#even the damned desire respite.

[boar-cry]

blinding ire

All these foolish religious weepers and overzealous preachers; don't they know the Gods remain indifferent to the plights of man?

Omnipotent beings sitting high atop their shrines, deaf to the screams and sorrows so far below, collecting gold and rot as if offerings owed. And yet still there are those who carve their names in polished silver and iridescent stone; sculpt temples with diamond pillars and weave jewelry out of pearls; not out of desperation, but delusion – that if they worship so called divines, they can somehow remold their spoiled lives.

What good are useless Gods that regard us no more than grains of sand?

[professional-yapper]

Curiosity

Aonung x Human! Reader

Summary: Aonung is curious about the sky demon that came to his village with the Sullies.

Warnings: Aonung not respecting boundaries like at all, treats reader like an object kind of, manhandling, nothing serious tbh, Spider gets ragged on repeatedly

It's late afternoon, the sun at its peak, bathing the Metkayina village in warm gold.

You were enjoying yourself thoroughly, floating on your back and letting the sun warm the parts of you that weren't submerged in cool water. Your exomask was gathering a little condensation in the heat, but not enough to disturb your relaxed state.

It had been a good day. Neytiri had been growing warmer towards you as of late, though you suspected it was mostly born of a desire to please Kiri, who felt Spider's absence sorely and had turned to you to fill the gap of her token human best friend.

A position which you didn't entirely appreciate being thrust into, as a matter of fact. Sure, you missed Spider too, and you were as close to her as you were to her other siblings, but you weren't him. You didn't want the sudden responsibility that came with being their fill-in human. You couldn't crack gross boy jokes with Lo'ak, couldn't comfort Kiri over the shared lack of parents. And you definitely didn't paint yourself blue and act totally feral.

Like you said, you liked Spider, but that was something about him you never understood.

So you were happy to have this respite, even if it were a brief one.

That is, until a shadow fell across you. A large one. You groaned at the disturbance and sudden lack of sunlight, opening your mouth to tell whoever it was to fuck off, when you found that it wasn't Loak, as you had expected, standing on the platform above you, but the son of the Metkayina chief. Onung or something.

"Can I help you?" you asked, trying your best not to sound too irritable. After all, his family was hosting you and the Sullies. He was a dick, but it wouldn't do anyone any good if you mouthed off at him. Not that the desire wasn't there.

"Do you have to wear that mask all the time? I've never seen you take it off," he commented, ignoring your question as he lowered his bulk into a crouch, tail swishing across the ground behind him as he looked at you with genuine curiosity on his face.

You squinted at him, shifting onto your front and treading water as you did so. "I can't breathe your air," you replied bluntly, then, unable to resist, added an "idiot" after for good measure.

He scowled briefly, ears flicking backwards.

You huffed out a laugh, rather pleased with yourself for managing to get under his skin. "Now, is that all? Because I'm trying to enjoy the sun, and- hey! Hey!"

You cut yourself off as his large hands hooked under your armpits, lifting you clear of the water. "What are you doing, dickhead?!" you snapped indignantly, trying to pry his hands off you, kicking at his arms. "Put me down!"

It was his turn to ignore you now, instead carefully adjusting himself to sit on the edge of the platform, legs dangling above the water.

He lowered you onto his lap, and you briefly considered stomping on his dick once you found your feet on his broad thighs, but settled for folding your arms and glaring at him. He shifted his hands to your middle, presumably to keep you from falling or jumping off, and continued to stare at you.

Your cheeks grew hot almost immediately. You felt beyond exposed as he observed you, standing there on his thighs with his hands on your body, only in your damn bikini. He was just looking at first, but then began to touch you, taking your arm between his forefinger and thumb and holding it out- as much as you tried to fight it, you were simply no match for this big blue idiot's child-like curiosity in your alien form.

And it wasn't like he was unattractive. It was just that he was Metkayina royalty or something, and dumb as a rock, and you weren't Spider and you didn't have a massive boner for every Na'vi under the sun.

So maybe you were a little bitter towards the idea of human/Na'vi romance. After all, you were the unlucky bastard who'd had to sit through Spider's long talks about his various crushes. It had started with Neteyam, mature and kind and confident and altogether a pretty good crush for a young human boy like Spider. Then it had been fiery, playful Lo'ak, then dreamy Kiri, and at one horrible point you remember it being Jake. Yeah, Spider went through the Sullies like he had a to-do list.

You were nothing like that. You'd never had a crush on a Na'vi in your life.

And you weren't about to start now, even if his eyes roving over every inch of you with genuine interest made you squirm and flush.

"Do you mind?!" you said waspishly, finally getting fed up with his intense scrutiny as his hand travelled down your leg, dwarfed in his massive palm as he tried to examine the limb in question.

"Not at all," Onung or whatever his name was replied, grinning at you, teeth flashing. Jesus, they were sharp.

"Look, Onung, you can't just-" you began indignantly before he interrupted.

"Aonung. My name is Aonung," he corrected.

"Aonung," you repeated back to him, rolling your eyes. "You can't just-"

"You're not saying it right," he pouted like a little kid. Did he honestly think you cared how his name was pronounced?!

"Shut up and let me speak!" you snapped, hand lashing out and grabbing him by the ear, making him yelp as you dragged his big head towards you. "Listen, you big blue jackass, you can't just pick people up and start examining them like that! I didn't consent to it!"

"Let me go," he hissed at you, fangs inches from your face.

You stared right down his throat, unafraid. "You let me go. I'm not a toy you can fuck around with."

"Fine," he huffed, his tail thumping behind him irritably as you released his ear and he set you down beside him.

You stood for a moment, the seaspray-wet platform cooler on your feet than his thighs had been, and resisting the urge to shrink into yourself as the wind hit the place where his hand had sat around your middle.

He kept sitting there, looking rather like a kid that had been sent to time out, frowning, ears flat against his head and tail still twitching.

"Why did you wanna look at me, anyway?" you asked abruptly, looking at him. "You seemed pretty set on drop kicking me into the ocean when I first came here."

His ears drooped even further and he didn't look at you. "Cause," he grumbled.

"Cause why?" you persisted, reaching out and pushing at his broad shoulder, feeling a little braver now you were no longer at his mercy.

He glanced at your hand, then at you, a weird expression on his face that you didn't feel like unpacking.

You withdrew your hand. "Sorry."

"It's fine," he grunted, then heaved a sigh. Your eyes followed his chest as it rose and fell absentmindedly, before you caught yourself and gave yourself a firm mental telling off for checking out the big blue guy who'd just handled you like you were an object.

Not that you'd hated it. It was just... unexpected.

"You can look at me if you're that curious," you relented. "You just had to ask first. I get that you'd be curious but-"

"I didn't think you'd mind," he muttered.

"Didn't think I'd mind? When a guy twice my height literally snatched me out of the water and started handling me like an object? Aonung," you say severely.

"You're still saying it wrong."

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts for a second. "That's the best I can do."

"No, it's not."

"Oh, yeah, since you've got your degree and know every fucking thing."

"I don't know what a degree is," he pointed out, looking at you steadily.

You huff and glance around, then back at him. "Teach me, then. If it's such a big deal. Teach me how to say your name."

He just scoffed at you and looked away.

Okay. Rude, considering he'd been bitching about it nonstop.

You took the initiative and climbed back into his lap to make him look at you, gripping his shoulder tightly for balance as you stepped back onto his thighs. Thankfully of your own volition this time.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding mildly irritated, his hand cupping your hip instinctively to steady you.

"I said teach me," you repeated firmly, poking him in the chin. "I'm sick of you nagging me about it."

"I've only said it twice," he huffed.

"I've only said your name twice," you countered.

You stared at each other for a long moment. His hand was warm, gentle on your hip, and you still had your hand on his shoulder, his skin sun-warm and slightly gritty with sea salt and sand. Okay, so maybe you were kind of attracted to this one Na'vi specifically.

He sighed, looking away from you, then back at you, adjusting himself to be more comfortable, leaning back on his other hand. "Aonung," he said clearly. "Ow-noong."

You made a rather feeble attempt at imitating the sounds. You were used to the more blunt names of the Omaticaya, but the embarrassment of not getting it right was killing you a little inside.

He chuckled, thighs shifting under your feet a little, making you wobble and glare at him.

It takes you a few more attempts and much laughter from him, but you get it, or as close as you think you'll get.

"I think that's about as close as we're gonna get," Aonung said finally, voice warm with amusement as he looked at you.

You blushed despite yourself. Eywa, what was happening to you? This wasn't like you at all.

He was still gazing at you, and you realised his thumb was rubbing lazy circles into your hip.

You sighed deeply.

"Something on your mind?" he prompted.

"You're more tolerable than I expected."

A grin spread across his face as he tilted his head, ears tilting forward. "Should I be flattered?"

You just shrugged, smiling back a little.

"Well," he continued, shifting once more beneath you, heaving a sigh of his own. "I guess you'll be pleased to know I find you tolerable too."

"Well, isn't that convenient?" you snickered. "The human and the Metkayina's precious little prince-"

"Ah, shut up," he murmured, sitting a little more upright, bringing his face close to yours, before he stopped himself.

You didn't dare to move. "And what are you up to?" you whispered.

"Nothing." He smiled, slow and lazy, still rubbing soothing circles into your hip, tail beginning to thump again behind him.

Then he moved his hand to your mask, still watching your face. "Take a deep breath for me," he hummed.

You did so as your heart began to thump insistently against your ribs, hoping- no, praying that he was about to do what you thought he was going to do.

He lifted your mask off gently, and leaned forward, covering your mouth with his.

Like everything else about him, his lips were warm, firm, tasting of sea salt and some Metkayina herb, the name of which escaped you.

You sighed contentedly into his mouth, looping your arms around his neck as best you could, leaning your body against his chest.

You wanted this to drag on forever. There was no great realisation, either, beyond the simple oh. I have a crush on Aonung. No desperation in this.

It was just nice, to be here, standing on his thighs, kissing him slowly and peacefully while the brisk sea breeze enveloped you both.

He eventually pulled away and replaced your mask, looking down at you with a serene, content expression, tracing his fingers down the glass.

You couldn't help smiling, cheeks flushed as you shifted your hands to his shoulders.

"That was nice," he commented, trying to hold back a grin. "We should do it again sometime."

You laughed a little breathlessly. "Definitely."

His laughter mingled with yours, his chest vibrating a little as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the glass of your mask above your forehead. "I'll hold you to that."

I love dumb hunk himbo Aonung can y'all tell

[dmitriene]

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ.

❝ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ❞ 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦4 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘹 𝘨𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ❝ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 ❞ 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞, 𝘚𝘔𝘜𝘛, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘷, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱.

 ✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

Leon has always been a man of exceptional determination, having pushed himself to the limit as a police officer in Raccoon City, striving to become a paragon of law enforcement, and never letting up in his pursuit of justice.

But that dedication came at a cost, a cost that you, his closest confidant, understood all too well

One evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, casting long shadows across your shared apartment, you found yourself stretched out on your bed, a novel on your chest, but your thoughts were wandering, when suddenly the door at the end of the hallway swung open, interrupting your train of thought, and the jingle of keys announced Leon's return.

You put the book down and propped yourself up on your elbows, listening to him hastily kick off his shoes — a clear sign of his fatigue.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, getting louder and slower by the second, and finally Leon walked into your room and you could see the tiredness that crossed his face, causing you to greet him with a soft, concerned question — «Leon, is everything alright?»

He grunted in response, the words barely audible, his uniform falling to the floor with the heavy thud of his belt buckle as his eyes met yours, and there was an unspoken plea in their depths — as if he was asking for your understanding and comfort without uttering a word.

Without hesitating another second, he climbed onto the bed, wrapping his strong arms around you as his lips descended onto your face and neck with passionate, desperate need, peppering you with kisses.

In the dimly lit room, Leon's kisses felt like sparks of warmth in the cool, dim atmosphere, you ran your fingers through his tousled hair, your voice a soothing murmur — «You've had a long day, haven't you?»

He nodded, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss that spoke of longing and desire, as if he was seeking comfort in your arms, a respite from the relentless demands of his job, and you pulled him closer, entwining your legs with his, and the world beyond your four walls slipping away.

— «Leon» you whispered, your fingers tracing the contours of his face — «I'm always here for you»

His gratitude was evident in the way he held you, his strong arms creating a soothing cocoon around you as he leaned down to capture your lips again, the intensity of his kisses reflecting the emotional weight he carried.

And thus you found yourself in your current position, where Leon’s hands instinctively reach your waist, holding you tightly as he pushes deeper inside you with each thrust, the slick, velvety warmth of your cunny walls enveloping his cock.

His movements are both gentle and desperate, a captivating combination of tenderness and hunger, the feeling of your sticky walls sliding along his cock only fuels his desire, making him thrust harder and faster.

His voice, suddenly and so unfamiliar rough with desire fills the room as he praises and humiliates you at the same time, as if the process of your sex is venting his anger, and his slight hoarseness adds extra appeal to his words — «Oh my love, you're so damn, hngh — tight! Feel how wet you are for me, such a nice little slut, takes my cock so well»

His hands grip your hips tightly and his control is obvious as he sets the pace and his thrusts become more fervent, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mixing with your mewls and his deep guttural moans.

The intensity builds, pleasure spreading through both of your bodies as he fucks you mercilessly, but trying to combine it with the genuine care that always takes place in your relationship, so from time to time his hands stroke the marks on your hips with calloused fingers.

As the sensations overwhelm him, his movements become more chaotic, his thrusts becoming stronger and faster, more desperate as he feels the tension building inside him, the familiar warmth coiling in his lower abdomen.

The curled up arousal pulsates hungrily, causing his cock to bump up and bruise your cervix with every thrusts, while your walls flutter and clamp down on him with teetering release, and with one last powerful thrust he is finally released inside you, his hot cum completely filling you, oozing from your hole and around his shaft, in time with your pussy spasming all around, pulling him in greedily, gushing with all your juices.

Breathing heavily, Leon slips out and falls onto the messy sheets, his body still shaking with pleasure, every vein on his body bulging as his hands release your hips, sliding up your body and gently cupping your face as he presses a soft kiss to your lips, and his voice is full of adoration and unexpected apologies — «I'm so sorry for my sudden outburst, sweetie, so sorry»

Your eyes look tiredly into his blue and puppy eyes, there is still a mixture of seething excitement and regret for the sudden rudeness in his wide pupils, to which you giggle tiredly, pressing your nose into the line of his neck under his chin, leaving a warm kiss on the sweaty flesh and saying comfortingly — «It's alright, Leon, i would've say something if that was too much»

He smiles, full of gratitude for your understanding before leaning down and kissing the top of your head, burying his face in and scooping you closer to him, as if nestling you like a baby bird under his arm and letting the weariness take over the two of you, falling asleep in each other's arms, and nothing else matters.

taglist: @roseglazedlens, @scar-crossedlvrs, @daydreamrot, @cehrie, @kennedyswhore dm me if you want to be tagged in my works or open my taglist

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila V

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila V: Respite in the Valley

After the return to Owanjila, settling into a routine proves to be difficult for several members of the gang.

cw: smut, post-traumatic stress, heartache (a lot of that last one)

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You awaken softly in the morning light, not all at once, like the blooming sun far in the eastern horizon. Birdsong wafts through the window, even through the pane of somewhat cloudy glass, the chirps of tanagers and cardinals fill the air.

You stretch your back in the bed, blinking as you feel the rumble of your bedmate behind you, the long, warm line of a body curled up next to yours, an arm thrown around your waist.

Chapped lips touch the back of your neck and you smile against your pillow. A calloused hand moves under the sheet from your waist up, up, to cradle your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple as it hardens. 

A breathy moan escapes you as you press yourself backward against him, the both of you bare under the sheet, skin running hot, and against your rear, you can feel him stirring. 

“Ruth…” A sleep-hoarse groan of your name is whispered into your ear as the hand slinks downward to the meeting of your thighs, and your legs open of their own accord to welcome him in.

“Mmm…” You moan as strong fingers press against your folds, parting them and tracing the seam of your body. You jolt as he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it as you begin to pant. 

He’s thick and ready with arousal behind you, and your slick begins to come, readying yourself for him as you press your small hand over his own, guiding him to press harder against you, then guiding him the blessed few inches from your clit back to your entrance. He slides a long, thick finger inside you and you do not even attempt to suppress the high, flighty moan, accompanied by his low one as he begins to work his finger in and out of you. His hips press against your rear in time with his thrusts.

“God damn, Ruth.”  He groans into your ear, pressing his middle finger into your cunt and you mewl, grasping the sheet for dear life between your fingers.

“P-please.” You whimper, feeling as if you’re going to burst, that you need this burning desire quenched in your very core.

“I gotcha, I’ve gotcha-” He pants, extracting his hand and moving it to tilt your hip, pressing his cock to your weeping entrance and gently pushing inside.

You moan outright at the feeling of being filled, stuttering breath on your neck from behind you as he begins to thrust.

“God,”  You cry out, causing him to groan aloud as he moves his pelvis against yours, hand tight over the curve of your hip.

“Ruth… Ruth. Here we’ll build our town,” He rasps, his voice hoarse as he pants with exertion, “Here we’ll build our family.”

Wait…

His arms clutch around you as you stiffen, unable to turn around, feeling like you’re swimming in molasses. Your heart thumps like a war drum in your chest, less from arousal and more from the sense of dread building up in your belly.

He whispers in your ear, throwing his hips against yours in finality, driving himself into you and shuddering.

“Right here in Limpany.”

You rocket up from your bedroll, hand splayed over your sternum, gasping for air. You look around, the camp on the hillside is still dark, and the other women are all still fast asleep in a line next to you under the protective awning. A campfire several feet away glows softly, down to embers before the breaking of the dawn. Far to the east, the sky begins to burn red.

You get up, grabbing your checked shawl and wrapping it over your shoulders to stave off the morning chill, harsh once you shed the blankets of your bedroll and quietly pace away from where the women sleep. Your bare feet collect morning dew as you descend down the hillside, unable to stop the flow of tears down your cheeks, trying at least to stifle the sob trying to claw itself from your throat. You try to ignore the damp feeling of the seam of your bloomers against your skin.

You’re breathing heavily, eyes overflowing by the time you reach the lakeside, bare feet freezing as cold lake water flows over them.

The sob you were trying to hold back works its way out, and your shoulders heave as you wrap your arms around yourself.  All of this, the death and the misery and being alone, for Christ’s sake, why can’t you just wake up from this nightmare?

You weep, standing there ankle-deep in the cool waters of Owanjila. You weep for your child, your husband, your friends. You weep for your former life, never to be lived again.

Above the sound of your shuddering breath, unheard by you, a match is struck in the night to light a cigarette. Arthur Morgan stands back on the hillside, observing your shaking shoulders and the soft sound of your cries.

He thinks of how he wrapped himself around your small frame, how you sank back into him, and how he seemed to assuage your tears. How you looked at him like he was some heaven-sent savior pulling you from the fire. He wants to walk down there and draw you in, to pat down your sleep-addled hair, and whisper words that could tamp your shaking shoulders.

But nothing good can come of this desire - Micah’s words slither into his mind like a snake, ready to strike at the remnants of his beating heart. 

You ain’t different than any of us - rotten to the core. And all you want is her sweet little cunt.

No, Arthur Morgan simply takes a drag of his cigarette, nothing good would come of it indeed.

-

The widow Adler is in a fugue state of grief. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and bloodshot, there along the hill overlooking Owanjila.

Fortunately, the girls were able to scrape enough clothing together for her. Mary Beth tries to offer her coffee, but it is two days before she even accepts. She gazes out at the lake, silent in her suffering, not speaking to any of the other women who try to keep her company. Even Grimshaw gives her a wide berth as her bruises and cuts heal.

You will certainly admit to yourself it is far too long before you approach the woman alone, her silent stoicism near standoffish as she does not acknowledge your presence as you sit down on the hill next to her, some yards away from the shoreline. 

“Missus Adler-”

“Sadie.”  She croaks, not turning toward you at all.

“...Sadie,” You are corrected, and pull your knees up toward your chest to loop your arms around them, “I know there’s nothing any of us can say to make it better or get your husband back-”

“My Jakey - he was a good man- and they butchered ‘im.” Sadie’s voice goes low, hoarse, and angry as you can tell she is gritting her teeth, “God damn O’Driscolls…”

You swallow, staring ahead at the still waters of the lake. Sadie sniffles next to you, wiping angrily at her eyes.

“Dutch thinks it was O’Driscolls that killed my husband… I never saw who did it…” You say softly, your chin on your drawn-up knees, not trying to discount her loss, but trying to establish a connection through your own.

Sadie sniffles again, her jaw setting hard as she swats at her eyes, remaining quiet at your admission. Her ill-fitting clothing and bruised face are a reflection of her frightful state in the morning light. 

Several moments of silence sit between the two of you before you stretch out your legs again to get up.

You stand up, dusting leaves and dirt off your skirt. “I know it isn’t going to change anything, but I’m here, Missus Adler, if you ever need anything.”

Sadie doesn’t reply, staring off at the lake once again. You hold in the sigh you feel like letting loose until you are far enough away that she won’t hear you. Walking back up the hill, you move straight towards the tent to the side of the camp, just past the bubbling coffeepot over the main campfire.

You let another sigh out as you sit down in an empty chair, rubbing at your eyes tiredly before turning to look at the person occupying the next seat over. Hosea inhales deeply over his steaming cup of coffee as he sits in the rickety old chair next to you. “My dear…”

You frown, looking back toward Sadie as she stares off into the distance, northward into the Grizzlies, to the life she used to have. You know that stare, should you travel back toward the ice-blue waters of the Dakota, you would have that same grief in your eyes.

“I was like that… the first few days.” 

“Better than I was when my Bessie passed,” Hosea continues to sip his coffee, “Stayed drunk for the better part of a year.”

You frown, looking down at your hands. It was humbling, though you knew that certainly, you weren’t the only widow in the world, that you are now surrounded by people who have keenly felt that kind of loss. Part of you feels silly for your breakdown the other morning, thankful that no one saw that moment of weakness.

“Missus Adler will have to work things through her own way,” Hosea continues, “All we can do is try to offer her some kind of solace.”

“Indeed.” You reply, watching forlornly as you see her shoulders crumble into sobs.

-

“Sure you don’t have anything to tell us about Colm?” Dutch eyes the prisoner with disdain. The poor man, unkempt and unshaven is a frightful mess, terrified and stumbling against the rope tying him uncomfortably to a tree along the edge of the camp.

“Jus- jus that he’s hittin’ the train in Ambarino - I s-swear, that’s all I know.” He sputters, wide-eyed and fearful, surrounded by men who look like they’d love to torture him in any bodily way possible. 

“I dunno, Dutch,” Arthur blows smoke in the young man’s face from his cigarette, “He ain’t entirely convincin’ me.”

Dutch runs a hand over his mustache, exaggerating the idea that he is mulling over the prisoner’s fate, “Bill, what do you think?”

The slide of metal on metal pierces the air as the prisoner’s wide eyes move from Dutch to the larger, burly man beside him.

“I think he don’t need some parts on ‘im, Dutch.” Bill replies, the large tongs in his hands loudly opening and shutting.

“Please- please, I don’t know anything more!” He screeches as Bill gets closer.

Dutch gleams with a predatory glare.

“That’s a shame there, O’Driscoll. I am running out of reasons to stop ol’ Mister Williamson from gelding you.”

-

“You’re goddamn lucky you have people that give a shit whether or not you die.”

John wishes he could escape. But he’s bedridden still, nearly a week after the journey down the mountains and his unfortunate run-in with enemies of the canine variety. The long ride did his body no favors, keeping him in the cot in the sick tent for days longer. His stitches itch across his face, and his bruised and bloody body still wracks in pain when he tries to move.

Abigail breathes out heavily in frustration as she wrings out the warm water from the rag over the steaming bowl of water set at the side of his cot. She leans over him, pulling back the blanket to expose his bruised chest.

“Hell if I need you to bathe me, you damned-”

“You smell worse than horse shit, you worthless-”

John curses aloud, lurching upward as Abigail swipes the rag across his collarbone, not exactly gently, over red and inflamed skin. 

“Jesus Christ, Abigail, that shit hurts.” He snarls up at her, and for a moment, her eyes flash with something that looks like regret before they harden again.

“Stop your bellyachin’.” Abigail sneers, and turns back to the bowl to dip the rag in the water again, muttering under her breath as she wrings it out. John’s scowl deepens as he can’t make out what she’s said.

“What now, woman?”

“You’ve got a son, John Marston. Y’cant… you can’t be goin’ off doing shit like you have a deathwish.” Abigail sighs, dabbing the rag more gently over his collarbones and shoulders.

“I ain’t doin’ anything like I’ve got some deathwish, Abigail.” He retorts, laying back on the cot and wincing as he tries to get comfortable again.

Abigail pulls the blanket down further, exposing his lean waist. John has always been skinny - half-starved and hunger panged through his difficult life.

“I told you, you don’t need to-”

“John, ain’t like I haven’t seen it before. Numerous times.” Abigail cuts him off, pulling the blanket further down his torso against his protests. He immediately looks at the pitch of the tent as the blanket moves over his hips, trying to think of anything other than Abigail stripping him down to bathe him with that rag.

“Yeah but-”

“Just be quiet. Ain’t gonna submit any of the other women to have to deal with you stinkin’ like shit.”

John wishes he could escape. He wishes he could not feel Abigail’s hands on him. He wishes he were anywhere else… and god almighty, he wishes he could see something else behind his eyes when he closes them than Abigail climbing over him like she used to.

-

Arthur grumbles to himself as the old Walker trots back up the hillside along Owanjila before the afternoon sun dips behind the cliffs. He knew better than to trust one of Micah’s leads. But no, he went along with this one - robbing a stage outside of Riggs Station - too damn close to Blackwater. And the stage had guards that Micah hadn’t planned on. 

So of course, it turned into a mess that Arthur was forced to remedy by emptying his revolver. At least the lockbox on the stage had a decent amount of cash and a large bag of jewelry. Also, Micah had the good sense to slink away to Strawberry instead of riding the whole way back to camp with him - Arthur was vexed enough as is to have spent any more time next to that snake.

The golden light of the setting sun glints off the lake as Arthur glances toward it before he pats the Walker’s mane, pulling a sugar cube from his satchel and feeding it to the horse. The horse had a good temperament - maybe Arthur wouldn’t sell him and keep him around camp and just spring for a new mount. He needed to get over toward Valentine at some point.

He swings himself down from the saddle before tying the reins of the Walker to the makeshift hitching post on the edge of the camp. Tapping the horse’s flank, Arthur grimaces as he rolls his shoulder, the tightness in it betraying his aging body. He clears his throat before readjusting the hat on his head, walking through the camp toward Dutch’s large tent and the gang’s cash box to unload his ill-gotten gains.

“Oh, Mister Morgan - do you mind if…”

The outlaw looks up to find you standing a few feet away from Dutch’s tent, fiddling with the wrist of your blouse nervously, staring at your feet.

“Missus Shaw?”

“I was wonderin’-”, You stumble, “wonderin’ if you might be able to spare a chain from that pile of jewelry you’ve got there.” You nod upwards at the large bag in his hand, hovering over the camp’s cash box.

“It’s just the chain I need, no pendant or anything.” You finally make eye contact with him and he curses himself that he finds the blush dusting your cheeks endearing.

“Course, Missus Shaw.” He places the bag down on Dutch’s table and pulls out a necklace with a delicate gold chain. Dangling it out toward you, you step closer and grasp it. You undo its clasp and slide off the pendant, a solitary pearl drop you place back in Arthur’s gloved hand. As you stick your hand into your skirt pocket, you try to ignore where this necklace came from.

Arthur tosses the pendant into the box, turning back toward you as you find what you’re looking for in your pocket.

“Thank you, Arthur. I’ll find a way to pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry abou’ it.” He says softly, his eyes on your hands as you thread the chain through something small between your fingers.

When he finally sees what you’re working with as you move to hang the chain around your neck, he feels as if he’s been shot in his chest, trying to maintain composure as you lay the gold around your neck and clasp the necklace.

A gold wedding ring adorns your throat, and your delicate fingers press over it quickly before you let your hands fall back down to your sides. The pit of his stomach opening up becomes too much to bear.

Arthur nods, stepping toward his own tent, trying desperately to escape the situation unscathed. “Missus Shaw.”

“Thank you, Mister Morgan.” You call out softly as he retreats.

By the time he reaches his tent and yanks the canvas shut, he breathes out an angry, frustrated breath out his nose as he yanks his hat from his head, throwing it on the side table next to his cot. 

Running his hand through his hair, he closes his eyes, letting out another breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. He looks back to the table where he set his hat. A piece of paper lies on the table. He grasps at it, unfolding what he sees as a letter, with proper, looping handwriting.

His arrow-shot chest cracks again.

Dear Arthur…

[soulofapatrick]

Heart’s Desire 2/2 - Simon Lewis x female reader

Summary: after talking with Alec you go find Simon

Words: 1.9k

Warnings: non really; a little angst

Y/N’s POV

As I step into the familiar confines of the institute, Simon tailing behind me like a lost puppy, his presence a comforting anchor in the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. The air is heavy with tension, a silent reminder of the events that unfolded in the Seelie Court, and I can’t help but feel a knot of guilt tightening in my chest. 

Jace is the first to notice our arrival, his keen eyes narrowing as he takes in our somber expressions. He raises an eyebrow in silent inquiry, a silent question hanging in the air like a sword waiting to fall. "What happened?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Why is Clary so mad and upset?”

The weight of his question hangs heavily between us, and I swallow hard, the guilt threatening to suffocate me. How do I even begin to explain the tangled mess of emotions that led us to this point? How do I put into words the conflicting desires and fears that churn inside me like a tempest?

I glance at Simon, his expression almost pleading, and I can feel the weight of his uncertainty pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. It's as if he's bracing himself for rejection, for the inevitable fallout of our tangled emotions now that we're back in the real world where consequences cannot be easily swept aside. I have to swallow hard before I turn back to Jace, the bitterness of my words tasting like ash on my tongue.

“Stupid Queen playing her sick jokes," I mutter, the frustration and anger seeping into my voice. The words hang heavy in the air, and I see Simon flinch, a small sound escaping him that feels like a punch to the gut. I shake my head, unable to meet his gaze as I grumble out, "I need to find Alec."

Without waiting for a response, I turn on my heel and head out of the main room, the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on me like a physical burden. I stride down the corridor towards the bedrooms, each step a deliberate effort to put distance between myself and the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume me.

As I push open Alec's door with a sense of urgency, the familiar sight of his room greets me, offering a sanctuary amidst the chaos of my emotions. But my respite is short-lived as Magnus lets out a sound of surprise, his eyes widening in astonishment as I enter unannounced.

“Get out Mags.” I say to him, my voice tinged with urgency, gaze unwavering as Magnus glances between me and his husband in bed beside him. 

“You can’t kick me out of my own bed.” Magnus retorts, a challenge in the raise of his eyebrow as he waits for Alec's response. But Alec merely tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. It's unnerving how he always seems to be able to read me like a damn book, seeing through the facade I try so hard to maintain.

As Magnus huffs in frustration, he snaps his fingers, and suddenly he’s fully dressed and climbing out of bed, his movements swift and decisive. “Fine,” He mutters, tone laced with a hint of annoyance, “I’ll go get some coffee.” 

With a swirl of his jacket, Magnus strides towards the door, leaving Alec and me alone in the quiet intimacy of his room. As the door clicks shut behind him, Alec still doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on me with an unreadable expression. It causes me to swallow hard, feeling a surge of vulnerability wash over me as I meet Alec's gaze. But there's no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet understanding that fills me with a sense of comfort and warmth.

Slowly, tentatively, I climb into the spot Magnus just vacated, curling up beside Alec with a sense of relief that floods through me like a tidal wave. His warmth envelopes me like a protective shield, wrapping his arms around me and I rest my head on his chest, focusing on the steady beat of his heart until I’m able to think straight enough to tell Alec what happened. 

“Simon kissed me.” I mumble, feeling Alec's eyebrows raise in surprise as he processes my confession. He knows all too well how much I've longed for Simon to look at me, not Clary, and the weight of that realisation hangs heavy in the air between us.

“Why don’t you sound happy about it?” Alec asks gently, his voice soft yet probing. He shifts slightly, turning to face me fully, his eyes searching mine for any hint of what’s troubling me about this all. 

I swallow hard, the guilt weighing heavily on my conscience as I struggle to find the right words. "It's complicated," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, I wanted him to... but not like this.”

Alec’s brow furrows in confusion, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What do you mean?" he prompts, his voice gentle yet insistent.

I take a shaky breath, steeling myself for what comes next. "The Seelie Queen," I begin, the memories of our encounter at the court flooding back with painful clarity. "She made Simon choose... between Clary and me.” 

Alec’s eyes widen in understanding, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place as he realises the gravity of what I'm saying. "And he chose you," he says softly, a note of awe in his voice. 

I nod, unable to meet his gaze as the guilt gnaws at me like a relentless beast. "But at what cost?" I whisper, the words barely audible in the quiet of the room. "Clary... she might not be my friend but I never wanted to hurt her.” 

Alec reaches out, his hand finding mine in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "The Seelie Queen's games are twisted and cruel. You can't blame yourself for her machinations.”Alec's words of reassurance wash over me like a soothing balm, offering a glimmer of comfort in the midst of my turmoil. His hand in mine is a grounding force, anchoring me to the present moment as I struggle to make sense of the tangled web of emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't let the Seelie Queen's games dictate my happiness." With a determined nod, I steel myself for what comes next, resolving to take control of my own destiny.

Alec squeezes my hand gently, a silent show of support and encouragement. "Go find Simon," he says firmly, his voice filled with conviction. "Tell him how you feel. Don't let fear or guilt hold you back.”

I nod, a sense of purpose settling over me like a mantle as I rise to my feet, determination burning bright in my heart. "Thank you, Alec," I say gratefully, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I don't know what I'd do without you.” 

As I make my way towards the door, Alec's voice follows me, a beacon of strength and reassurance in the darkness. "And remember," he calls out, his words a silent vow of solidarity. "You deserve to be happy."

With Alec's words echoing in my mind, I step into the hallway, my resolve firm and unwavering. It's time to face my fears, to confront the feelings that have long simmered beneath the surface. And as I set off in search of Simon, I know that no matter what challenges lie ahead, I'll always have my friends by my side to help me navigate the stormy waters of love and loyalty. 

As I turn the corner, the hallway seems to narrow, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my chest. And there, right in front of me, stands Simon, his presence both comforting and unnerving in equal measure. The air crackles with awkward tension, thick with the weight of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. It feels as though time has slowed, stretching the moment into an eternity as we stand there, locked in a silent dance of uncertainty.

Summoning every ounce of courage I possess, I take a shaky breath and blurt out the words that have been weighing on my heart for far too long, my voice a jumbled mess as nerves threaten to consume me. "Iwantyoutowantmeto." I falter, needing to gather myself before I continue, taking a deep breath and gripping Simon's hands firmly in mine. "I want you to want me too," I repeat, the words clearer this time, though my voice still trembles with a mixture of anxiety and longing.

As the words hang in the air between us, I watch Simon's expression shift, a kaleidoscope of emotions dancing across his features—surprise, disbelief, and something else, something that sets my heart racing with anticipation. And then, like the sun breaking through the clouds, his face lights up with a radiant smile, his eyes alight with a warmth that sends a rush of euphoria coursing through me like a tidal wave.

“You  have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that," Simon says, his voice filled with a mixture of joy and relief. His words wash over me like a soothing balm, banishing the doubts and fears that have plagued me for so long.

Before I can fully process his response, Simon tugs me towards him, surprising me with the strength of his embrace. His arms wrap tightly around me, pulling me close as if he never wants to let me go. In that moment, I feel safe, cherished, and loved—a sensation unlike any other. 

As Simon pulls back slightly, his gaze holds mine with a captivating intensity, sending shivers of anticipation racing down my spine. And then, with a tenderness that leaves me reeling, he leans in once more, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that ignites a firestorm of emotions within me. 

His lips are soft yet urgent against mine, a silent plea for reassurance and confirmation of the feelings we've both harboured for so long. The kiss is a symphony of longing and desire, each brush of his lips against mine sending sparks flying through every fibre of my being.

As the kiss deepens, Simon's hands find their way to my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us. The corridor fades away, forgotten in the heat of the moment, as Simon presses me against the wall with a passion that steals my breath away. 

His touch is electric, setting my skin ablaze with longing as he explores every contour of my lips with a hunger that leaves me dizzy with desire. It's as if we're two stars colliding in the vast expanse of the universe, merging together in a blaze of passion and intensity.

“I told you to find Simon not make out with him in the hallways!” Alec’s voice comes from down the corridor as he leaves his room, breaking me and Simon apart, both of us blushing like teenagers, “I’m happy for you but no making out in the corridors.” 

“Yes sir.” Simon mumbles out, face going even redder after calling Alec ‘sir’.

“Alright Ali” I laugh.

The Shadowhunters Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[seradyn]

Royal Respite and Midnight Melody!

The two I’m most excited about 🤤🤤

I’m going to start with Midnight Melody cause I wAnT tOO

This is a short one shot I thought of when I reexamined some of Astarion’s lines post Cazador. When the player asks how he feels directly following the event, he explains he feels ‘numb’. From my own experience and what I’ve learned about surviving abuse, often people can struggle coping with a world where their abuser is out of the picture, because so much of their life was consumed by them, either physically or mentally. We see this not only in Astarion, but in Karlach too, who has similar feelings after Gortash’s death, because all the rage she built up around him has nowhere to go. It’s still there, but now it’s trapped inside without an outlet, instead of being healed when her abuser went away like they think it should have.

Astarion is the same way; without Cazador, where is he supposed to direct all his energy, his hatred, his rage over what happened to him? It’s still there, even though he’s dead, and it’s not fair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he struggled with his purpose after Cazador’s death. This happens with real survivors too; their whole world revolved around their abuser for so long, once they’re gone they just feel so empty and lost.

This fic is a take on that, where reader helps reassure Astarion that he doesn’t have to know what he wants right now, and they’re more than happy to help him figure it out. He tells them he doesn’t have a heart to guide him, but that’s not true. Is it not reader’s blood that flows through his veins? Does reader’s heart not beat for him? They remind him, hold his head gently to their chest so he can listen, can hear the heartbeat that is not only theirs, but one they give freely to him, too.

Basically more tooth rotting fluff and non sexual intimacy. Baby boy just needs to be held and I’ll be damned if I don’t smother him in affection. He deserves it.

Here is snippet:

~

“It’s nothing serious, of course…” he said quietly. Another lie, but you didn’t say anything, simply cradling his hand to your chest, a precious and fragile part of him. It gave him time to work up the courage to continue.

“It’s just that…When I was under Cazador,” he hissed the name, fangs poking out over his bottom lip, “every thought I had, everything I did was for him. He dominated us, mind, body and soul, and used that dominance to make our whole world about him.”

His eyes were wild with anger, that grimace back on his face, because it was so much worse to say it out loud, to acknowledge how much of his life belonged to his old master. You squeezed his hand to encourage him to keep going. This needed to come out, lest he push you away to protect you from the rot that did naught but burrow and consume down into his being.

“Even after the nautiloid, he inhabited so much of my thoughts,” he went on, his voice slightly rasped and shaking. “Though instead of fear or obedience, it was anger and determination to kill him. Even when he lost control of me, all I could think about was him. Even with his body rotting in the dirt, I cannot get him out of my head.”

“And now that he’s gone…I can’t help but wonder…what am I supposed to do?” His eyes filled with sorrow then, displeasure with himself. “With Cazador dead…I find myself losing all sense of direction.”

Your heart broke for him, jagged pieces of it left on the floor for you to step on. You cupped Astarion’s cheek, lifting his face to look at you. His eyes were wide, glistening in the dim candlelight as they filled with pain and worse: self loathing. You didn’t need the tadpole to hear that treacherous little voice in his head, one you knew like an old friend that whispered pathetic, worthless, weak. You knew he wanted to protect you, wanted to give you the life you deserved, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to do that, where to even start, and it pained him.

Gently, allowing him to pull back if he so desired, you led him into your arms, wrapping them around him so you could rub at the tension in his back. He nearly collapsed into your embrace in relief, immediately wrapping his own arms around you and crushing you to him. You massaged his shoulder blades while he pressed needy, frantic kisses into your hair, afraid you might pull away and leave should he stop.

“It’s okay not to know,” you said into his chest, kissing his sternum. “We can figure it out together. I’ll always be here with you, no matter what future you decide you want.”

He let out a tense breath, burying his face in your neck. “I know,” he mumbled. “I know whatever future awaits, I want you to be a part of it.” He leaned back, just enough that he could meet your eyes, so you could see into the dark abyss where his mind lingered. “The problem is, I don’t know what I want our future to look like. What I want it to look like.”

It was then you fully realized that what Astarion had been feeling since the confrontation with Cazador was lost. So, so lost, in a world without his master to contend with. The hopelessness you heard on his tongue was a knife piercing your tender heart, a sharp pain burning through your chest as it tried to beat around it, blood gushing from the wound and radiating out across your skin. What was freedom to one who didn’t know how to live with it, didn’t know how it felt? Though his chains had been broken, the memory of them still pulled him down and suffocated him. You wished so deeply to spare Astarion this pain, for he lived so long in the shadows of the world, you wanted to shower him in the light until he was blinded.

Abruptly, he shook his head, a growl ripping past his lips as he pulled himself away from you. It should be so easy, to move on and enjoy life now that he was allowed to. His desires could be fulfilled, instead of remaining the desperate wishes of a slave who longed for escape. The world was his for the taking, his life his own once more.

So why did he still feel so broken?

“Now that I’m free, I’m supposed to be able to do whatever I want. Follow my heart, as our companions said.” He spit the words; they tasted foul in his mouth.

“How am I supposed to know what I want without a heart to guide me?”

~

I’ll send you the full version once the first draft is done. Hope you like it 💕

Royal Respite has a similar vibe, and is also pure tooth rotting fluff/non sexual intimacy. It’s a one shot in which reader gives Ardyn a massage after he delivers the peace treaty proposal to the Lucian council. Just letting reader dote on him while he talks about his day, and letting him relax before everything goes to shit, basically. Ardyn has been working to make this plan come true for literally decades. I think he deserves some rest before it fully comes to fruition.

No snippet for this one yet, since I’ve been hyper focused on some of my Astarion fics *cough* see above *cough* but hopefully it doesn’t take too long to get on paper. You’ll be the first to know when there’s a rough draft 💕

[star-named-riddle]

Day 17 - Scarf

Yep, that scarf. if you know, you know. Entirely NSFW, a lemon from the very start, no plot, all smut

Also another long one

Lord Voldemort climbed atop his barely coherent paramour, half-mad with desire, the other half mad with the notion he was not the only man to see her like this.

Bella panting, blushing, naked beneath him.

He gathered her wrists above her head, pinning them together with a single hand, her hands and his digging into the pillow, over her tumbling curls. The softness of her hair elicited a memory in him.

The scarf. The damned green, near transparent scarf, had been soft in his hands as well.

His left hand reached through the air, his palm turned up and awaiting. The scarf flew into it, and Lord Voldemort wasted no time in tying Bella’s dainty wrists to the headboard.

“Your husband said you should wear it,” he teased.

The pupils in her grey eyes went wider, and he thought, even if just for a second, that he would like to dive in and get lost in their enticing darkness. And never come up again.

Instead, Bella wrapped her long legs around his waist and pulled him closer with her thighs. He devoured her lips, robbing her of the fleeting moment of control. He rubbed his palms up and down her sides, from shoulder blades to hips, reveling in the way her body spasmed under his.

He rocked against her, teasing her, weaving back and forth across the line of pleasure-pain that ruled her desire. She was swollen and sore, but delightfully pink and wet, he saw as he pulled himself back to sit on his haunches.

He let his fingers caress her inner thighs, delighting in the shiver of her skin. She’d have bruises there in the morning. He had been rather careless in his ravishing tonight. He smiled, thinking of the things he had already done to her tonight. Of her naked body pressed against his, then against the mirror. Of the way he had carried her mellow, sated body to his bed while her mind was still high on pleasure, just to take her again, hard and rough and fast, until she had mewled her pleasure from beneath him, fighting for every breath under his weight.

His own desire stirred again, heat pooling low in his belly, hardening in his groin. He leaned forward, placing his hand steadily over Bellatrix’s mons, palm all pressure while his fingers teased her lips.

Bella’s hiss turned into a hum under his touch. He cast a vibrating charm on his own hand, and watched her struggle to release her hands. Her legs came entirely off the mattress, thighs twisting together over his hand, knees and ankles pressed together, toes curling as she pleaded, with moans and gasps, for him to stop.

He would do no such thing. She had spent the entire evening teasing him with that damned scarf and filthy, delicious visions of herself slipping those damned thin straps off her shoulders. He would have her beg for him.

Bella’s pleading eyes found his. He renewed his spell and her eyes rolled back, a moan breaking loose from her throat only to die against his lips. She went limp, her body slowly unfurling, limbs stretching on the mattress. She weakly returned his kisses.

He could stop now, he ought to, really, as she was utterly spent. And yet, he felt like the scarf hadn’t been put to proper use. With a playful nip of her lips, he whispered a spell into the shell of her ear.

“Tergeo,” he said, a mischievous smile on the corner of his mouth. Bellatrix opened her eyes, and looked at him, content. Her body clean, and fresh, and rid of all evidence of their night.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort did not acknowledge her words in any way. He removed his equally clean hand from between her legs, and pushed Bellatrix’s hair off her neck. He gave her a moment of respite, if only to better savour her surprise the next second.

Bellatrix stretched, her hands reaching for the headboard, pulling herself slightly up on the pillows, trying to alleviate the tension of the scarf around her wrists. She looked up, to the green garment that had got her into such trouble. She didn’t dare ask to be released. Knowing her master, and considering her previous teasing, he would leave her to sleep like this.

His low laughter caught all of her attention. Mirth, true mirth, was a rare thing in the Dark Lord.

She turned her head towards him, smiling. She was sated, and willing to bet his laughter meant he was too.

The glint in his eyes was enough to prove her wrong.

“We’re not done, Bella. Oh, no, I’m not done with you,” he growled into the skin of her neck, trailing kisses down the column of muscle there. “We’re merely starting over.” He balanced his body on his elbows, looming over her.

She swallowed a whimper. She felt depleted, and yet her body seemed to awaken again under his gaze.

“My Lord?” she asked, unsure of what else to do.

It was the wrong question. Or the right one, perhaps. Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed red, and she knew she had stirred something within him. It was entirely the right question.

She expected hungry kisses, possessive hands, even daring fingers, but not what followed.

The Dark Lord parted her legs with his right arm, pulling her left thigh up onto his right shoulder, and then lowered his body into the mattress, settling between her legs. She could not peel her eyes off him as he moved, and he held her gaze as he adjusted her right leg upon his left shoulder.

He kissed the skin of her inner thighs, where it was softest, first one side, then the other, allowing his chin and nose to drag across her swollen core. The gasping scream that earned him nearly destroyed his resolve to tease her within an inch of her sanity. He looked up, watching her breasts move with every heave of her chest. He kissed her lips, and the painful but pleasurable cry that escaped her told him she was entirely too sensitive to tolerate his touch for long. She moved her feet to his back, her heels softly pushing down and away.

This would be torture for her. He caught a glimpse of the green scarf, which she had tangled further in between her hands in a hopeless effort of either setting herself free or pulling herself away from him. The sight of it was enough to have him focus on his goal again.

Teasing.

He wrapped his arms around each of her thighs, pulling her feet off his back while steading her hips. She wouldn’t be able to move. Then, he dove into her. Tongue and lips and all, going so far as to carefully drag his teeth across her sensitized clit.

The sounds that drew from her were delirious. Her body squirmed, trying and failing to get away. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her down every time she managed to gain an inch away from him.

“Master!”

“What?” he asked, taking a deep breath before resuming her torture.

He pressed his tongue against her and sucked. Bellatrix bucked, successfully pushing his mouth off her. He gave her the respite she had earned, head leaning on her leg.

“Stop! Enough,” she said, gasping for air between words, her whole body working for every single breath.

He plunged his mouth into her one last time, reveling in her desperate moans. He gathered enough focus to pry into her mind, and found her on the verge of despair between pleasure and pain.

“Beg!” he ordered, kissing her thighs again. He licked a path up her body then, giving her a second of peace before twisting two fingers into her.

She curled her legs up again, trying to hold his arm between them and twist away from his touch. She was so close, yet it was unbearable.

“My Lord, it’s too much.”

“Beg!”

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. His Bella would not crack so easily. Stubborn and proud, begging did not come naturally to her. And he knew it.

He pushed his body back in between her legs, leaving her core at the mercy of his fingers. He curled his fingers inside, and pushed his thumb against her nub, rubbing it in circles. He felt her inner walls quiver and squeeze his fingers, which prompted him to alleviate all pressure at once.

Her complaint was very audible, and her eyes searched for his, pleading.

“Would you like me to stop now?”

“Mm-mpht… no! Not now!”

“What do you have to say to me?”

Her mind had become an incoherent mess. He moved his fingers inside her, gathering her thoughts and cuing an answer out of her.

“Please…” her voice died in her throat.

“Please what?”

“Please, my Lord, please-”

“Stop?”

“No!”

“What then, Bella?”

He kissed her, his thumb resuming its motion.

“What then, Bella?” he growled low into her ears.

“Master! I nn-need-” her voice trailed off again, giving place to a mewl ripped from deep within her.

“What do you have to say to me?” he asked, kissing her. His fingers teased her, but never touched her in quite the right way.

She pulled her lips from him, inhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry, my Lord. I’m sorry about the scarf, Master,” she said, her wide grey eyes pleading with him. “Make it stop, please, please make it stop, my Lord.”

Lord Voldemort laughed, removing his fingers from her entirely.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl now, Bella.”

He released her wrists with one wave of his hand. The green scarf fell from the headboard, landing on her curls. Her hands came to rest on her chest, angry red lines marking them. She was still panting beneath him, still not done. They weren’t over yet.

He entered her with one long, slow thrust. His hands gathered her body close to his as he pushed deeper. She arched her back under him, pushing herself against him, her body already succumbing to her pleasure. He made sure to rub against her as he thrust, and her pleasure enveloped him completely.

He kissed the last moan off her lips, and abandoned himself into the familiar cradle of her hips.

Also on AO3, together with all the fics uploaded today

[qsmpcensusbureau]

Quackity stood alone at a party.

He held a glass of wine in one hand, leaning against a very expensive-looking table in an effort to look casual. The wine smelled sharp and distinctly fruity, deep red like blood. He raises it to his lips hesitantly, before deciding against it and setting it down on the table.

He didn’t remember how he got here, why he was here, or who he was with.

This party was not his speed. The collar of his suit was uncomfortably tight, rubbing a very sore spot on his neck that was bound to make a very unattractive mark later on. His body felt like it was coated in starch, stiff and frozen, legs sore and shoes too small. He just wanted to go home.

It wasn’t even worth it to get wasted. The wine was terrible, the bourbon far too dry even watered down, and the array of cocktails too absurd to consider.

All-in-all, a terrible party.

He sighs.

“Is the wine that bad?”

Quackity turns around, coming face to face with- Himself. His long black hair is tucked behind his ears, his smile charmingly catlike and crooked despite the long scar that drags down his left eye.

He stares, dumbfounded. The other Quackity laughs. It sounds exactly like his own but with a crackled quality, raspy and harsh.

“It’s like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?” He says between chuckles. “Damn, I look young.”

“What-“ Quackity is still reeling. “Who are you?”

“You.” He responds flippantly.

“You’re not me. I’m me.”

“I am you. I’m Quackity. Just not you. A different you.”

Both Quackities eye eachother, one hesitantly and one with a calm yet mischievous look on his face.

“How can you be me?”

“The universe is an endless and beautiful place.” The other Quackity responds, glaring at Quackity’s wine glass on the table. “Don’t leave glasses on my table.”

Quackity picks up the wine glass.

“I’m not real. Not anymore. My story is over, my book is closed. But yours…”

They are walking towards the bar. Two Quackities, two completely different stories.

“I’m impressed with your resilience. Your consciousness is persisting even while you’re here with me. How long have you been dead for, do you think?”

“I’m not dead.” Quackity says. His voice is small, weak. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s the only way to get here. Something went terribly wrong.”

Quackity remembers sinking through black water. He remembers suffocating alone, unable to see the sky.

They are both silent for a long time.

The bar is elegant, made of dark wood and delicately sanded, smoothed over years and years of loving dedication. Still saying nothing, he sits down on a barstool, rubbing his hands on the smooth wood.

The other Quackity joins him, watching him with a stony expression.

There is no bartender at this bar. The entire floor seems terribly empty.

A party of two that was really a party of one, a dream forever unwaking and the terrible desire to go home. No respite came forth from the pit inside his heart.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

[intothemertensverse]

hi, I haven't been able to stop squealing about your list of fics, I'm losing my mind 😂 but I'm going to be greedy and ask for snippets of two, if I may. Housekeeper!Christine and businessman!Erik, and the medieval AU! love you and your work 💕

housekeeper au:

He held her for a long while, stroking her hair, pensive. Things were serious now, and he had a dilemma ahead of him. He was going to have to ask her to leave her entire life and every friend behind, to run off with him forever. And forever was a very long time. He adored the thought of her by his side, but he felt the press of hot guilt that he would be plucking her away from everything and everyone she’d ever known. Even Hades had allowed Persephone six months respite from his kingdom, six months a year she could return to her normal life and her friends who loved her. Erik, it seemed, was going to have to be so much crueler a jailor. 

“Do you love me?” Her softly spoken words broke him out of his reverie. 

His hands stilled. Perhaps if he didn’t answer—

“You’ve never said you love me,” she added. 

He winced at her words spoken with childlike curiosity. There was no accusing malice behind them, only a desire to <I>know</I>, and somehow that made them all the more damning. 

“A man in my field of work doesn’t get to love,” he said carefully. “It’s a dangerous thing. It can be used against him. I’m not used to voicing the feeling.”

She pulled back from him to study his face. 

“You still haven’t said it.” There was pain in her quiet words, and when he met her eye her brow was furrowed as though she’d discovered a betrayal. 

medieval au:

She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, intending to get away with, at most, a quick peck on the lips before he inevitably pushed her back to an arms length and reprimanded her.

Her hand at the back of his head gently coaxed him to look down and she took her opportunity, pressing her lips against his. What she wasn’t expecting was his reaction.

Instead of pushing her away, his arms encircled her and pulled her closer, practically crushing her body to his. (…)

He pressed his masked forehead against hers.

“I want you,” he admitted with words what his body had already betrayed. “I love you, Christine, more than I have ever loved or wanted anyone else.” (…) “But Christine—this can never happen again.”

Her face fell at his words, and all at once he disentangled himself, pulling away from her before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd with a swish of his cape, leaving her befuddled and teary eyed, standing all alone in the sea of painted plaster smiles around her.

[mytreepoetry]

A Little Kiss Goodnight

Nikolai Gogol x Reader

You and Nikolai found solace in one another's presence, even during the quietest moments. The peace that enveloped you both served as a testament to the depth of your connection, a bond that surpassed words and filled the space with a profound sense of understanding.

Aware of Nikolai's haunting profession and the unfathomable depths of the crimes he had committed, you made a conscious choice to remain steadfast by his side. Through the good and the bad, you stood as a pillar of unwavering support, holding space for him to confront his demons and find redemption. The love that bound you was powerful, and it compelled you to weather the storms together, knowing that within his tormented soul lay the potential for growth and transformation.

Nikolai cherished you beyond measure, longing for the moment when he could escape the clutches of his damned workplace and return to your loving embrace. It wasn't that he despised his job or his coworkers; rather, they simply paled in comparison to the radiant light that awaited him at home—the warmth of your love and the sanctuary of your arms.

As he finally reached the door, anticipation filled his being. His heart pounded with fervor, yearning to hold you, to kiss you, and to shower you with his love and affection. And there you were, your footsteps echoing with an undeniable eagerness, rushing to meet him at the doorstep. In that instant, as he stepped inside, your arms enveloped him, capturing him in a tight and tender embrace.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice filled with a combination of longing and warmth. Nikolai's heart soared, and he gently cradled your head, his touch conveying a depth of affection that words alone could never express. As your lips met in a soft and loving kiss, a spark ignited, kindling a passion that grew with each passing second. The world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, locked in a fervent embrace.

Parting from the kiss, yet still holding each other close, Nikolai found solace in your words, "I've missed you too." The depth of his love for you was immeasurable. You sensed his exhaustion and selflessly offered to prepare a bath, seeking to ease the weight of his burdens and provide him with a moment of respite. And he only marvelled at your considerate and thoughtful nature.

As you led him into the bathroom, Nikolai's gaze lingered on you, his heart brimming with gratitude for your presence in his life. The thought of bathing alone crossed his mind, but he couldn't bear to be separated from you even for a moment. He reached out, taking hold of your hand, and with an earnest plea, he invited you to join him. You reddened, realizing you had already taken a bath earlier, but the notion of bathing him instead filled you with a sense of tenderness and intimacy.

With a fondness in his eyes, Nikolai accepted your suggestion, feeling a rush of warmth envelop him. And so, the water cascaded over his body as you gently washed him, your touch a testament to your love and adoration. Every caress, every kiss bestowed upon his neck sent shivers down his spine, and he savored every moment, losing himself in the exquisite sensation of your tender care.

Time passed, and you found yourselves tucked into bed, the world outside fading into insignificance. Nikolai rested his head upon your chest, your arms wrapped securely around him, providing a safe haven in which he could surrender to vulnerability. His hands held you close, a silent declaration of his longing and devotion, while your hand lovingly stroked his head, assuring him of your unwavering presence.

But sleep eluded him, for he craved more time with you, yearning to savor each precious moment. He couldn't help but reflect on the day, realizing he had only tasted your lips in the morning as he left for work and again in the evening upon his return. It simply wasn't enough. His desire swelled within him, urging him to seek the sweet ecstasy that could only be found in your tender kisses.

With a slow and deliberate movement, Nikolai lifted his head, gazing up at you. Sensing the shift in his demeanor, you opened your eyes, met with the intensity of his honey-like gaze. And without a word, his lips met yours, tender at first, but quickly building into an insatiable hunger.

The kiss deepened, passion intermingling with fervor, each brush of his lips against yours igniting a flame within. In his embrace, you felt the world fade away, leaving only the two of you entwined in a symphony of shared desire. The rhythm of your hearts melded into a perfect harmony, beating as one, as if your souls were destined to intertwine. It feels like an eternity in eternity, like the stars will never stop shining on you, his precious love, his way to freedom.

And as a soft and gentle moan escaped your lips, a symphony of tenderness and desire, he was enraptured by the beauty that resided within you.

Honestly, how adorable.

Your lips parted, and a delicate strand of saliva still lingering between you, the sight that unfolded before your eyes was nothing short of a breathtaking masterpiece—a living tableau of love coloured in it's loveliest hues.

The sight of Nikolai, his face adorned with a deep crimson flush, his lips swollen and inviting, was a breathtaking testament to the intensity of your connection. His unsteady breath and the ethereal shimmer in his eyes spoke volumes, revealing the depths of his emotions.

It was in this moment that you realized how impossible it was to leave him in such a state—for his smoldering gaze conveyed an unspoken longing, a thirst that begged to be quenched.

Oh, my dearest Nikolai, you'll surely be tired in the morning if we continue...

[bring-forth-your-justice]

Can I request a fem!reader comforting Atsushi when he's feeling lime a monster? Please???

This took a little longer to put up, mostly cuz I got sidetracked but better late than never-

Note: might need a little editing

TW// Just sad thoughts

word count: 900

Kindness was something only afforded to the well-off, those who had a future, and those who had a choice. 

Atsushi was neither.

A boy born alone was destined to die alone and lay beside souls akin to his. That was the only thing that he was granted at birth. At first he had no demands, no autonomy and no desire for it either. In a way he was content; in the sense that he felt such depths of despair that he knew there would never be anything better awaiting him. 

No matter how many tears he would shed while in that deplorable excuse for an orphanage, he only chose to blame himself for ever being born. He could never ask to receive a sliver of kindness, not as long as he was who he was;

a monster. 

Such thoughts left a mixture bittersweet tastes on his tongue, one in which he writhed in. When it settled in his mouth, refusing to leave, he took it as another punishment he deserved for being born.  

How someone could love something as pathetic as him was a joke that even the lowest of scums would have dying in a fit of laughter. 

No matter how long it had been since he left that damned orpahnage, regardless of how many people he had found who showed him love and kindness, regardless of intent, he could never push aside his resentment for himself. 

He was born a monster, not a boy. At least if he were, he would be afforded that tiny grace. Instead, Atsushi would be damned for his entire life for being born as something that brought ruin and danger.

Constantly did he run a race against himself. Not only was he his own victim, but the monster that desired only his blood. A never-ending cycle; stretching on until the day he stops regenerating his limbs and elongating his own suffering.

He never asked for an ability that would bring destruction to everything and everyone nearby, including himself. It was the reason he wasn’t afforded even human decency. It was why no one dared to glance in his direction, yet eyes would continue to haunt him, watching him intently with judgment and the desire to watch him perish.

Sometimes all he wanted was to scream into a void of nothing,

 “I never asked for this-!”

Again and again and again until his voice would give in and he would have nothing left of himself.

How long had it been since he grew to think of such horrid thoughts?

Did he ever love himself?

It was almost as if his memories were a barricade of what the world told him to remember. The torment, the suffering, the loathing. Lest he ever love himself or that beast that took respite inside him. Where were those memories of peace and comfort? He wasn’t sure they ever existed; but if they did, he so desperately wanted them back.

To change was all he could do now. It wasn’t too late was it?

Even if the world wanted him dead, he wanted to fight for a reason to exist. Even if he felt his thoughts slowly comply to the orders of the world, he would fight with himself for the sake of them, for her. 

They say that only fools are satisfied, and he was no fool to give in so easily, not yet at least. Not as long as he basked in her brilliant grace which bubbled his heart away from the disgruntled waves that came to wash him away.

“Your ability is a grace my love, a grace made to protect you in the world. A gift only granted to you because only you can make peace with it.”

Her words rang out, a symphony awaking him from a self-induced trance. Her embrace assuring him that he had not yet departed from this world yet, and neither would he have to. 

“You belong in this world, should you choose to believe it or not. Even if you deny its validity, know that you’ll always have a spot next to me.”

Was he awake?

How long had he been trapped inside his mind? 

It didn’t really matter, not when those thoughts were as fickle and fictitious as the painted shadows he cast on those he was scared to touch. Once again, he chose to flip the page, one darkened by his mind, and carry on. Swinging her hand from side to side, he walked beside her, the shadows that trailed after him all burnt up and dried somewhere far behind him, to a destination unknown. 

No matter how many times he fell to his thoughts, and his memories, and trapped himself in the depths of his mind, exactly where the beast could degrade his status as a person, she always found a way through that maze right to him.

In the end, he knew that one day both of them would rot away like fallen leaves, but regardless, all he desired was to live on frantically.

Shouldering their lives together, 

Living on,

Even if he was hated by life itself.

[bisexual-yuri]

pentecostal bitch shit

hi friends

[2:00 PM]"to post is to be and to be is to be posting" - someone smart

[2:00 PM]Gender affirming drywall punch

MioBird — Today at 3:20 PMthe world is cruel and there are new tragedies every day and new heartbreaks to experience but there is also an infinite amount of love and joy and hope for you to grasp, to keep yourself going in spite of it all. casting a wizard spell of love upon ye. ⭐️ woe! wizard spell of love be upon ye! #casting it on you too !! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

When that voice wants to help you When that voice wants to hurt you But the body wants to live Even when the spirit isn’t willing And that’s a damn hard thing to ignore at 1am When it’s you and that goddamn sandwich Standing between you and some fucking respite Because life ain’t all mango cubes and nectarines It’s tempting but not everything can be sweet Lest you welcome the desire to rot your own core It’s about loving yourself enough To know the pain of overcoming is worth it I’m not all the way there yet All I managed was half of half of it

Stress eating Choking down the sandwich The humbling reality of this prison of flesh It will make you want things, need things, that repulse you And you must learn to tell When that voice wants to help you When that voice wants to hurt you

[waitmyturtles]

Alllllright, a quick and dirty late review of the BELOVED show, Bed Friend, episode 8, which I referenced yesterday as getting just BETTER and BETTER with each ticking minute. A warning in advance that I am dizzyingly jet-lagged, so this may be non-sensical at times, but just roll with me, because:

IT WAS A GREAT EPISODE. Like I said in the comments of the post linked above, god, this episode had so much! I love the beach-vacay-and-temple-shots trope. I love that King jetted to see Uea. I love that they reconciled. I LOVE THAT WE GOT TO SEE FAMILY THAT LOVES UEA. I love King’s thirst for revenge -- we didn’t even SEE Krit in this episode, buh-bye! I love King’s desire to continue to make things right for Uea vis à vis the private investigator.

King didn’t just say that he’d take care of Uea. He is showing the hell up and doing the job, and damn. Yes, yes, he’s gotta channel that repressed energgyyyyy somehow, heh, but no, seriously. 

King’s in love with Uea. And I love how this show showed that development, and shows how committed King IS to Uea. While the plot is complicated, and full of STUFF -- King’s commitment to Uea is UNCOMPLICATED. It’s piercing through our hearts. He’s a man in love, and he’s gonna do shit for the man he loves, period. 

Geez. I so didn’t expect this from this show (as @wen-kexing-apologist noted in their review of episode 8 -- the seriously complicated plot at the start of the series made me wonder if this script was going to weakly solve everything with Uea just falling in love and being like, ooooh, everything’s great now). I didn’t expect that the very uncomplicated DRIVE by King to dig into Uea’s issues and help him problem-solve through his past would be the ultimate anchor for this series. 

I fucking LOVE that this show spun me for a loop. In a little bit of a Bad Buddy-ish way -- it took a player trope, the image of a player, and totally spun it on its head. King is weak for Uea. The kind of power that we think a player would have -- welp, King is using that kind of power instead to help Uea resolve real and tangible issues. 

I love that Lampang serves as a place of respite for Uea. I love that he has that, in physicality, and that King met him there. I love that it becomes, through Uea’s aunt and Uea, a place of love for Uea. We know he fucking deserves that.

I love seeing Uea fall for King. The corner smiles, the teasing, the silent giggling. The intimate confessions at the table near the kitchen (love all the implications of sitting at a place that means so much to making a HOME together, à la Kinou Nani Tabeta). 

I FREAKING LOVE LOVE LOVE THE COMPANY TEAM, Y’ALL. JADE AND GUN AND THE LADIES, come awn! Jade = MVP, one of the best.

This isn’t so much of an analytical review (I can’t muster the energy right now) as it is more of a love letter to how this show has fucking just held. its. own. against a tremendously complicated plot line. In particular, as many have mentioned, especially @bengiyo‘s stray thoughts, it was SO IMPORTANT, SO SO SO IMPORTANT, to see Uea take meds and talk about how receiving mental health care is helping him get through his days (@bengiyo, I’m also curious about the question you pose about survivors being offered mental health care at their companies -- as someone in the social services, that strikes me as a good idea, but I wonder if survivors have other interpretations, particularly related to privacy and labor retention, and the company avoiding harassment lawsuits).

In other words, this episode simply had everything. It doesn’t reach the Bad-Buddy-episode-10 echelon by way of both acting AND writing, but damn, did it ever close a hell of a lot of loops in a very convincing way.

And we get more next week. With all props to @wen-kexing-apologist: #pransdaddarktimeline edition looks like it closes out (and I HOPE that fucking mom GETS HERS TOO, pardon my franche). And a new guy in Uea’s life... this show keeps throwing curves, but now I trust that it’ll be handled well. 

[yukidragon]

how do you think Joseph went about his decision to adopt the persona of Jack completely? I’d imagine that spending decades inside that cold, lonely tape gave him lots of time to polish his persona. But I’d imagine that even though he’s had so much practice being Jack, even though he’s erased all remnants of Joseph… like it or not, Joseph is still a part of him. That’s who he was. And I’d imagine that trying to be Jack full time leads to him suppressing all of the parts of himself that he views as “Joseph,” which can’t be healthy…

I don’t think it was necessarily a conscious choice Joseph made one day to just be Jack instead of [Redacted] Haberdae. I think it might have been more of a gradual progression that was greatly influenced by his death and damnation to the tape.

A lot of actors lose themselves in the roles they play. There are stories of some who got so into them that it damaged their mental health and even led to dangerous behaviors. Even in interviews, Joseph was answering questions as the character Sunny Day Jack, not as the actor [Redacted] Haberdae. I suspect this was mandated by LambsWork Studio.

Sunny Day Jack was beloved all across the USA by people of all ages, even desired romantically and/or sexually, as implied by the interviewer. Joseph Cullman, by contrast, was apparently unloved and a “burden.” It makes the prospect of staying in character more and more appealing, and Joseph apparently made friends with his co-workers, so that’s more reason to view his role favorably.

We can only speculate what it was like for Jack inside the tape. He described it as being cold, he couldn’t sleep at all, and it was like hell. If he couldn’t sleep, then there was no respite from the hellish cold. There’s nothing for him to do but think, and that’s not even including the possibility that the episode recorded on the tape could have influenced him in some way.

Jack was dressed in character when he died. Being Sunny Day Jack, at least loved as Jack, would have probably been Joseph’s “happy place” as it were. It was when he was loved, even if only as a celebrity.

When you’re suffering and unable to escape it, you cling to anything you can to lessen it, even if it means dissociating from yourself and reality.

I believe that Jack simply lost himself in the character of Sunny Day Jack and the good memories, the good parts of himself. It most likely was a defense mechanism and became a habit that would be hard to break... especially if he believes that the reason why he was forgotten and damned to hell was due to the person he used to be as Joseph, or even [Redacted] Haberdae.

I can imagine it’s only in retrospect that Jack might consider that he was someone else before... but he has every reason not to think about it, and if he is forced to, he would have good reason to remind himself that he can be anything he wants to be, and he’s clean now.

He’s not Joseph or [Redacted] anymore. He is Sunny Day Jack.

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars  

[vulturereyy]

Doodled a little Hegemol Pharom having a sit in his hometown... Background taken from a Hollow Knight screenshot :) Fully indulging in my canon character headcanons now. I have a previous post here that semi spells out what I think happened to Hegemol, but basically, I think he was one of the very first to succumb to the Radiance. Perhaps even targeted due to his proximity to the Pale King. But because she didn't yet have the influence over bug and mind she has at game time, her infection manifested more as growing illness, that slowly had him withering away as the dim light in the back of his head grew stronger. (It was during this time that the Maggot stole his armor; it seemed really unlikely that such a grand knight would just... let that slip willingly?) Again, most likely due to his proximity to the PK and his own will, Hegemol managed to stave her off to the very end. After months (years?) of slowly falling into her grasp, Hegemol finally met his fate at the hands of an infected siege. I imagine the City of Tears was only sealed off after the infected outside began invading the city in force. Hegemol was the one to pull down the gate himself with the last of his strength, shattering the mechanisms that raise and lower it in the process and succumbing to fatal wounds. This is why it's his statue that holds the city crest, made to commemorate the first of the Five Great Knights to fall. Hegemol had spent most of his years helping the denizens of Hallownest, and the city he called home would not be unsealed without his 'blessing.' The fact he broke the gate to close it is also why it shuts behind you upon opening; it wasn't repaired fully before the infection got to the rest of the city's inhabitants. Also I think Hegemol is the eldest of the Great Knights, and was born during the formation of Hallownest. He was from Dirtmouth originally, and his mothers were both confectioners lauded for their skill in making sweet jellies. They moved to the City of Tears fairly early on and were quick to support the PK's regime, mostly due to their existing ties with their noble customer base. Hegemol ended up joining the first wave of knights and worked his way up to the ranks, standing out by size of body and heart. Hegemol cared deeply for all of Hallownest, despite serving the upper echelons in the CoT for most of his run. When he fell, his fellow knights knew of his quiet desire to be lain to rest in the Howling Cliffs, so he could watch over his humble hometown and the way into Hallownest eternally. After the defeat of the Radiance, Hegemol found his life returned to him with the essence expelled from her body, but the injury and illness he suffered before his end still lingered. He managed to make his way back down to Dirtmouth and was taken in by the townsfolk to recover. With his distinct horns shattered and previous habit of almost never being seen without his armor, Hegemol took the gift of respite willingly. He told them his name is Pharom, and he claims he can't truly remember anything that happened. Really, he's just taking things slow... Enjoying life as a simple bug again and regaining his strength to help rebuild. Maybe one day he'll get the courage to see what became of his fellow knights an King. But I think this guy deserves a god damned break!

[paigenoelchas-blog]

Mountaintops and Other Dangerous Terrain

Part 04: In Sight

last

"The road back was long, full of ups and downs, but I kept on, because I knew that, eventually it would lead me back to you."

Damn...

...was the only thought in his mind as he trudged alongside the abandoned train track. He had been on autopilot for some time now, placing one foot in front of the other, working to block out all of the pain and the desperation. Even his thoughts of her were fading as survival became his only focus.

He hadn't seen signs of life for quite a while. Perhaps he had been wrong in his choice to take the road less traveled. There was no turning back now, even if he was strong enough to get to the base of the mountain his pursuers would be close.

However, he had to stop soon. His leg, which had been merely a limp before, was now dragging in the dirt behind him. each step extending shocks of agony to the other side. Breathing had become painful as his bruised ribs were swelling and constricting his lungs making each gasp of air increasingly torturous. His throat stung with damage from the smoke. He needed shelter and water or he wouldn't make it. If he didn't find something quickly, he would have to break his promise to her.

He didn't break promises to those he cared about. It was something that he took pride in. It wasn't that he had necessarily been virtuous or even compassionate in his dealings in the past, but he did have certain ideals that he held in high regard. She had reminded him of other ideals that he had long let go of. He wanted to be a better man for her and he was slowly becoming that. A better man who, though he carried baggage from his own vindictive and sometimes cruel behavior, had been shown the errors of his ways through the love of a good woman. A better man who was trying desperately to survive long enough to prove to himself and to her that he could use his skills to make the world a brighter place and to be someone that she was proud to call hers. He would continue, one step at a time, because he would not break a promise to her. He would prove himself to be a worthy person. It was important to him now that he had someone in his heart, and someone worth living for.

Because of this desire to prove himself and because of his desire to fulfill a promise, he pushed forward following the tracks mindlessly. stopping only occasionally to look for any sign of respite through the trees. There had to be something nearby. A dilapidated barn or a long-abandoned factory would be more than sufficient for his rest. In truth, almost anything would be sufficient at this point. He was in the woods, surrounded by many trees, but following so closely to the tracks left his weepy and tender skin exposed to the sun which seemed to beat down on him mercilessly, punishing him for all of the things he had done wrong. He hoped there would be an old well or pump house, maybe even a stream, somewhere soon. This forest had to be getting its life from somewhere.

Exhaustion setting in, he found a boulder in the shade among the trees to rest on for a bit. This was a fine place to catch his breath and decide whether to adjust his route or not. He could change paths and venture deeper into the forest, but it was easy to get lost that way and he couldn't really take a chance at ending up back at the mine. He also couldn't follow the tracks for very much longer without some sort of building or outcropping in which to hide.

With his head in his hands, he began to realize just how exhausted he really was. About to give up hope, he was beginning to think that staying at this rock, sheltered under the trees was the best option he had. There was shade here and maybe water close by, maybe he could forge some sort of shelter from nearby branches. He had watched videos of people doing such things, surely he could do what they had done. Normally, when his body was healthy, he could have, but the problem was, that his leg was practically useless and his ribs made it hard to breathe or move. It would be impossible for him to drag tree branches through the woods, tie them together, or be able to make his enclosure invisible enough to hide under.

He allowed himself briefly to think of her, of what she must be feeling. She must be afraid, maybe mourning the loss of him. She would be no doubt wondering if it was her fault that he was there in the first place. He wondered if Alan had put pressure on her, pelleting her with questions that she had no answers to.

He wondered how she was coping with the loss of Richy, another thing that she probably felt guilty for. She took the world on her shoulders and carried the safety of her friends as her responsibility. It was one of the things he loved about her, but it was to her own detriment that she tried to solve everyone's woes. He hadn't seen the world from that perspective before her.

He hoped that Richy died in that fire, if not, he was going to kill him with his own hands. He caused so much pain to MC and to Jessy. He was in this place because of Richy's poor choices. He was separated from her with no communication and no way of letting her know that he was still alive and his love for her was stronger than ever.

His anger fueled him to action. He was going to get to her, Richy was not going to win. Dragging his body off of the rock, he turned toward the woods and noticed he hadn't seen before, a dark spot through the trees. It could be a building or a boulder. It could simply be a mirage, but one thing was for sure. It was something. Maybe something that could save him. It filled him with exactly what he needed. His anger was replaced with hope. Hope that he can find rest and heal, hope that he can stay out of the sight of his pursuers, and, most importantly, hope that he would make his way back to her and someday into her arms.