let me know if you need anything before we get started," Shudmos said.
"You're being weirdly nice even though you're still speaking with two voices." I tensed a bit as he fumbled the camera he was trying to mount to a tripod.
"Oh, was I? I hadn't noticed." His voice resorted back to the cold tone I had grown used to at first. 
"It's still a little hard to maintain myself and this vessel separately from each other sometimes," he added nonchalantly.
"You figure, after several millennia, you'd have a better grasp on your vessel." He glared at me as he finished plugging the camera into the sleek computer on his desk.
"Are you always going to be a mouthy brat?"
"Surprisingly, I didn't use to be before someone kidnapped and tortured me," I retorted.
"Well, lucky for you, once we are done, you can return to some semblance of freedom," he commented as he pulled up several applications on his computer.
"Will I be allowed to leave?" My hands drummed idly on the arms of my chair, and I noticed some blood stains on my dress. The dark reddish brown circles and splatters made the yellow look almost cruel.
"You can, but I doubt you'll want to," he said. Shudmos circled the desk to sit in the chair next to me, and I studied his face instead of the blood on my dress.
His lips weren't the usual full, pillowy kissable lips the sexy bad guys had in romance novels, but they weren't so thin they didn't exist. Shudmos' eyes and their nearly white irises weren't as haunting to look at for me as they might be for some, having grown up being chased around by Fergus. Shudmos sketched his long, thick eyebrows as he noticed me studying his face.
"See something you like?" He grinned.
"As if," I scoffed.
"Let's get this over with, shall we? Then you can have one of your goons show me where I can get a shower and a change of clothes. Maybe a hot meal, too." I straightened my skirt to hide the bloodstain as much as possible since I couldn't see how much of my body the desk blocked from the camera.
"If you choose to stay, I expect your family and friends will try to free you or join you. How we handle them will depend entirely on how they behave. Do you understand this?" He raised his eyebrows at me again.
"You've opened my eyes to some impossible truths, with evidence to boot. My only concern is that you don't kill my little brother no matter how he behaves," I said.
"He is the only exception I'm allowing you to ask for. Once this video has been uploaded to the internet, I will release the rest of the prisoners. They will not be healed, I will not return any personal belongings save for the beast's amulet, and they will be dumped in an undisclosed location."
My heart hammered inside of my chest. So much had changed, and so much had happened, yet so much was still to come. I knew one thing without a shadow of a doubt, once I exposed Kari's family secret with irrefutable proof, his parents would call the engagement off, so it would make things easier on my family if I got ahead of that. Considering all the issues I was about to cause in their lives, I owed them that much.
"They made their choices," was all I said.
Shudmos nodded and leaned across the desk. He pressed a few keys, and the red light on the camera lit up.
"Good day to you if you are watching this. My name is Shudmos, God of Truth. Some of you may have heard of me through folktales, children's stories, or even whispered rumors as of late. Let me assure you I am very real." His eyes glowed bright white, and the change happened seamlessly this time. "As you see before you and, as experts will tell you once they've verified that this video is all too real, I am also real." He flexed his wings as his dual voices filled every centimeter of the room.
"As you can see before you, I have a new friend here with me," Shudmos mentioned as he motioned towards me. "Your eyes do not deceive you this is indeed Princess Flora Dewberry Whitehand beside me. She is, as of late, here of her own free will."
I scoffed softly.
"However, I know you will not be willing to take my word for it, so I will show you my powers of truth with Miss Whitehand's assistance," he said. His hand reached out and touched the top of my head. The normal warmth of his skin leeched into my hair, and I suppressed a shudder.
"Tell us who you are," he commanded.
"My name is Flora Dewberry Whitehand; I am the eldest born of the Vrathian Kingdom, and I wasn't here of my own free will at first." Shudmos glared at me as both his hand and my body glowed white. "I am now here of my own free will after learning information that will shock all of you to your cores." The white glow remained.
"Now tell us a lie so they may see how that power works," Shudmos instructed.
"I like ketchup on my burgers," I blurted out the first thing I could think of.
The glow turned black. Shudmos laughed.
A real laugh. A laugh with two voices to bring to life filled every part of my body. I stared at him in pure awe.
"It is with some regret and a newfound anger that I will be ending my engagement to the eldest son of the Kroqalin Kingdom, Kari Szakata Torvalur." The white glow returned, and I took a deep breath to center myself as I felt my powers return to my body. "This man and his family harbors a dark secret. One they claim to have no true knowledge of and yet proof of the contrary sits beside me." I gestured to Shudmos.
After that, the information dam broke. I revealed the secret about Kari's bloodline, my capture and subsequent torture, the information Shudmos provided me, the way he healed me, and even that he was incredibly kind now that I knew the truth. Shudmos even spoke to confirm things on his own, and the white glow surrounded his body anytime he did. Once everything was out I sat back, now accustomed to the weight of this god's hand on my head, and heaved a sigh of relief.
"That felt like the right thing to do," I said.
"That's because it was," Shudmos agreed as he removed his hand from my head. In the absence of the hand, my head grew a little cold and felt oddly lighter.
"Now, about that bath." I grinned and stretched in my chair.
"I wasn't expecting you to want to stay, so the only chambers prepared to something you're used to are mine," he offered. "There are several empty bedrooms, but only a few have washrooms, and none other than mine have a tub."
I groaned. Of course.
"Can you ditch the weird dual voice and give me privacy once I am in the bath?" I asked.
"I will wait outside the outermost set of doors to give you privacy, but I will stand guard over you until you're less new here. Wouldn't want you wandering into someone's room and seeing something you don't want to see," he replied with the warmer of the two voices. The absence of the cold voice was startling.
"Gross."
He chuckled, "Come on."
Chin deep, in hot water and bubbles, I found myself oddly relaxed. I mean, I was being tortured a couple of hours ago. And okay, my engagement was over. But since my whole life was based on lies from people I was supposed to trust, I wasn't giving myself the space for guilt. They had known of Shudmos in some capacity when I was thirteen; I distinctly remember Cillian mentioning his name and how the shadows had whispered rumors of his growing threat. Yet they continued to raise me blindly and allowed me to ally myself with monsters.
When Shudmos revealed what Kari's ancestors had done, I puked into the trashcan next to his desk and made Shudmos promise not to edit out that part so people would know that I had just learned that information at the same time as them. They deserved my sympathy, the innocents of many kingdoms who were manipulated and lied to by all of the royalty of this continent. I stretched my whole body out and then pushed myself to my feet.
After I dried off and wrapped myself in a nearby bathrobe, I made my way to the outer set of doors to Shudmos' chambers.
"You better not tell me we have to share the same bed," I said in greeting as I opened the doors.
"You wish," he scoffed as he pushed past me.
"Ah, good old cold Mos is back," I teased.
"Do not call me by some shortened version of my name like we are friends," he snapped. Something told me now wasn't the time to push the subject.
"I'll sleep on the couch out here in front of the fireplace," I offered softly.
Shudmos stopped midway to his bed chamber and turned to me, "Nonsense, you will sleep in the bed."
"You're much taller than me and need the space," I countered.
"And you're a willing guest in my home and will take the comfortable bed. Tomorrow, I will assign you the closest room to mine so you have access to my bath at night. And for the love of my fellow gods, knock before you enter and wait for a reply. You might walk in on something you don't want to see," he said, and his tone left no room for argument.
He returned from his bed chamber a minute later with pillows and a blanket for himself. Captivated, I watched as he set up the couch.
"Stop staring at me, mortal," he snipped.
"It's freaky," I whispered.
"Everything is freaky to you," he retorted.
"Whatever." I turned and headed to his bed chamber. The large bed sprawled almost the entire length of the left wall. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Flora."
Just for good measure, I closed the doors between the two rooms before I climbed into bed. If Shudmos had to pee, he could hold it or find one of his floosies and use her washroom.
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magaprima · 4 months ago
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"Not for long," Lilith answered honestly. "Not without extreme measures." While Lucifer was subdued, his power muted, by being trapped in a flesh Acheron, Lilith was under no illusion of just how dangerous he would still be if he awoke. The only certainty for her safety lay in extreme measures; Damascus steal chains, celestial binding sigils and taking away his ability to speak. She doubted Zelda would be comfortable with any of it but, if the former Dark Lord did awaken, there'd be no choice. Not if the woman wanted to keep her family safe; all of whom would be in as much danger as Lilith for the part they played in his imprisonment.
"Which is why," she continued, "we need to ensure we don't. It is best for all of us that Lucifer remains unaware and undisturbed by our plans. But if you practice, and if we move carefully, he shouldn't realise until it's too late." She only hoped Zelda was as competent as she came across. She had managed to cast a successful Acheron and she was managing to separate Lucifer's mind from her own; both skills were as good a start as any.
"So we'll start with someone unimportant, someone's whose mind is so incredibly empty that Lucifer is unlikely to even notice its presence." And Lilith had just the demon in mind for the job. "Now..." She looked at Zelda with vague amusement. "I hope you're not squeamish"
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Zelda gave a withering look. Of course she didn't wish to remain entrapped with Satan himself inside of her mind. She wasn't so delusional to think she could keep him dormant forever, and she desperately wanted to go back to her family. Zelda worries after them more and more as the hours passed. It had been the same when she had been cursed and stuck in Rome with Faustus, not knowing how she could help Ambrose avoid execution.
And then she had heard about the angel attack. She had felt powerless. Yet at least now she had an ally of sorts in Lilith.
"And what happens if we do wake him? Will you be able to subdue him," she asked, rather worried what the answer would be. She knew had been taking on an incredible risk volunteering herself to be the acheron, but she refused to believe it would be her end. She'd simply have to be an attentive student tot he first witch.
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yaatuk · 2 years ago
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HEADCANON #1 : IF I AM ANYTHING, IT IS VIOLENCE.
to properly put a clear separation between shaak's relationship with violence and her mental illness (without demonizing it) while drawing parallels with duo's azula and ozai // joel and ellie for the relationship with her father. it needs to be made clear that shaak's origins were violent by circumstance and nature through the sacrifice of blood and flesh and then formed by powerful reality altering (eldritch) magic that could not be undone or reabsorbed.
Aman is her father without a doubt. Biologically and magically. Long story short, he created her with his magic and his blood and as a result it's what led them to being on the run. Shaak's birth is appropriately described as "unnatural" And a "cosmic disruption" in the natural order. So much so that the varient council and sorcerer supreme from marvel would be after them both.
Aman needed a living vessel in the form of a newborn baby (he probably assumed it would be a boy, considering it is his blood and flesh that he sacrificed to make it happen) to carry on his "legacy" and while he didn't mean it in a "spreading his seed to different women way" and in more of a "we are the only people that can handle and do what others cannot" it's still a mindset that fueled her delusion of being "the chosen one" / "I have to do this to make my father proud, no matter the cost" when going on her journey.
This isnt to say that their relationship is just exactly like Ozai and Azula. It's kind of the opposite in terms of Aman doing the best he can as a single parent and actually having a good relationship with his daughter (emotionally nurturing too) but at the same time, he did have to lie to protect her or at least in his mind, lying was the only way to protect her.
Even then though, her schizophrenia / psychosis is the result of her father's actions (both good and bad ones) and the environment she had to grow up in as a 15 year old who had no choice but to take the responsibility as chief of her village after a devasting loss and had to prepare for war.
Back to WHAT shaak is. She's an eldritch horror / abomination and a Chiropteran. Her entire existence (down to the biology in both) revolves around violence in the complex frame of survival, instinct (nature vs nurture) and choice. The violence of her story is meant to have to have a purpose inside and outside of who she is even as a inconceivable horror.
Basically, violence by choice / violence by circumstances / violence by instinct -- all of these underlying things have fueled and blurred her perception on reality, her morals and goals and has even made her think differently of herself. That being said, I hope brought more of a profound reason to why violence is an important part to her story and character arc without demonizing or blaming her mental illness in any way.
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starseneyes · 2 years ago
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Romitri - Rose / Dimitri - Vampire Academy - Season 1 - Ep 8
Welcome to my Meta for episode 8 of Season 1 of Vampire Academy on Peacock! If you’d like to catch up:
Episodes 1-5 Meta
Episode 6 Meta
Episode 7 Meta
SPOILER ALERT: I will spoil absolutely everything. So, reader beware. I haven’t yet read the books, so feel free to fill in the blanks, if you like!
All set? Great! Let’s dive in.
The Trials
Talk about a name of an episode having a million meanings. Yes, obviously there’s the Royal Trials. But there’s also the trial of Romitri, of Dragonzera, of Dimitri’s faith, of Rose’s resolve, and of how far a person is willing to go for what they want.
Look, coming into this episode, I was ready for bad. Like, really bad.
I actually predicted the “big minute 41 twist” based on telegraphing earlier in the season, and it was actually more tame than I expected. I knew this episode was going to hurt. And it did. Did it hurt so good? Or just burn away the last shreds of hope? Let’s dive in to find out.
“I’ll have another.”
We find Rose at the bar, the camera paying special attention to her Molnija mark... a mark left permanently on her flesh by the blood of her friend, and the ink of her almost-lover.
Rose is drinking away her sorrows. But her imagination is getting away with her, along with her liquor. Mason’s the one to find her and carry her out of there. She holds onto him as they go.
Now, I’ve seen some people compare this to Dimitri carrying her home. There are some parallels, sure. I think this week we’re going to see Rose seeing Mason there for her when Dimitri isn’t, and even though she doesn’t love Mason, it’s enough for her to lean into him. He’s something stable when everything else in her life has gone to sh*t.
“Lately I’ve been feeling... unmoored. Have you ever doubted any of it? All of it?”
Dimitri is feeling lost, and repulsive as Tatiana is, we know that she is manipulating him. She’s presenting herself as a “kindred spirit”, as someone to whom he can relate. She wants him to share information with him. She wants him to open up. She wants to get something she can use against him or someone else. This is what she does.
But Dimitri doesn’t see it. Because right now he needs someone to anchor him in his faith, again.
Belief systems are tricky, and when you come up in a very restrictive one, any step out of line can feel like the most egregious sin. I can speak to this personally, and I find it so strange that much as I relate to Rose, there are moments I actually relate more to Dimitri.
Trust me, he’s lost. He’s faltering and flailing, and without the foundational functionality of his faith, he finds himself wondering who he is. Who is he without his structure? He honestly doesn’t know.
“But if faith were easy, it wouldn’t need to be practiced.”
It’s exactly what he needs to hear. He needs someone to help him feel rooted, again. Tatiana is an instrument in his convincing himself that he can go backwards. He needs to believe that he can separate himself from Rose, that he can move on as before, that he can still be the golden boy.
Because a part of him needs this.
He needs the rigidity to convince himself he’s a good person. Dimitri’s faith and life negate the acceptance of gray. You’re either a good soldier or might as well be Strigoi.
Tatiana is filling a space in his life right now. We all know what she truly is. We all know what she wants, ultimately. But, he can’t see it, right now. Because she is what he needs her to be in this moment—a voice of reason. Or so he believes.
Rose Takes Off After Dimitri
Besides the convenience of Plot, I have no idea what Dimitri is doing over in this area, especially just strolling around, but Rose loses her thoughts when she sees him. She wants to talk to him.
And Meredith and Mason are so aware that something’s up. They’re both annoyed with Rose for taking off in the middle of something important.
But Dimitri is important, too.
And she wants to talk to him. But by the time she gets out there, he’s gone. It’s so indicative of where they are right now. They can’t even be together in the safety of the sun. She can see him through the glass, but she can’t reach him. He’s unreachable to her, now.
Rose Runs from Lissa
You can tell which one hurt worse.
Look, I’m not saying she doesn’t love Dimitri, but Lissa was her ride-or-die best friend, and Lissa’s rejection hurt a thousand times worse. Lissa took away Rose’s agency by trying to protect her.
And as Meredith and Mason look to one another, it’s clear they want to know what’s going on with Rose. They’re all growing closer as the season goes on, but Rose is shutting everyone out. Everything hurts and she can’t reopen wounds right now.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I’m not talking to anyone else, because you are still the person that I trust.”
I love how she knows his routes. She could just join him, and know exactly where he was going to be. It’s such a nice detail.
“There’s more going on around here than you think, including possible treason.”
She’s trying to appeal to him, to get him to listen to her, to get him to help her. But he’s riding on the high of Tatiana’s affirmation.
Look, when you have a belief system your entire life that you’ve woven into the core of your being, it’s hard to know who you are without it. It’s hard to know how to exist if it’s not the center, any longer.
I’ve seen it happen with many people who grew up in a belief system that was constricting and confining, but felt like a snug embrace. Breaking out of that is not easy and it’s not instant. Sometimes, people balk and push back against it.
That’s where Dimitri is right now. He’s pushing back against Rose and her challenging of everything he knows. He’s trying to burrow back into his belief.
“Come on! I know you think we shouldn’t be talking right now, but-” “It’s not what I think. It’s what has to be.”
And he really thinks he has a handle on it—control. He thinks that if he can cut her off like a bad drug, he’ll be fine and she’ll be fine. But, note how he stopped when she called him out. All it took was her tonal shift, and he totally stopped in his tracks.
“I’ve put you at risk. I’ve all but put Lissa at risk.”
He’s keeping his distance, not closing the space between them like he ordinarily would (even before they became snogging buddies). He’s trying to rationalize all the things he has done wrong. He thinks he has a sin to atone for. He thinks that what he’s done is unforgivable and he needs to somehow atone.
All he did was fall in love.
But love isn’t allowed. Not between Damphirs. It’s a fantasy.
“I recall. I was there making my own choices.”
Rose is the one to step forward, to eliminate a little of the distance between them, to try to remind him that she’s a capable woman and that he didn’t do anything to her. She had a choice at every turn.
Their first kiss was mostly her, for goodness sake. She never asked him to stop because she wanted it all. She was the one drawing him out to dance.
“Were you? The only reason you think you have a choice is because you were raised by a powerful Moroi family who pretended that you being a Damphir didn’t matter.”
Ouch. I think of Alexei and Eloise... Alexei was “an influential Royal” so they looked the other way. They were allowed to marry. They were allowed love. But the second Alexei was gone, Eloise went straight to the Communes. The reality that she was a Damphir never disappeared... it only dissipated so long as Alexei lived.
Dimitri is right, of course. He grew up in a completely different way. Angry as Rose is at her mother, she had the Dragomirs. Dimitri had a single mother in the Communes with younger sisters to take care of. He had abuse. He had trauma.
His faith was the anchor to get him through.
“Maybe if I’d had that, I’d believe that I could do anything, too. But I don’t.”
I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe I have a choice. I don’t believe I can be trusted with choice.
He’s so lost. Dimitri is lost.
Remember his words from the last episode, “I shouldn’t have let this happen” in relations to Lissa and Adrian seeing the Heretic... as though that would have changed anything or taken away their Spirit Magic and the truth of their Saints. Somehow, Dimitri makes everything his fault.
It’s a special kind of trauma... and he’s digging deeper into it, now. Rose wants to smack him out of it, but there are talons hidden beneath the sinking sand that hook into Dimitri, tearing at him with every one of Rose’s well-meant tugs.
“All I have is this life and the faith that has helped me endure it.”
He never dreamt of another life... until Rose... until she showed him he could find joy in freedom. He accepted the life he’d been dealt, and after seeing the slip of control in a moment’s hesitation... he’s clinging hard to this life, for better or worse.
“I can’t lose that, Rose.”
But can you lose her? Can you really lose Rose completely and not be fractured forever?
The stupid man thinks he can push her away, that she’ll be fine, that he’ll be fine. He’s so busy rationalizing his sins that he’s forgotten how to feel. He’s acting on reason while she’s appealing to his heart that he’s locked away, tighter than ever.
He speaks to her as an equal, here, which is significant. But, he’s speaking to a wall as much as she is. Rose is all emotion, right now, despite trying to have a reasonable conversation.
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you. It’s that I can’t.”
He’s outlining a blueprint for survival and she’s aching for poetry. She steps a little closer, and he almost imperceptibly pulls back... away from the temptation. Away from everything he truly wants.
“This faith that you’re holding onto with a death grip is supporting an unfair system that is never going to change. Maybe you should be the one who does.” “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
F*ck off, Tatiana. But, the b*tch knows how to choose her moment.
Sorry, y’all, I’m really saucy about her. (and she is BRILLIANTLY written and performed) But, she was most definitely listening in, because if Dimitri was going to consider any of Rose’s words, it might have been this. Instead, he’s redirected to his anchor.
Remember, he’s feeling unmoored. He’s looking for an anchor... even if it sinks him to the depths and leaves him to drown. He’s not thinking that far ahead. He wants the same comfort and solace he sought at the altar after the death of his best friend—and he’s found it temporarily in Tatiana.
All by her design, of course, but Dimitri’s being a bit of a stupid boy at the moment.
“I came to watch you train. I want to see what I’m putting all my faith in.” “Faith in what? What for?”
Rose gives no sh*ts about Tatiana being a Royal. Remember, she grew up with the love of the Dragomirs, so she’s probably long been aware of Tatiana being a venomous snake. She has no need to show her respect, despite the societal norms that demand she should.
“Guardian Belikov has agreed to be my champion in the second trial, the trial by Proxy.”
Dimitri’s looking away. He knows Rose and he knows she isn’t going to like this.
But Rose doesn’t understand my faith so she doesn’t understand why I’d do this for Tatiana.
It’s “the othering” that Tatiana does so well. She does it with the Royals and she does it here with Dimitri. She’s great at separating people and creating divides. She’s trying to divide these two.
“He won’t beat Dimitri, but I can. I know how he thinks, how he moves. I understand him better than anyone. I will win this, so pick me.”
Rose can’t let Tatiana be Queen. Dimitri wasn’t there when she and the other Novices overheard Tatiana’s plans for Damphirs on the Royal Tour. And Dimitri won’t listen to her. As far as she’s concerned, he’s drunk the Duty Koolaid, especially if he’s going to back a sniveling, manipulative, abusive, madwoman like Tatiana.
And—let’s be honest—she wants to beat the sh*t out of him.
The Fight
Why the f*ck are there clowns? I mean, just why!? As someone who grew up terrified of the things... that was jarring and bizarre. Royals are into some kinky stuff, friends.
“When are you going to tell me what she did that hurt so much?” “I have a fight to prepare for.”
Rose is playing off that it’s just Lissa that’s got her off, but we all know it’s Lissa and Dimitri that’s got her off her game. And Rose doesn’t tell these things to Mason.
Because, despite it all, Dimitri is still the one she trusts.
And I feel for Mason because he is all-in as far as Rose is concerned. He’s the one helping her get ready for the fight. He really is being there for her this entire episode in a selfless way. It’s very sweet, but your heart breaks for the kid because we all know that at worst, he’s the one she settles for. And he deserves to be with someone who sees him as he sees her.
“And Lord Dashkov has selected Novice Rose Hathaway.”
This is the first time Dimitri’s hearing this. Up until this moment, he’s been in a Rose-free headspace, prepared to fight for Faith and what’s right against whoever Victor chose. Choosing Rose has thrown a wrench in Dimitri’s plans for the night. Shrouded in darkness, he turns around to see her—completely still, bathed in red like blood.
Lissa looks to Christian in surprise. She didn’t see this coming, and last she knew these two were an item. Now they’re going to fight?
Dimitri tries to take a steadying breath, but this is his worst nightmare. For the sake of duty, he needs to harm the woman he loves.
F*ck duty.
“What are you doing here?”
Rose looks over to Tatiana who gives her a measured look. Tatiana didn’t expect this.
“I’m here to beat some sense into you.”
Not her. Do what you need to do. Do your duty. But if you’re going to do this, you need to understand the monster you’re doing it for.
Dimitri once said he wouldn’t bet against Rose Hathaway. I’m hoping everyone here who was betting was smart enough to bet on her.
Look, I know some have said, “Rose needs this fight”. But this is different. It’s not that simple. Yes, she wants to beat the crap out of him. Yes, she’s hurting. But she also needs to convince herself that he’s not her person anymore.
If he does hit duty, here, she can finally let go of him in her heart, right? She can finally see him as irredeemable. She can finally embrace Mason without feeling guilty.
And Rose throws the first blow, taking him off-guard.
They battle. They move. They grab one another’s chins, trying to gain control of the moment.
“Tatiana Vogel is everything I hate about this place.” “I do what I’m told.” “Right. Your fucking duty.”
Rose is raw, but she is trying to make a point. And he’s missing it. He’s clinging so hard to what makes sense to him that he’s failing to see how none of it actually makes sense. He’s convinced himself that it does.
“Why are you doing this?” “Apparently, it’s the only way you’ll listen.”
He’s horrified, here. Remember, his worst fear is that he’s a violent menace like his father. Rose hasn’t considered that when she decided to do this—or if she has, she’s pushed it so far out of her mind as to think her actions are justified.
But this is sending him spiraling worse than before while she’s trying so hard to pull him to steady ground.
“You want me to stop? Win.”
And there it is. Do your duty. If he does his duty, then it proves he’s too far gone... that she can let go. Do your duty.
“You’re taking it easy on me.” “Or maybe you’re just that good.” “Bullshit.”
This throws me back to the Benchmarks, when Mason told her that Dimitri went easy on her. And then Dimitri told her he was going to come harder for her the next time. She’s looking for the holes. She’s looking for justification. She’s looking for something to make the pain stop as much as he is.
He thinks he can anchor to Tatiana and find peace in his prayers. She thinks she can untether from Dimitri and find release in her wrists.
They’re both thinking past one another instead of working together, and we know that they need each other more than they know. They’re both spiraling in their separate cyclones, too scared and stupid to reach out and steady one another.
“What kind of champion refuses to fight?” “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He grabs onto her face, demonstrating the real control he could wield over her... He’s capable of it. He keeps it at bay. He keeps it locked up. He banishes it. But he is trying to make the point and get through to her.
But he touches a nerve instead.
“It’s too late.”
He has hurt her. He’s gutted her in ways she didn’t know she could still hurt after losing the Dragomirs and dealing with all the other sh*t of her life.
“Your honor as a champion is on the line here, comrade. Come on. Our duty won’t let us be together? Then do your fucking duty.”
She’s taunting him, pushing him, enticing him to fight. But that last bit touches a nerve. It hurts. It aches. It burns. And it bursts out of him before he can wrestle it back. He hits her with an uppercut, sending her flying and Tatiana cheering.
He’s watching Rose hurt... suffer... struggle. And somehow the physical act has finally broken through his understanding. I hurt her. Yes, you did, Dimitri. And Tatiana is cheering you on, applauding your efforts, as you hurt the woman you love.
Dimitri breaks.
He completely breaks. He closes his eyes and accepts his fate as she comes for him. Because he will accept whatever punishment she dolls out. He will allow whatever she wishes to make this right.
I deserve this.
He truly believes it. And he thinks that he can atone for it right here and now instead of working through the muck, instead of putting in the effort, instead of fighting for what’s good and right in the world. Because everything he believes and understands is tethered to a system of oppression and abuse that he’s embraced as gospel.
And it’s something that happens so often to trauma victims, especially those with childhood trauma. We sometimes grab onto something that gives us structure without realizing it’s constricting us, tightening around us like a serpent ready to snap.
“That’s what I thought.”
And Rose is so wrapped in her own pain that she doesn’t see his. Doesn’t realize it’s breaking him. She sees the man who hurt her and not the man who is also hurting.
The bell is rung. She’s won the fight. But it’s not enough for Rose. She wants him to fight her. She wants him to give her that excuse she needs to finally let him go. She’s pent up on anger, aggression, and heartache.
“Fight back!”
But he won’t fight her. He can’t. He won’t.
Because in this moment he chose Rose.
And he will always choose Rose... even when she can’t see it.
He shakes his head... he’s not fighting her.
She hits him. And hits him. And it finally hits her that she’s going too far. All eyes are on her... and on the beating she’s giving a fellow Damphir.
Lissa looks to Mason, as does Meredith. Mason can only mouth, “I don’t know.”
Because nobody knows. Rose doesn’t talk about these things. She doesn’t talk about her hurt. She doesn’t talk about her pain. If she had a person, Dimitri was that person... and her person is the one currently on the ground bleeding... and she’s the one who put him there.
“You’re a fucking mess, Rose.”
Poor Mason. He is being a good friend. And he deeply cares about her. And she does need help, whether she wants it or not. And he’s smart enough to realize he’s not the one to give it.
“I came to apologize. I should not have begun that fight knowing there was no way I could do what I had to do to win.”
Technically, Rose started that fight when you still wanted to talk. But, there it is. You knew you couldn’t purposefully hurt Rose. You couldn’t do it.
It’s not that I don’t want to... It’s that I can’t. His own words come back around in reverse. He wanted to do what he needed to... but he couldn’t... because it was Rose.
“My value here has been... compromised.”
He thinks he isn’t valuable. He thinks he’s broken. He thinks he can’t do the job. He can’t do his duty.
He’s so bloody broken.
And I get this. I get growing up with childhood trauma and internalizing it... thinking that everything is your fault because it has to be. It has to be you who caused the problem because you know you were the problem as a child, so you have to be the problem as an adult.
You’re the failure. You’re the problem. You screwed up. You did it wrong.
What’s wrong with you? How could you do this?
The negative self talk is deafening and damning. He’s so f*cking lost.
“You’re in love with that girl, aren’t you?”
I don’t think Tatiana realized it until now. And Dimitri knows it, but can’t verbalize it. That would be another sin.
But the look he gives her is so close to the one he gave Alberta when she called him out on the “extra training” he’d been giving Rose. He’s caught. The other person is right. Damnit.
“But you can’t be with her without sacrificing the duty you pledged to the Saints. So you’ve chosen not to be with her at all.”
Tatiana is, once again, acting as his anchor. She calls out “the Saints” specifically, pulling him closer toward the Faith and further away from Rose. She knows what she’s doing. He’s vulnerable and broken, and she’s preying on him.
He needs an anchor. And she knows it. She makes him feel wanted and seen without having to compromise his beliefs. She’s giving him an out... and he’s so broken that he takes it.
Because he needs this anchor to justify everything he’s ever been... because Rose challenges everything he’s ever known and believed.
Dimitri chains himself to the anchor as it drags him down... because he wants the safety of direction without taking into account the true costs to his soul.
And as they kiss, he can’t even touch her. Because it’s not about love. It’s about feeling something with someone who knows the proper order of things and can offer him absolution for his sins. He feels... seen and validated. Like, all the sacrifices he’s making are the right ones, and that his Faith is justified.
And he’s so lost, wafting in the wind without a direction. And this woman comes along with a familiar song that he’s heard a thousand times, and he listens to the siren who sings him to his doom because the tune is familiar and stirs in him something that resembles who he believes himself to be—righteous and true.
Never mind his true sins are on display, for his pride and stubbornness are blocking him from true happiness with the woman he truly loves.
“We both need to find our way without each other.”
As Dimitri sacrifices a part of his soul to find perceived absolution, Rose cuts off a part of hers in an act of self-preservation.
“I have to be loyal to myself for a change. I have to make my life count.”
And Rose finally lets Mason in a little. And it hurts. It aches. Because she’s doing the same thing as Dimitri, right now. She’s looking for someone who doesn’t make it hurt more. She’s looking for someone who makes her feel justified, someone who makes her feel like she doesn’t have to change, someone who won’t expect her to be anything more than she is.
But that’s the dance of Dimitri and Rose... they make each other better. Dimitri helps Rose to be more disciplined and to consider her actions. Rose helps Dimitri to set aside his rigidity and actually live and enjoy life a little.
They draw one another out in the best and worst ways, but growth is often intertwined with pain, because we don’t want to move out of our comfort zone. Dimitri and Rose are magnets, but to get to one another, they both have to move out of their comfort zones. Right now, they’re both desperate for them.
They’re both looking for someone else, right now, who can make it hurt a little less. And that’s what sucks for poor Mason, because he’s all-in. And Rose is trying to convince herself that she is, too.
And Dimitri is trying to convince himself that he was right and Rose is wrong, and that his Faith is enough to carry him through. But, he’s so blind in his agony that he’s oblivious to Tatiana’s true intentions.
I see a lot of people saying, how could you!? to Dimitri... and while I think his choice is abhorrent, he’s completely broken, right now. He wants to feel something besides the pain of losing Rose, the fear of his own faltering faith, and the darkness that he’s worked so hard to keep at bay.
Dimitri is digging in his heels.
And Rose is running away.
They’re so opposite and yet so the same. Stubborn to the core. And, we can only hope that someday these two realize what we already know—they’re so much better together.
WOW, I got this one out a lot faster than expected. But, I saw some abuse of Kieron Moore, and I think that spurred it on. Look, these actors are crushing it, but they aren’t responsible for their character’s choices. I’ve read the articles from Kieron about his struggles with the scene. He was honest. He was earnest. He worked hard to understand what would drive Dimitri there even as he’s shaking his head at the guy.
And I have a real big problem with abusing actors. I grew up on film sets. I grew up around young stars. I saw them go from actors nobody knew to international sensations, and I saw how their lives changed, for better or worse. These actors aren’t responsible for their character’s choices and don’t deserve any criticism or vitriol for what their characters do.
Alright, I’ll get off the soap box, now. It just really strikes a nerve.
As always, thank you for reading. Stay tuned for more angst and heartbreak next week courtesy of our favorite forbidden lovers who are too stubborn for their own good.
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ererokii · 4 years ago
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Sooo... This request thing. You're aweosme 👉👈
Ooh boy it's a long one (changed it a bit)
-Erens so cute when he purrs and when you mention his curiosity and twitching ears ears and gentle touch, so as not to hurt the reader.
-when he kinda is paying attention to, analysing the reader or protecting them its SO cute
-It would maybe end as like cuddles and things and just... Talking. To him and him grunting or just nodding or thinking replies.
-Maybe be at night.
-Maybe it would start with... Eren In human form.
-Maybe he figures out that you don't think his titan form is so ugly but still a little new and scary and that maybe you like it
- Bam if you can somehow NSFW that... Uhmm?
So he... Turns into a titan and then. Some NSFW or just. Maybe he like. Scares or teases the reader on purpose for a reaction?
-And then NSFW somehow if you wanna put that in. Sorry for the way I type I'm kinda doing it as it all appears in my head lol
-I like your cute, and desperate eren, but also attentive and caring. I haven't seen you write a very cheeky or playful titan eren so maybe that would be nice.
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I REALLY ENJOYED WRITING THIS ONE. Here you monsterfuckers, take your TITAN SMUT.
WARNINGS: MONSTERFUCKING. Oral (f receiving), mention of voyeurism, overstimulation, dumbification, multiple orgasms, edging, characters are 18+.
If these themes make you uncomfortable or you rather avoid, please block the tag “AOT SMUT” WC: 1.7K
Also thank you to the amazing @galair for this beautiful art🥺 everyone go check her out
Eren stays deep within his thoughts as he hums to himself, staring up at the starry sky. His loose strands tickle the shell of his ear, itching to scratch away at it but refuses. He can’t recall the conversation before the silence. It’s always been on his mind, but he’s been inquisitive as to what you saw him as, even if he knew the answer.
Am I a monster to you? Or am I just like you?
You knew Eren was quite insecure with himself when it came to his titan powers; no matter how many times he asked you that, you always gave him the same answer.
You were never a monster; you’re just a broken human like me. 
For some reason, that has never failed to put a smile on his face. Being able to categorize himself with humans made him feel complete, separate from the monster people used to call him when he discovered the powers. 
But know that he’s aware (once again) of how you feel, does he scare you?
Maybe he could ask you--, but he doesn’t want to ruin the mood at all. Now that he thinks of it, he can’t recollect a moment where you’ve seemed scared to be in his presence, unlike other comrades who look like they’ll leak themselves any moment. 
Without even thinking, he blurts out the question. His eyes widen slightly when he realizes the words slipped past his lips.
“Am I scared of your titan form?” you ask, glancing over at him as you sit up, staring down at him from your position. “I mean, it is always somewhat overwhelming to see something so much bigger than me, and when I sit in your hands but no, besides that, I'm not.”
“Do you think it’s ugly?”
“I don’t,” you say with a smile, legs crisscrossed. “I think it’s unique. You know, just for you. I think it’s quite cute and--” you trail off, glancing over to the side. “--somewhat hot,” you cough in between words, hoping he missed that.
“Hot?” he asks, a hint of smugness evident in his tone.” You think it’s hot?” he leans up on his elbows, a smirk curled at his lips. “Why is that?”
“W-Well, I’m not going to tell you that! That’s too personal.”
“What if I turned right now?”
“Y-You can’t! Captain Levi and Hanji would come to chew you out if you did!”
“Hanji gave me the go-ahead to transform whenever I wanted to, just not to cause destruction,” he gets up with a grunt, backing up a few feet back. By the time he was in position before you could speak, lightning struck the earth, the ground crumbling from the shock. 
You dug your fingers into the ground, lowering your head from the gusts of wind. In no time, it calmed down as you avert your gaze upward, emeralds stare down at you from high above, brown tresses swooshing in the air. 
“You did,” you breathed out, releasing your grip on the dirt. Your hands are unsteady, still trying to compose yourself from the sudden change.
He’s not moving, standing as still as a statue before he drops to his knees, the birds sound asleep in the trees now awake and flying away from the commotion. Your heart feels as if it could burst from the confinements of your chest. 
Your left eye peeks open, cowering within yourself. Your body freezes when you see how close he is. His body is lowered to the ground; knees pushed in like a Sphinx. His eyes glow in the darkness, a new feeling taking over your body. 
His heavy breathing fans over your face, his head cocked to the side as if he was examining your small figure. He finds humor in your expression, nudging your body with his nose.
From the small force added, it caused your body to get pushed back. His ears twitch, the tips sticking upward. He moves forward, doing it once more.
“Eren, quit it,” you huff, sticking your arms out to keep him from doing it again-- which he’ll end up doing too. There’s no doubt that in that nape, he’s having the time of his life. 
He wonders what else he can do like this. He thinks for a minute, noises emitting from his throat. He sticks one of his hands out, shakily raising a finger, and places his hands in between your legs. 
He catches your gaze, his tongue peeking as he leans forward, barely pressing the tip against the bare skin of your neck. The new sensation causes your breath to hitch in the back of your throat, eyeing the pink flesh before gulping lowly.
Eren pulls away, looking at your skirt that happened to ride up your legs. His eyes seem to darken as his mouth closes, teeth grinding against each other. 
“Eren?” you question him as he inches closer, his head lowering slightly to the ground. You’re about to call for him again, but his tongue makes an appearance also, pushing the material up more. Your eyes enlarge, fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt-- to which looks like fear in his eyes. 
A noise of somewhat sadness comes from him, his ears lowering. 
“N-No, it’s okay, Eren,” you stutter, face heating up from his motions. If you were honest, you could feel a small wetness pool in between your legs. 
Before you know it, the tip of his tongue is in between your legs, the muscle lapping over your clothed cunt. Your arms are shaky as you let out a little gasp that sounds so cute to his ears; he can’t help but circle it around your clit. 
A predatory look is in his eyes, looking down like you were his meal. The muscle goes sound, poking at your slicked entrance. Panting, you glance down at the position and pull your panties aside, shivering from the chilly wind and hot breathing in between your legs. 
His jaw slacked; he works wonders on your needy cunt. The texture and saliva are enough to make you sensitive on the spot. Your eyes roll back as you chant his name, his tongue licking stripes up and down your folds, squelching noises occurring from his rapid movement. 
Your legs are shaking from the overwhelming sensation. God, it’s becoming too much, but you can’t stop him, nor if you wanted to. You felt as if you would fall to the depths of the earth but yet stayed in reality. 
The tip flicks at your folds, an incoherent noise getting stuck in the back of your throat when he begins to move it side to side rather than up and down. 
You’re so needy for him at this point. You want him to stuff your tight cunt with his cock, to feel him stretch you out as he fucks you to no end. Having him do this to you was on another level of ecstasy, but you would accept it if this came up again. 
The pressure he puts on your fragile body is enough to send you backward, but the way your heels dig into the ground and his gentle touches prevent that from happening. The slick left in between your thighs trickle down to your ass; the feeling becomes uncomfortable but erotic. 
“Fuck baby,” you whisper, head falling back, staring up at the sky with lidded eyes. “Fuu..p-please don’t stop,” you slur, thoughts clouding with nothing but immense pleasure.
God, what if someone caught you? The adrenaline running through your body wouldn’t even let you care about that. But the thought of someone hearing you moan out pathetically as Eren licks away at your cunt, have you moaning out. 
You wouldn’t be surprised if someone overheard. Eren’s tongue was a gift that meant to be cherished, even if that meant having him do this every day for you to get used to the sticky yet warmth radiating from the muscle.
The inside of your legs trembles, your head spinning in circles, rubbing small lazy circles on your puffy clit, desperate to be touched by his tongue. Your hole was being circled, his tongue barely pressing before retracting; the little shit was teasing you. 
One of his fingers gently places over your leg to keep you from moving so much. His finger alone is enough to make you feel weighed down. 
Your lips are moving, but nothing is coming out; no noise, no words. You’re completely out of it. Your fingers are clenching and unclenching around nothing, barely holding onto whatever it was you were. If someone were to ask you what day it was, you wouldn’t be able to tell the time of day or where you were at. 
“ ‘M gonna cum,” your voice comes out soft yet needy, shifting your hips side to side, bucking your hips to the best of your ability. “I wanna cum on your tongue.”
His eyes flicker, a stripe licked up between your folds before resting on your clit-- a place that desperately needs attention. 
Your delicate body is on the brink of defeat; an orgasm after orgasm washes over your body, and he shows no signs of stopping. You’re practically gushing at this point, your juices running down his jaw. You’ve made many feeble attempts to push him away; a growl would emit from him when you tried to do so. 
Sweat trickles down your face into your clothes, causing the front of your shirt to stick onto your skin—short breaths of air, hiccups erupting from your throat. Your eyes roll back as your body finally gives out, falling backward onto his hand that was keeping you upright. 
As you fall, a purring sound reaches your ears as his tongue finally retracts from your mess cunt, his eyes glancing at your slick sticking to you. His finger rubs the inside of your thigh, gently wiping away the transparent substance. His ears flicker as he listens to your heavy breathing, trying your best to catch the air that was taken away from you. 
He lovingly nuzzles his nose against your patella, his dark tresses tickling your supple skin. After being pushed through multiple orgasms, you weren’t even sure if you could walk or get up from this position. 
But he finally got his answer as to why you thought he was hot. 
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