#he's capitalizing on his own patheticness as he should

[laintoo]

this episode etho finally realized he's much better at being pathetic than threatening. good for him

people look at him and see his little puppy eyes and go "aww he can't do anything wrong" and give all their earthly possessions to him

[lesamis]

1810s dashboard but it's niche drama

💛 heartofanna Following

imagine cancelling someone for saying war is bad

🧵 sharethewoe Follow

#didn't expect better from w*rdsworth but some people i rly thought i could count on…… #anyway we will live to see this empire fall. can't stop history lol (via @heartofanna)

speaking as someone who was press ganged at the age of 17 to serve in his majesty's royal navy i couldn't be more grateful for your poem. young men like me are cannon fodder and you spoke for so many of us. fuck napoleon but fuck parliament even more.

86 notes

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

stable forgiving virtuous flourishing in my lane definitely not buying poison moisturized unbothered never been better

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

me when i lie

179302 notes

🏛 mynoseisfine Follow

Settling this once and for all. What does the public actually think about the Parthenon marbles debate:

🦉 realminerva Follow

lol i know it’s you lord elgin

🦉 realminerva Follow

like we joke and all but fully aside from the fact that removing the sculptures from greek soil was vulturine and opportunistic etc, it’s really just the tip of a frankly gigantic mountain of imperialist bullshit. let’s not pretend we haven’t been brutally killing hundreds who resisted oppression in india, LITERALLY BOMBED A NEUTRAL EUROPEAN CAPITAL, and embarrassed ourselves in the charge against napoleon for years now. pathetic ass empire & evil as hell to boot. @mynoseisfine the greeks who carved your marbles millennia ago would kick your tory ass so hard

3661 notes

🎀 emmawoodhousestan Follow

how do i still keep seeing thomas chatterton's final post being reblogged, wtf is wrong with you freaks??? he was seventeen it was tragic and horrible and happened ages ago. he was a kid just let him rest

294 notes

🍎 masque-off Following

callout post for @castleyeah @lordsidmouth @officialcoe @parliamentofficial: they oppress, murder and famish the british working people & also suck majorly

⛪ castleyeah Follow

sour cuz you’re unfit to have custody of your own kids huh

🍎 masque-off Following

proud to be the dad of a newborn who could already rend your pudding spine asunder with a mere glance

187 notes

🦆 mallardturner Following

finished this today 😊

44 notes

😎 chadeharold Follow

why is it always “you’re risking your life and legacy & will get yourself killed before the age of five and twenty” and never how was swimming the hellespont the hellespont looked fun was it fun

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

ohhh my god you swam the hellespont five years ago?? wooow should we tell everyone?? should we throw a party?? should we invite famous hero of greek myth leander who swam the hellespont

😎 chadeharold Follow

@loved-joanna look we never had any beef & don’t have to start this now. it’s cool that you’re sticking up for my ex, you guys were friends first, but just know that i’ve always trusted your opinion on my work & genuinely respect and admire you & would still be up for a collab whenever.

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

yea sure why don’t your lips collab with my ass

😎 chadeharold Follow

on it boss

1009 notes

#literally call me. down if you are

🍂 endymion Follow

sorry is it me or is the assassin who stabbed german bootleg wordsworth kinda…… 🥵

💄 biprincesscharlotte Mutuals

JOHN KEATS????????

2427 notes

#i'm p sure this is the author of lamia thirstposting on main??? help

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

romanticism this romanticism that why don’t you romanticise universal suffrage and rights for labouring people

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

anyone else in jail for seditious libel

🏹 axelaidtotheroot Mutuals

lmao i'm one of the “anyone else”s and i know you’re enjoying family visits and apparently some kind of cushy armchair situation, plus tons of books. try being in here as a spencean dude they won’t even let me learn how to write. worst of all some evangelical came by yesterday just to proselytize & put me “on the right path” fml

8341 notes

🗻 mounttambora Follow

y'all i don't feel so good :/

59 notes

[trulyumai]

touching upon ash

—pairing: Pre fallen! Messmer / Wife! Reader

Synopsis: Messmer was never good at dealing with jealousy. So how will he deal with such a situation at hand, led by his brother no less?

—Warnings: Show of anger, jealousy, protectiveness.

A/N: guess who's back, back again

Messmer was furious. 

Anger bit at the seams of his being, fueling the fire that sprawled across his fingers until it met with his forearm and made home on his skin.  

Seeing his wife there, gracing and upsetting the presence with that… filth.

Today, he caved into his little wife; brought her to the outskirts of town and to the city of the west. To the enclave of shops and people that littered the flower lands. She had begged him for weeks on end, saying how she missed the pretty mounds of plants, that she was out of plenty necessities for the excuse of an outing. 

Now he regrets permitting such an occasion. To see her mingle so freely with that man. He could set fire to the lands now, spit at the burning corpses below his feet and save her the trouble of talking to anyone again.

He had no idea Godwyn the Golden would visit such a place, so far from the capital. Today of all days.

A basket, wickered and hand made was placed at the hip of her dress. She laughed jovially at something the blonde had pointed at, to which she then nodded her head, enthusiastically responding in her own unaware manner. 

Not seeing the twitch of the flames fingers, nor of is now close proximity. 

She had to feel the touch of his warm digits, caressing the backside of her covered form to know of the man's presence. 

“Husband!” His wife greeted, already getting onto her tippy toes to place a little kiss to the mans cheek. Unconsciously Messmer bent down, ever used to her smaller form as a look of hate spewed from his features, towards the so-called, “Lord.” 

“Ah, brother,” Godwyn smiled, citizens around the group had taken notice of the lord's frame, stopping to stare at such a gift of grace, from Queen Marika herself.

“Enjoying the festivities I see.” 

Messmer shifted uncomfortably. To see the golden order placed upon his armor with such casualty. It made a hatred boil up, if only he could grab the man by his neck, lift him up pathetically until his skin burned and b-

“We were just sightseeing, my lord. The flowers are beautiful this time of year.” Godwyn’s eyes twinkled with a sense of understanding, the skin crinkled around his mouth as a warm smile broadened. 

“Of course, such an appropriate response for someone as… kindhearted as thou.”

Messmers hands cracked with pressure, his knuckles a deep red as the blood flow squeezed with a strength only the flame could emit. 

Godwyn ignored such tells, instead, he reached out into the pouch upon his side, taking out a white lily. It was gorgeous, from its delicate pale petals to the leaves that cascaded down the stock. He reached forward and did something Messmer would never be able to shake off. 

His hand brushed against her hair delicately, lightly slotting it between her ear and the cascading waves of brushed mane that fell upon his wife's back. It hung there loosely as her fingertips came up to greet the new addition of elegance. 

“Thank you, my lord that- was awfully kind of you.”

“Nonsense!” The man responded, cooly placing his hand back at his side. “Someone as enticing as you should always be gifted with any form of beauty. Now,” With a perfect stance the man bowed his head, already raising his gloved hands in dismissal. “I'll hope for a visit soon from the two of you. Take care, mh?” Turning fully around, Godwyn's armor clashed against the colors around. So golden, so pristine. Everything else lay so distasteful compared to such a maximalist sight. 

Finally craning her neck up, her head met with Messmers chest. Arms coiled around her body tightly, protectively trying to shield her from any more prying eyes. He tried to calm himself, he really did. 

But to see him touch her like that? 

Losing it, the knight snapped. Placing a hand upon the back of your neck, he quickly guided you both through the crowd, ignoring the startled cries erupting from his wife's lips. “Mess- what are you-” 

Moving at space that was deemed too slow for his liking, big hands came to nest there way under her thighs until they lifted her completely. Now she lay in his arms, bridal style as the red haired man moved carelessly. Pushing and shoving anyone out of his way, to return to their rightful spot. 

Their home. Where they would have been in the first place.

The basket wobbled in the girl's lap and with the added force, fruits had come loose, spilling from the wickered hold and dropping onto the ground. She tried to get the man's attention, pushed at his broad shoulders in defiance but he paid it no mind. 

He kept the fast pace, too clouded with rage to pay his adoring wife any mind. 

They arrived home much quicker than she thought was possible. Messmer had plopped her down just in front of the house, by the gardens she had tended to just that morning. 

Her hair now messy and undone (paired with the upset expression), held upon her delicate features. It made the man buckle with uneasy guilt. 

That was until he saw the lily flopped against the side of her cheek. Like it belonged there.

There was that burning rage again.

Veiny hands quickly snatched at the plant, making his wife flinch back in shock. The lily, now sagging against his palms, was covered almost instantly by his hands. 

She reached out, demanded the man return such a gift before a sizzling sounded out. Then, a smoke black and gray fell between the man's fingers as his flame swallowed the flower whole. 

She did nothing but watch as he cradled his palm, watched as the ash seeped between his fingers and stained his hands. 

Finally feeling free of such hostile emotions, the man could breathe once more. Looking away from his soot covered hand, his wife's lip jutted up in rebuttal. Already he could se a sadness gnawing at her orbs. He felt guilty, not for destroying such a gift, but for allowing such a negative emotion to take hold of his wife. 

He was never good at comforting her. With desperate eyes he moved away from her, quickly seizing a plant from its flowerbed and holding it out to her shakily. 

Licking his lips he waited- felt the brush of her fingers as they took the little plant from his grasp. 

An altus bloom stood firmly in her grasp. Its bright color lit up with a lovely hue and Messmer hoped such an action would replace the lilys existence. 

“I…” Not knowing what to say, he just stood there. Form now sagging with a tiredness. The end of his rage and adrenaline left him tired and weak. Weak from staring at the pretty, upset form in front of him. Those pouting lips and pinkened cheeks. 

Gods. How did he get so lucky? 

She cradled the flower to her chest, dirt had smudged on the cotton and Messmer went to brush it away with light and small drags of his nail. 

“It's okay.” She spoke. Voice so small the knight wanted to set himself ablaze. 

“Is it?” The man was insecure in his own actions; too afraid his show of dominance had pushed her way. 

“It is.” Relief flooded through his system as a smile was given to the man in reassurance. He couldn't help but let himself fall down to her height and drag his nose across her neck. Her sweet scent helped calm him down, it was always an efficient way to stop any troubling thoughts to merge its way across his mind. 

That's all that needed to be said, it seemed. For the girl had tugged on his forearm, leading him into their shack to start a well needed home meal. 

[rafescherry]

─────────────────────────

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; after he returned to the capital, coriolanus snow met you. the one person who broke the rules for him. that fell in his greedy grasp.. but it was a beautiful illusion. now you’ve slowly found yourself going insane. drowning in his obsession. it went from the district songbird, to you.. the capital darling. expect this time, snow isn’t going to let his pretty rose escape, this time, his trophy was in his complete control.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; dark themes, physiological abuse, chocking, chasing

─────────────────────────

𝐒𝐨. 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲. 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬

you were trapped, and yet you were running.. as if you come free from this, from him. the pounding in your head seemed to follow the rhythm of your feet. rapid, frantic, afraid. because it was the way for only a moment, his eyes lingered.. they stilled. you searched desperately for that brilliant twinkle in his eyes - yet it was gone, like a shiver along your skin.. and it was fucking terrifying. maybe even more so by the way your eyes, even for a mere second, fluttered in that same darkness. that same hunger for power that lay within him. Began to ignite within you .. you were the monster he created. And that in its self made you utterly his.

you could hear his voice in your pretty head.. white marble blurring around you, racing through your vision like the sounds in your head. No, his voice in your head.. a drug you grasped onto like a pathetic addict

‘𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧.. 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞’

how? how had you let yourself fall into his charms.. into his perfectly crafted manipulation. but you knew how. your angel eyes saw him, that first encounter.. and it felt real. you were a fool. You saw the good in many devils - and Coryo, was the one you saw the terrifyingly deepest.. but it was merely a beautiful illusion. and you fell right into it. And now, you couldn’t get out! and in some twisted way, didn’t want to. that’s why you were running, because you were so desperate to go back. to be his even until you were broken. like the petals he picked from his beloved roses. in a sick way, you were one of them, his beautiful little prize.. and yet thorns of his making hid below.

everything was burning in your mind as you ran through those halls. his menacing voice like a sharp weapon on your back. your legs moved without hesitation, yet your heart lurched in your chest. running from him?! As if you could get away!! you didn’t know if it was his words in your head or behind you that spoke so truthfully. He existed within you. You were truly going insane.

you should have never of loved him. but you did. you loved him so sickly that it boiled like rage in your gut. and it always fucking would. perhaps that’s why this chase was so pathetic? your heart raced as the words emerged in your twisted thoughts. he didn’t care about you, he didn’t love you.. he loved owning you. holding your heart like a rose in his greedy hands. Hands that always needed more.

He was chasing you. that’s as you could think as you stumbled through those halls.. his dark eyes like daggers in your back. But you knew it wasn’t only your back, it was everywhere. Like his gaze was suffocating you, and suddenly you realized.. you didn’t truly know where he was. He was hunting you. like his delicate prey.. but he wasn’t behind you anymore. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And you made the terrible, fool of mistake to advert your eyes behind you, letting them frantically drift to the space you swear he was.. the space you wished he was.

The moment you rounded the angelicly white walled corner, your body met something.. cruel. no, sinfully familiar. your wretched love. He. Had. Caught. You. And just like you knew they always would your eyes met his. And something in your chest broke, so violently you wondered if he heard it

and before you could writhe against his greedy grip, his hand was curling around your delicate throat, and slammed you against the marble wall. once, they had looked so pure to your beaming eyes.. yet now, they looked like suffocating hell. especially as you flared against him, his hold dragging the air from your lungs like everything else he had ever possessed from you.. taking it for his own amusement. twisting it and stealing it from you like everything you ever were, was his. it was his possession

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 .. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤?

his beautiful face leaned into yours - his maddening breath fanning you ear almost like a threat.. and it was very much that.

“after everything I’ve done for you darling?” his chuckle was like wicked silk against your skin. and just like always, you fell into that consuming darkness. If only you knew, he had said those words once before. yet this time, he wouldn’t lose

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥..

[shiongenkai]

Tokyo Debunker Headcanons

I'll probably add to this list again, so this isn't all of them forever, but here's some things I like to kick around in my brain about...

Jin

His style of playing chess is extremely close to Yuri's, and vice-versa. He'll deny it if you point it out though.

Kaito

He's just like his grandma when she was young, and she finds it fun to tease him about that (even if he doesn't realise that's why she's teasing him).

His bow aim depends on his own confidence for the most part, but also on how his bow is feeling, so even if he's perfectly confident, his bow will miss to mess with him sometimes

King thinks he's striking out with Luca and the MC daily, but the two of them always clench their fists in pure adoration when he leaves. 'So pathetic we can't NOT want him' vibes.

He got along with Zenji before he died. Sometimes he can still see him, but can't recognize that it's Zenji due to him appearing like the shadowy monster figure.

He's able to see the tree on Towa's hill, which is how they originally became friends.

Lucas

Him and Lyca occasionally meet up to discuss new things they've learned about Japan and exchange notes on slang they don't understand

Sho

ADHD king who channels his restlessness and pent up energy into different hobbies and sparring.

Always jumping to a new thing since he gets bored easily and tends to pick up on the basics intuitively.

Haru

He has a difficult time accepting genuine help outside of his immediate circle of Towa and, very very recently, Ren. He's fine leaving what he considers basic tasks to others (even if his definition of 'basic' is still much more involved than others) but when it comes to lessening his own workload, he's super avoidant of it

On that note, king doesn't get nearly enough sleep. He tends to snag small hour naps throughout the day rather than sleeping for an extended period of time. He feels too restless otherwise.

Despite seeming like he's willing to spend a lot of money on things that don't really matter (tracking devices, new fliers, etc), he virtually never buys things for himself or his own sake outside of drinks at Rui's bar. A $100 purchase for someone else is worth more to him than a $2 purchase for himself.

Towa

He and Shion have a rivalry over Haru, which Haru doesn't know about. Towa is very proud he gets to stay by Haru's side while Shion can't. Shion will die mad about it.

His perception on what's dangerous to humans has been skewed by being around Edward and Shion, so he thinks anything that hasn't killed them is safe enough for humans too (even when it's not).

Haru banned him from visiting Sinostra

He knows about Haru hanging out at the bar but doesn't mind it as much as Haru thinks he does. He prefers to chill at the hill anyway, and Haru can't see the tree.

Ritsu

Ren forced him to join his game guild for the invite bonus, and both of them expected Ritsu to hate it, but Ritsu accidentally got super, super into it. More into it than Ren. It is insufferable for them both

He has behavioral models for everyone, including anomalies like the ZipperCrocs and Peekaboo.

He is insanely, terribly gullible, and the other first years have a field day messing with him over it.

Leo has him blocked on WickChat after Ritsu quoted one too many stupid laws at him.

Zenji

He became scared of ghosts after coming to Darkwick since he realized they were real at that point.

He's the 'He asked for no pickles!' for Jiro, and has carried that over even though nobody but Haku can hear him advocate for his brother.

He sneaks out at night a lot to go watch people sleep, not because he's trying to be a creep, but because he likes to see people look peaceful at rest. He misses that sensation.

He created videos before he died, but rebranded after he died to capitalize on the idea of 'famous artist dies and works become more valuable'.

Yuri

He's a germaphobe, but only outside of the medical contexts. He obviously keeps clean for operations like a doctor should, but he doesn't freak out if he gets blood on him, or so on. If blood or dirt gets on him in any other context he freaks out.

He has OCD tendencies and likely OCD itself, but he's horrible at diagnosing himself with issues, and doesn't trust other doctors to do it for him.

The aforementioned difficulty also extends to physical issues like injuries, but he's more willing to rely on Jiro for those.

Ed

He is unironically a fan of Leo's TikTok and regularly watches his content.

[emmg]

been binge reading all of your stuff lately i love your fics and takes on raphael so much 😩<3 i don’t know if you’re still doing this but if you are 2 or 20. your last one has me insane about pathetic mess raphael now. and idk it’s hot to think about him all incoherent when he’s usually so eloquent and intentional with his words. maybe tav put a cock ring on him or something so he can’t nut right away idk

(anyways pls ignore if ur not still doing these. good luck with all the grading 😤)

Ask and you shall receive.

No cock ring... but she has a hand and fingers for a reason, eh?

Raphael is beautiful. It’s not something she likes to admit, not out loud anyway, lest it inflates his overgorged ego any larger. It still makes her nervous, still makes her feel inadequate, when he stands, all regal in golden brocade and dark silks, half-curls brushed behind his ears, styled with pommade, nails manicured, skin perfumed. It makes her hide her hands as they are rougher than his, makes her rebraid her own hair, readjust her clothes. Anything to smother that gnawing feeling of being a walking flaw. 

And as much as all that polished perfection technically makes her wet, the real Raphael, the one behind the beauty, is... disappointing. Tragically so. He’s a lazy, self-absorbed piece of shit who genuinely believes that just being present is enough. That simply existing, just happening to be inside of her, should send her into a euphoric spiral, as if the mere fact of his cock being there should inspire religious-level orgasms and revelations.

While he lies there, moaning as if he’s done her the greatest favor, she’s left wondering how someone so physically flawless can be such a cosmic letdown. The reality of Raphael is far from the fantasy, and the gap between what he looks like and what he actually is makes her want to scream.

Sighing, she shifts her hips, rising up until his cock is barely inside her, the head just teasing the edge of slipping out. She pauses there for a second, savoring the control, before slowly sinking back down, feeling every inch drag against her. She’s doing all the work, as usual, trying to find some way to make this feel good—at least for her, because clearly, Raphael’s already lost in his own world of self-indulgence. She tries to focus, to make the slow grind worth something, hoping maybe the deliberate pace will pull some real pleasure out of this mess. 

And, like clockwork, he moans. That same loud, ridiculous moan that used to send a thrill down her spine, back when she thought it was about her. Back when she thought she had some power over him, a devil, no less—a creature that should be above this kind of mortal weakness. The idea that she could reduce him to a writhing, moaning mess had been enough to make her foam at the mouth.

Hell, she could probably brush his cock with a broomstick, tie a rotten piece of fruit to the end of it, and he’d still be making that same damn sound. He’s just as much of a joke as she’s started to feel in these moments, putting in all the effort while he lies there like some kind of prized statue, expecting worship for doing absolutely nothing. 

She lies down on him, rocking her hips in slow, deliberate motions, and finally, finally, the position does something for her. With each shift, her clit drags against his pubic bone, the roughness of his coarse hair adding a friction she can actually work with. She lets out a quiet sigh, her first real sign of satisfaction in what feels like ages.

"Little mouse," he groans, his voice thick with that self-satisfied purr he loves so much, as if he's the one driving this show. His hand drags down his own face, covering his eyes. 

But then his hips jerk up, thrusting into her in these erratic, stuttering movements that finally break his lazy spell. She takes the opportunity, leaning back slightly to capitalize on his sudden engagement. Grabbing his free hand, she guides it to her breast, practically forcing him to participate. His large palm easily covers her breast, and his thumb flicks idly over her nipple. Not bad, but not enough. She pulls his hand away, licking his fingertips to add some slickness, then guides it back. Now it glides smoother, less of that annoying drag, and she lets herself enjoy it, just a little.

Raphael groans again, this time louder, and without warning, he slams his hips up so hard she yelps. The suddenness of it, the sheer force, sends a sharp pain through her lower belly as the blunt head of his cock crashes against her cervix. It’s too much, too fast, and the shock of it makes her wince. Before she can recover, his hands leave her breast and his face, coming to grip her hips tightly as he holds her in place, forcing her still as he pounds into her with all the subtlety of a battering ram. 

"Just... like... that," he groans through gritted teeth, thrusting up into her again. "Stay still, ah-" Another brutal thrust, and this time she feels the cramp tighten in her belly, her body rebelling against his rough pace. But of course, Raphael’s too lost in his own world to notice, driving into her like he’s got something to prove. 

Suddenly, he surges up, flipping her onto her stomach before she even has time to process. His hands grab her hips, roughly yanking them up, and before she can even adjust, he's inside her again, filling her up in one swift thrust. His cock stretches her, the angle hitting just right, but he starts with that infuriatingly slow, uneven pace, that does nothing for her. 

He murmurs something in Infernal—one of his favorite curses. She recognizes the sound even if she’s long stopped trying to understand the exact words. He’s whispered it enough times before. "Such a little, little mouse," he mutters. "So small." 

She tries to push back, to take control, but his weight keeps her pinned firmly to the bed. His legs are spread wide, trapping hers between them, and there’s no escape. His cock moves in and out of her, bleeding warmth, the obscene sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh echoing around them. Every few thrusts, he slams into her harder, making her gasp as the head of his cock hits that spot deep inside her. The wet squelch every time he pulls out just to drag himself back in makes her bite her lip, even though the pace is maddeningly slow. 

His hips grind into her, harder now, the pace picking up just enough to send a spike of heat through her core. He groans, deep and low, and his tongue follows, curling into her ear like he’s trying to crawl inside her head. "Who doesn’t know just how small she is," he growls, voice hoarser now as he snaps his hips into her harder, making her body jerk with each thrust. "And, ah, happily comes to the slaughter..." 

Something shifts. His grip on her hips tightens, bruising, and his pounding grow faster, more careless. His cock slams into her deeper, harder, over and over, and she feels her body responding, her walls clenching around him as the pressure builds inside her. She gasps, her breath coming in ragged pants as the pleasure starts to coil tighter and tighter. His palm comes down hard on her ass with a loud smack, and she hisses through the sting, but it only sends another jolt straight to her cunt. 

He fucks her faster, and the momentum of it shoves her up the bed, her clit dragging against the rough sheets with each thrust. The friction sends sparks of pleasure shooting through her, and she moans loudly, unable to hold it back. 

But just as she’s on the edge of something real, he falters. 

Raphael’s stamina runs out, predictably, and he collapses over her, his cock still buried inside her but his weight smothering her. He’s panting against her ear, still muttering those Infernal curses mixed with incoherent rambling, half curses, half nonsense. It’s like being fucked by a lazy dog, one who can’t stop running his mouth even when he’s barely putting in the effort. His hips stutter, the movements sloppy now. 

"You dreamed of this late at night," he breathes into her hair, his voice low and heated, "in your little camp..." His lips brush behind her ear, "by the fire..." and then they ghost down the back of her neck. "Wanted to be torn apart..." His words vibrate against her skin. She feels his cock twitch inside her, his hips stalling as he tries to keep himself under control. 

Except no one’s getting torn apart. Not her, not even close. He’s barely moving, the promise of something wild and destructive reduced to this sluggish, half-hearted performance. She can feel him trembling with restraint, but instead of fucking her, he’s just… there. Stuck.

When he finally lifts his weight off her, giving her some breathing room, she doesn’t hesitate. With a quick twist, she slips out from under him, pushing him back, taking matters into her own hands. 

Raphael sits back on his knees, his cock still in his hand, his face twisted into a frown of frustration. But she’s not about to let him pout. She leans in close, her lips brushing his, licking the taste of him as she breathes in the heat of his exasperation. She grabs his wrist, pulling his hand away, replacing it with her own as she starts stroking him. 

"Yes," she whispers into his mouth, her tongue sliding over his, muffling her words with the wet heat of their not-quite-kiss. "I want you to ruin me." 

His response is immediate, a loud, obscene moan that rumbles through him as his cock twitches hard in her hand. She stops, though, just squeezing the base and watching as it grows even redder, the veins bulging with need. She can feel him throbbing against her grip, desperate for more, but she holds back, enjoying the way his breath hitches, the way he trembles. 

"I want you to rip me apart," she murmurs, her hand slowly beginning to move again, a slow, languid stroke slick with the wetness from her own body and the sweat dripping down his chest and pooling between his thighs. Her palm is sticky, sliding over him with ease as he groans, his head falling back in pure pleasure. There's a tiny speck of drool at the corner of his mouth that she longs to lick away. 

"Raphael..." she sing-songs, and the sound of his name on her lips makes him shudder, another low moan spilling out of him as his body leans heavily into hers, eyes shut tight. But again, she stops. Her grip tightens around the base of his cock, squeezing hard until her wrist aches, until she can feel the frantic rush of blood surging through him, only to be blocked by the pressure of her hand. 

She watches him, feels him tremble, his cock throbbing, leaking, desperate for release. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees him reach for her.

She pushes him back before he can even finish grabbing a fistful of her hair. She knows exactly where that leads—knows the second he gets a grip on her, he’ll have her on her back, legs spread wide, fucking into her with that too-fast, too-rough, too-careless rhythm that does nothing for her. His cock slipping out between thrusts, stabbing at her as he tries to re-enter, curses flying from his lips as he fumbles for his own release. It's graceless, pathetic, the way he chases his orgasm, coming too soon, spilling hot spurts half inside her, half across her thighs, his sweat dripping down onto her face from above. 

She drops between his legs instead. Her hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly. Up and down, keeping it measured, controlled. When he gets too impatient—when his hips start bucking—she stops, gripping him tightly at the base, forcing him to wait.  

He hisses above her, his cock swelling even more, flushed dark and leaking. The tip beads with precum, and she watches with a satisfied smirk as his whole body tenses. She loosens her grip for just a moment, letting him feel some relief, before squeezing him hard again. 

Finally, she leans down, her breath hot against his skin. She looks up at him, feigning innocence, and murmurs, "Let me… let me make you come like this. You’re so large... you’re going to tear me apart otherwise." It’s pure, utter bullshit, but the sound that rips from his throat in response makes it worth every word. Loud, shameless, pathetic. She almost laughs—almost—but she knows better. Raphael would probably mop the floor with her if she dared.

His eyes stay fixed on her as she slowly, teasingly, licks the moisture from the tip of his cock. She hums against it, the vibration making his whole body shudder, before he throws an arm over his eyes, groaning deeply. 

She sucks on the head, her hands working him in tandem, focusing all her attention there, like she’s trying to melt a large piece of candy in her mouth. She drags it out as long as she can, until his frustration is palpable. His hand moves to the back of her head, fingers gripping her hair, and she finally relents, swallowing him whole. His cock fills her mouth, stretching her jaw, and she takes as much of him as she can, her hand slipping lower to cup his balls, making up for what she can’t fit. 

He bucks into her and hits the back of her throat, making her choke just a little. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but she holds steady, her breathing calming down as she gets used to the stretch. Her tongue swirls around him, tracing every vein, and she presses it firmly against the weeping slit at the top, savoring the taste of him. Her head bobs, cheeks hollowing with each movement, creating a slick, tight suction that makes him groan even louder. 

She pulls back just enough to spit, coating his length in saliva, though she tries to keep it as quiet as possible. Despite the heat of the moment, she’s never been a fan of the sound, but the wetness helps her glide more easily as she plunges back down on him, taking him deeper. 

Again, he’s watching her, his eyes wide and hungry, and she smiles softly. Raphael never truly wants a whore—at least not fully. No, he wants something more layered. He wants a doe-eyed innocent who worships him but pretends to run. Someone who murmurs no, no, please sir while her legs spread wide. He wants the chase, the thrill of corruption, the power to pin down someone who will moan for him, maybe even shed a few tears.

She’s been the prey, the helpless maiden caught in his web whenever he asked. The one he pressed into the sheets, fulfilling his fantasy of the devil seducing the pious, tricking her into forsaking her vows of chastity. She’s prayed at his feet, his cock the twisted holy sacrament she was made to choke on to seek some mockery of absolution. Absolution that came in the form of too-hot cum spilling down her throat, or, if he felt particularly devout, across her face. And he’d rub it in, smearing it into her skin like the waters of Lathander, as if he could baptize her in filth. 

And then he’d offer her more—grant her the opportunity to climb onto his lap, to show him the dripping, sopping mess between her thighs, proof of his corruption. His fingers would slide inside her, tasting the fruits of his labor, telling her to ride him, and she would. She always did. His tail, for he always wore his true face those times, would snake its way between her cheeks, slick with her own wetness and sweat, teasing her ass, rubbing her raw until she was a trembling, gasping wreck. 

Of course, it would be even better if Raphael could actually last.

Oh, well.

So she smiles, that soft, gentle smile he loves. Always soft, always deceptively innocent. She shows him her tongue, presses it flat against the underside of his cock, ready to take him in, to finish him off properly. But before she can even move, before she has the chance to wrap her lips around him, he comes suddenly, without warning. Hot, thick ropes of seed splatter across her chin and throat, dripping down her skin. She pulls back, hissing under her breath as it to burn, the heat of it searing her skin in that familiar, uncomfortable way. 

He’s already spent, lying there, content, his breath coming in ragged, wheezing bursts between his teeth. His cock softens against his thigh, still glistening with cum and sweat, tangled in the coarse hair at his base. His chest rises and falls in that lazy rhythm of someone who’s already checked out, his focus slipping back into that self-satisfied haze. 

She hums, pushing herself up to leave, her mind wandering to the glorious bath in the corner of the room. The thought of sinking into warm, clean water is the only thing that seems appealing now, after the mess he’s left her in. Maybe she could come on her fingers, since he's obviously not seeing this through. 

But before she can take a step, Raphael’s hand shoots out, catching her wrist in a firm grip. He tugs her back toward him, eyes half-lidded. She tilts her head, curious, waiting, but frowns when the moment stretches out for too long. 

"Clean up the mess you made, little mouse," he whispers, urging her closer. She sighs, her resistance brief and token, before lowering her head, licking her lips as she presses her mouth to his stomach, tasting his sweat, as, above her, he runs his fingers through her hair. 

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄

˗ˏˋ main masterlist ˎˊ˗

pairing(s) — (soft)dark!QUINN HUGHES x gray!reader word count — 4k

note — i am so sorry for this (not really)

recommended viewing — sorority row (2009)

bingo squares and additional content warnings under the cut.

bingo squares —orgasm control, non-consensual voyeurism (+ pictures taken) and implied past mutual masturbation (dubcon — you’ll see) additional content warnings — dom!reader + subby-as-hell!quinn (ngl he’s kind of a pathetic loser here, but that’s why we love him), m!receiving oral (perhaps too much idk you tell me) + cum play x2, quinn rendered dumb and speechless by his raging humiliation kink and his need for degradation (and an itty bitty bit of praise — quinn: new kink unlocked), i have been plagued w ball play as of late so im subjecting yall to it, mention of edging and orgasm denial, oh and just some pheromone kink bits and a cute lil oral fixation moment or two, nothing to see here!

QUINN HUGHES WAS ENAMORED the moment he saw you.

Three rows from the front. Laptop cracked, but more for show than anything. All your glittery, coveted attention fixed on the cellphone resting in your palm while you tapped away, your lips loosely draped over the pen you were gnawing on. 

You were positively mesmerizing.

He briefly contemplated sliding into one of the open seats beside yours, but a gaggle of your insipid "sisters" beat him to the punch.

As if he would’ve been able to capitalize on the golden opportunity anyway; it took half the semester for him to form a full, coherent sentence in your vicinity.

Ironically, Quinn was far more comfortable when you weren’t looking.

Or, rather, Quinn was more comfortable when you didn’t know he was looking.

He didn’t interact much with anyone outside of his coding cohort and the club team—athletic prowess only garners state-school clout when your sport is top dog, and this was a football school, through and through. As such, and at the hands of his tragic awkwardness, he rarely spoke to women, if ever.

And he never got face time with any as effortlessly beautiful and interesting as you.

Discovering that your large bedroom window faced the secluded side street he took to get home from practice each night felt like a sign. He’d struck gold, and it would be a shame not to put the knowledge to good use.

In his own shadowy domain, he could be whatever and whoever he wanted; he could be the guy who got the girl.

It was exhilarating, really. 

Quinn supposed some of that rush should be attributed to the feeling of unbridled control his daily routine sorely and consistently lacked. He hardly, if ever, felt like an active participant in his own life.

But in the privacy of his own head—and the safety of the very curb he’s stood on now—there were no alpha douche-canoes to eat up your finite attention or loud airheads to crave your tutelage. 

Between sundown and sun-up, you were his and his alone.

— Even if you were none the wiser.

As benevolent as you may appear, he knew you would never give a guy like him the time of day. Quinn was a lot of things, but stupid's never been one of them.

You wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence if it weren’t for your shared smaller sessions on Thursday mornings. Just you and him… and ten other students, with the occasional appearance of your slacker TA—how romantic.

And if he couldn’t even get a moment alone with you, he definitely wouldn’t get a night inside of you, either. 

So, he settles.

Quinn puts up with the bugs and tolerates the bushes, swallowing his pride (and his mortification), and takes what he can get.

He's accustomed to maneuvering in the dark—this stretch of pavement in particular—but he stumbles through the dimly lit street like he’s got two left feet that only grew in yesterday. 

If you were privy to his impromptu audition for Bambi, you don’t mention it.

And if you clocked the obnoxious bulge tenting his jeans, you don’t acknowledge that, either.

Quinn isn’t entirely sure this is happening in his real, waking life; it’s far too good to be true. 

This is not at all where he thought the night would go when your name flashed across the screen.

When he hesitantly clicked ‘accept’ and brought the phone to his ear, all while still palming himself to the memory of your head tossed back in ecstasy—the way it was before the lights went out abruptly —Quinn assumed he’d soon be gripping steel bars.

“H-How’d you get this number?” he asked after hearing his name.

You whispered it so ardently he could almost feel your breath on his cheek. It made him shiver and, momentarily, forget he’d likely been caught red-handed—literally.

“You made the group chat for our section, silly.”

Instinct compelled Quinn to chastise himself, but knowing you remembered that minute detail—a nothing of a fact, really—was enough to override the urge entirely.

And the complete lack of ire in your voice lured him into a false sense of security yet to be disproven.

He gulped and willed his hand to stop moving. “Oh, right. Uh, is there something you need? Did the outline for next week not go through? Because if not, I can just re-send it ri—”

“Meet me at the same door as last time,” you sliced through his rambling with a tone that was neither foreboding nor comforting.

Then, the line went dead.

For once, Quinn was grateful to be so eager to please. If not for that zeal, he couldn't have walked up to the service door of Delta Nu.

Risking the wrath of your underlings was never a goal of his, but considering how quickly they turned up their plastic noses at him when he came by to drop off notes from the class you missed, Quinn couldn’t imagine worse circumstances for Round Two. 

When the backdoor swung in, you spoiled him in all your glory and the assurance of an empty house.

Out of pure exhaustion—and in his excitement to resume his ritual after a long week away—it slipped his mind; tonight is the best and biggest Kappa Tau rager.

Hence the ghost town

“Do you stand out there all night, stalker?”

Quinn’s head bobbed despite the apt insult. Then, he remembered you couldn’t see his reply, given that you were leading him up a staircase.

“M-Most nights, yeah.”

At that, you spun on your heel. Quinn shook like a leaf as you stepped forward. Gripping the railing, a hand on either side of his shrunken form, you invaded his personal space for the sole purpose of degrading him further.

The sneer hadn’t reached your eyes, but it speared him just the same. “God, you’re fucking pathetic.”

Quinn launched into an attempt at groveling, but his own verbal clumsiness rendered the effort futile.

However, his sputtered half-thoughts and litany of sentences that went nowhere were brought to a screeching halt by a single, manicured finger. Unable to process the touch and the wicked grin on your otherwise cherubic face concurrently, he froze.

His predicament worsened when you gently breached the tight seam of his lips to rest your interruption against his tongue.

You stepped closer; he saw stars. “I like that.”

It was at that moment Quinn realized you came straight down to the side-yard...because he could taste you. As you massaged his tongue with the pad of your finger, effectively rubbing your essence into his body, it took every ounce of strength to keep himself from busting right there in your foyer.

Still, he managed the mortification he sought to avoid.

“Are you… Are you humping me?” you barked with an incredulous snort.

Humiliation blurred his vision as you backed away from him; it wasn’t his fault your perfume elicited a Pavlovian bodily reaction. 

You kept your finger in his mouth as you bit back genuine laughter, but that just made him harder.

“Y’know,” you hummed, contemplative. You paused to watch your pointer finger slowly thrust in and out of his needy mouth. Your smirk was noticeably wider when you spoke again. “My last boyfriend couldn’t even text me back—or remember that he was in a monogamous relationship.”

Quinn blinked. “Your last boyfriend?”

The question was garbled by your finger—and his own sucking. It didn’t matter, though. His reply wasn’t necessary.

At least, not yet.

“Mhmm, my last one.”

You repeated yourself as if you were speaking to a child and not to the grown man whose boner was digging into your skin. 

It made him whimper. Your condescension was his kryptonite, apparently.

“But...I know my next one will be different; you’re too devoted to hurt me.”

He wasn’t given time to respond because as soon as you got your desired reaction—mewling akin to a bleating lamb and the whites of his eyes—you were dragging him up the remaining stairs and into the president’s suite.

Quinn’s spent countless hours wondering what your bedroom looked like, and even more fantasizing about what might happen if he ever saw it firsthand. His mouth splits after working up the nerve to compare the reality of your space to his mental notes, but before he can shove out any words, you’re backing him across the room with a devious glint in your eyes.

“W-What are you doing?” he asks when his back hits glass.

Right now, he’s pressed against his standing window into your most private moments. It feels wrong to be on this side of the wall.

Quinn gets none of the bubbly warmth he assumed he would if he ever found himself here. Instead, he feels unbelievably small as he drowns in a sea of poor choices.

“I think a little exhibitionism would be good for you, Hughes.”

"I-I don’t understand…”

You smile. His stupid heart flutters.

God, love’s fucking embarrassing.

Again, you crowd his space. This time, though, until there’s barely enough room between the window pane and your body for his wilted one. You press a single, fleeting kiss to his pulse point, your breath fanning over his clammy skin. His hitches in his throat.

“I want you to see things from my point of view.”

The words seep into his neck. Your intentions slam into him like a semi-truck going full speed. Anyone walking on the path—his path— would need only to venture a peek at your window to know exactly what was happening.

It would be too easy to watch him the way he’s watched you for weeks. 

A taste of his own medicine.

The candy-coated threat shouldn’t have the effect that it does. Given how emotionally charged the air’s become—for him, at least—it makes sense for his body to get some wires crossed; the same sticky emotion causing him to wither in fear should not be making him harder than ever.

He isn’t expecting you to kiss him, so it takes Quinn’s mind a beat to catch up. Still, he melts into the affection like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Though, as soon as Quinn regains enough composure to actually participate, you kill the kiss as swiftly as you brought it to fruition.

He chases after your mouth, much to your amusement.

“What, sad there was no tongue?” you tease as if you weren't the one to ruined the moment. 

Quinn doesn’t find you very funny right now.

“We’re going to play a little game.” 

Your lips brush his as your hushed words march out, but he remains still. He knows better now than to ask questions prematurely. You hum in acknowledgment, satisfied. 

Quinn beams. He's always been a quick study.

You take him by the wrist and guide him into the space you just vacated.

Physically, he knows he’s stronger. It wouldn’t take much to overpower you, but that means nothing in the face of your mental sway. Quinn can’t move because you don’t want him to—because you haven’t told him he can.

And any hope of gaining the upper hand crashes out onto the concrete the moment your bare knees hit the carpet.

Quinn knows he’s a dead man when your hands coast up his thighs.

“Put your hands on the window sill.” He does without hesitation. “Keep them there. You move, I stop. Understand?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

“Good boy,” you say.

It’s more of a taunt than true praise, but his bulge twitches all the same before your eyes. The slight betrayal announces the internal chaos in the wake of the unexpected praise.

Quinn knew he liked that, but he didn’t want you to know it, too. What little control he managed to horde dissipates.

The delight on your face confirms the worst; you plan to do with that information what he hoped you wouldn’t. “God, I am going to have so much fun with you.”

It's an uphill battle, trying to keep his eyes open and his hands where they are supposed to be.

Quinn tastes nirvana when you finally flick the tip of your tongue over his cherry-red tip, the skin having adopted a luminous intensity courtesy of the few street lamps nearby. Glowing, after too much teasing.

Normally, he veered toward edging and denial JOI content, especially if the voice actor sounded anything like you. Tonight, he’s never hated a concept more. Still, he's making sure he behaves because he knows you’ll reward him handsomely.

You can be sweet when you want to be.

Like right now, for instance. You’re snuggling your face into his body, generously nuzzling his painfully stiff length with your cheeks. Whenever the friction mounts to anything substantial, you pull back to decorate his hips and inner thighs with little pecks.

They're reminiscent of the chaste parting kisses you’ve given his cheek in the past just to make him squirm.

You lap up what you can of the escaping arousal, hungrily drinking down all he has to offer. You do your best, you really do, but there’s just too much. The successor to each puddle arrives faster than you expect, and quicker than you can keep up with.

So, you stop trying.

You’re both so desperate, anyway.

Quinn bites back a scream when your dominant hand loops around the base of his cock; the cruel, beautiful beast only settling once the middle finger finally reaches the accompanying thumb. The pressure is light, but encompassing enough to make him dizzy.

So dizzy, in fact, that he actually appreciates your one rule.

However, nothing could have prepared him for what torture you enact next.

Blinking up at him, you rub the leaking tip over and between your lips. With one hand braced against his bare thigh and the other unchanged, you gently tug downward as you suckle the bulbous head.

The sensation is unlike anything Quinn has felt in his limited experience, which he wears like a scarlet letter. The little huffs that make him feel like a dog panting in mid-July remind him that while he's gotten a blowjob or two before, they were nothing like this one. They weren't from you. It might be unfair to lump those instances in with the magic of your mouth.

You can’t compete where you don’t compare.

So, Quinn showers you in soft, airy whispers. Even when you pull back until only the ridge preceding the tip rests past your spit-stained lips, he goes on and on about how good your mouth feels and how much he adores you. 

And, if he were slightly more coherent, maybe he would’ve caught the obvious squeeze of your thighs at his flushed cheeks and the reciprocal effect your lazy teasing.

His hips go rogue when you try to swallow him a little deeper, jerking forward and sending the firm tip to the back of your throat. Naturally, you lose your grip and gag around him, your eyes watering more and more with each subsequent unintended impact.

Quinn is bashfully apologetic, but you’re quick to remove him from your mouth.

“Shouldn’t you already know I like to choke on it?” your raspy voice goads.

You shoot him a wink before hollowing your cheeks to accommodate his wide girth, your tongue flattened and pressed tautly to the underside.

The shallow movement triggers images he shouldn’t have, bright and flashing through his head: of you, on your knees like this for that jerk-off ex-boyfriend of yours—of you, from a distance and fuzzy, forever immortalized in a single film unit pinned to the back wall of his closet.

Quinn does know you like to choke on it. He knows you like to be choked, too.Quinn knows a lot of things about you—likes, dislikes, sleep patterns, study habits… sexual preferences.

Your bizarre reaction to his Peeping Tom antics makes him wonder what you might know about him…

He’s given no time to fall down that rabbit hole on account of your nose brushing his public bone once more. Quinn cannot fathom how his length disappeared down your throat so smoothly, and it's useless to try, given how thoroughly muddied his head’s become with your tongue gently petting the delicate skin of his sack.

With your lips stretched around the base—and your thumb tucked into your palm to subdue innate reflex—you begin massaging what you can. Until you realize quinn has absolutely zero volume control. As crazy as his loud and breathy moans make you, you’ve come too far only to get this far.

Viscous, glasslike threads hang between your withheld mouth and his anguished cock in the lower fringe of your vision. Above you, Quinn is struggling, whimpering like a lost puppy caught in a storm. 

Lips parted ever-so-slightly, his forehead rests against the frame, limp. He's white-knuckling the historic, but recently refurbished wood, trembling in your barely-there hold because he’s that aroused. Mindlessly teetering on the border of “too much” and “not enough," all the while mumbling unintelligibly between choppy breaths.

You could get drunk on those pretty sounds; you’re sure of it. 

Maybe next time, you will.

“I know I said everyone was out, but I don’t think you want Ms. Patty busting through the door before you have a chance to.”

The thought of your sixty-year-old, strict-as-fuck house mother catching him with his pants around his ankles is just horrific enough to coax him a bit closer to the ground.

Quinn bites his lip in a show of good faith.

“Good boy,” you hum your approval while stroking him. “Now, tell me what you want. Tell me what you need to cum in my mouth, Quinn.”

“I need—f-fuck!” he grumbles, at war with himself. Ultimately, primal need overpowers the fickle social invention that is a shame: “I need you to play with… with my b-balls again—please.”

Delaying his wish, you wrap your mouth around him one last time. You need to elicit that one-of-one sudden, uneven intake of air—the giveaway gasp, the tremor of truth. Insatiable, you fill your throat to the brink. The distinct, thick scent of the day’s natural musk swirling with the sheen of hard work on the ice keeps you there until your vision blurs and drool pools under your tongue.

Motivated by a sticky, overdue reward and a whine bursting from deep in Quinn’s throat—the sweet sound of total surrender—you succumb to your own desire to make him feel the best he’s ever felt.

You lick at them gingerly at first, and with a doughy, flattened tongue. You meant to test the waters, to take things slow and drag out his orgasm, but a string of colorful language tumbles from his pretty, pink mouth to derail your plans.

With the dam crumbling, you have to suck one into your hot, wet mouth.

His reaction does not disappoint.

Your spit-soaked hands rise to his recently abandoned length as you devote equal attention to the pair with your mouth. Quinn swells and heavies on your tongue and everything is throbbing.

Including the tight heat between your knees, pulsing around the mere thought of him fucking you there instead.

“S’close, ‘m gonna c-cum soon—Shit!”

Amidst the drawn-out expletive, you detach in order to aim his release on his behalf (though very reluctantly), knowing full-well Quinn is far too gone to be capable of anything.

His eyelids flutter seconds before snapping open, intent to watch you watch him fall apart.

Oh, and fall apart he does…

Crude and ear-piercing, and over faster than either of you would’ve preferred, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little flattered by it. You enjoy how easy he is—how pliable.

His hips jerk too easily and his hands wander aimlessly, and you can’t bring yourself to chastise him, entirely consumed by the show unfolding at your hand. It's like he can’t help himself; can’t help but twitch and drip, can’t help but whimper and beg for anything and everything.

He won’t even let you pull away to catch your breath without whining. At one point, whether by accident or designed to keep you from retreating, Quinn’s knees squeezed together, effectively caging you in from both sides.

A messy concoction of cum, spit, and tears paints the lower half of your face. Quinn’s chest heaves as he watches it collect and drip down your neck and into the valley of your chest, soiling your delicate pajamas beyond repair.

Unfazed, you leave the emotionality to him while you lick your fingers clean. Once you’ve finished, you mop up the dissenter spray on your cheeks, chin, and décolletage, and greedily swallow it down, too. It's when you delve between your tits to scoop out the remainder of his spill that Quinn just about keels over.

He falls back against the window, and you shift back into your heels.

He rights his pants, and you wipe your mouth with the corner of your bathrobe. 

For a while, you observe one another, having not been this close—or alone—together before.

That’s not to say you didn’t notice him, though.

You actually struggled not to, and it drove your now-ex insane. His enmity toward Quinn came to a head this afternoon. Unable to deny your raging, juvenile crush, you finally pulled the trigger on something that was a long time coming—and for reasons beyond that not-so-unfounded jealousy.

“C-Can I have a head-start before you call the c-cops?” Quinn asks.

He’s so timid, you can’t help but laugh. He blinks down, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he rifles through yours, searching for malicious intent or knotted strings—fury behind an unspoken threat.

You let him look; this is a conclusion he needs to reach without you holding his hand.

When the investigation runs its course having turned up nothing dubious, he slides down to the floor beside you. He’s reverted to avoiding eye contact, unfortunately. Quinn watches the tremor in his fingers instead.

“I am sorry, y'know, about… Well, uh, you know.”

You find the way he dances around committing a felony (repeatedly) weirdly endearing.

While you very well could put him out of his palpable misery—you can actually smell it on him—there's no fun to be found in that. As such, you force Quinn to wrestle with his words a bit longer.

Eventually, you offer him a shrug that isn’t the least bit pacifying.

“You’re going to make it up to me, don’t worry.”

His eyes snap to yours just as you knew they would. His throat quivers in the wake of a sharp gulp.

The nervous tick cracks your nonchalant demeanor. You roll your eyes. “If you’re going to keep watching, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow, perplexed. You grin in anticipation.

“My vibrator’s dead, and I can’t find the right charger. Time to get your ass off the bench, Hughes.”

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[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

since you're on the clay roach brainrot and so I am 🤭 I present to you, my absolute favourite heacanon that clay absolutely LOVES using his fingers on his girl??!!

like, I'm talking back against his chest, legs spread wide open against his thighs and he doesn't even care if the neighbours hear you hehe 🤭

Uh, so, yeah...this is just disgusting. Dialled up the horny to 11 in here. I am not sorry. Enjoy 🫶🏻����🏻

The titillating sound of a woman moaning out loud emitting from the TV echoed through the living room. You loved watching other women get off by themselves, seeing how they know how to handle their bodies just right - though, the experience of your boyfriend putting on your favourite porn on the big screen still felt a bit alien to you.

However, you had eased into it, learning quickly that Clay enjoyed it. He wasn't the jealous type and make a fuss about his girl watching porn, no, he'd much rather capitalize on it the best he could; his fingers rubbing over your swollen clit for hours on end whilst you got corrupted by the pornographic onslaught on all of your senses.

“You're so fucking wet, babe.”, Clay groaned, the tip of his nose against the shell of your ear, “So damn needy all the time. Can't do long without me fingering that pretty pussy, do you?”

You shook your head, admitting that your little masturbation habit had gotten out of control with Clay not only enabling but actively pushing it. If you weren’t playing with yourself in your car during lunch break because your addicted cunt had started throbbing against your will during the last conference he sure would be in the afternoon; just two addicts having found a much more sustainable drug of choice.

And honestly, how bad could it really be to be exposed to all this pleasure at all times? The electric thrum of near-orgasmic bliss was your happy place and you knew your co-workers and friends would be disgusted if they knew just how much of a slave to your in body you had become but everybody has their vices, right?!

Your half-lidded eyes narrowed down at the screen in front whilst your brain got turned into mush by what you were watching, the woman in the video flicking her index up and down her glistening clit in a tantalizing close-up shot. Your mouth watered at the sight of her oozing cunt pulse and clench as she rubbed herself towards what would presumably me a violent orgasm. You wanted that, too, but actually not really because proper good girls get edged until nothing but stupid babble trickled from their lips.

“Yeah, I know, honey, so deep, deep down the rabbit hole, no?” Clay mouthed against your earlobe as his fingers kept on massaging your throbbing clit that had been rendered almost painfully sensitive by the now almost two hours of brain deafening, constant edging.

He himself was fantasizing heavily about the heavenly feel about plunging his aching cock into that overstimulated pussy later; later, when it was his turn to use you like his personal fleshlight because both of you were pathetically hooked on the sensations of prolonged denial. Clay hadn't cum in about 3 weeks now and every day he throbbed harder with the pushing need to just finally blow his load again. The thought alone had him dribbling pre into his sweatpants.

“Hold on.”, He switched hands not to leave you unattended for just a heartbeat, pruned–up fingertips pulling at the waistband of his slacks to pull himself free from the fabric, “Let's try something, babe.”

The tip of his cock was flushed and swollen, little spurts of pre cum running down along his girth as gently shoved it between your soaked lips, a heavy moan tumbling out of his mouth as he felt you smearing him with slick.

“Maybe we should make our own little video. What ‘bout that, hm?” You just nodded in blissed-out compliance; whatever Clay wanted as long as he'd make you feel so good and floaty.

“Record you while you fuck yourself stupid on one of your pretty dildo's, yeah? Attagirl.” You clenched around nothing and your head lolled against his shoulder whilst the woman on the screen shook with the tide of a crashing orgasm.

“Fuck, babe, we should put on a nice, long compilation next and I rub you through it.”

[noirgasmweetheart]

Hotel Berlin (1945)

This might be the most underrated War Era movie I've seen yet.

Both the theatrical trailer and the DVD cover advertise it as a corny exploitation movie. It's nothing of the sort. It's as sincerely written and acted as "Casablanca," with far more direct references to the Jewish people, and specific concentration camps.

I legitimately ordered the DVD just to see Peter Lorre as a disheveled angst-ridden scruff-muffin; I had no idea the character was going to be so compelling, or the rest of the movie equally so. Several other characters also exploded beyond the old clichés I was expecting. The movie appears to be building towards a predictable, cheesy love story, but...doesn't. Another character who at first appears one of the most despicable opportunists in the movie...isn't. And the movie's nuanced look at an indoctrinated population being carpet-bombed while their tyrannical, antisemetic leaders flee to save their own skins is uh...timely, to say the least.

I'm sure it helped that I watched this movie during a rainstorm at night, which is the way to watch it. The timeliness of a story about

Spoilers Below!

Faye Emerson deserved that top billing.

According to IMDB, Andrea King was originally to be billed as the film's female lead, with Faye Emerson billed as a supporting character. When Emerson married the son of President Roosevelt, she was given top billing over King, to capitalize on her new fame. I find that ironic, given that by the end of the movie, Faye's character Tilly has, against all odds, proven to be the film's true heroine.

Introduced as a materialistic Nazi informer, dating SS officers and betraying a hiding resistance fighter just to get herself some new shoes, Tilly's reality turns upside-down when she learns that the lover she thought she'd lost is still alive. After an emotional breakdown over what her despair let her become, she defends her boyfriend's mother against a Nazi officer, and delivers the most powerful speech in the movie. It is her character who finally mentions the Jews out loud, after an entire movie and an entire genre dancing around the subject.

I've recorded the scene from the DVD and uploaded it to YouTube:

"Go on shoot me, arrest me, have me killed, I don't care! Why should I. I loved Max Baruch and you sent him to a concentration camp! You hung a sign around my neck saying I loved a Jew! And you paraded me down the street. They'll hang something around your neck someday, and it won't be a sign!"

Corny Romance is Just a Red Herring

My stance that Emersen deserved that top billing in no way negates Andrea King's marvelous performance as the film's faux female lead. Though we are warned right from the start that her character, movie star Lisa Dorn, is a Nazi and a master manipulator, the film plays her as the straightforward love interest for much of the film: helping the hero partially out of the hope that he'll save her in return, seemingly building a genuine admiration for his heroism...then completely subverts expectations by revealing her to be exactly what she she was introduced as: a Nazi collaborator out to save her own skin.

I was genuinely afraid at the end that the hero would find himself unable to shoot her, and we'd see her tearfully declare her love for him, and end with him forgiving her. Not so. She argues pathetically, trying to excuse her betrayal and convince Richter that she loves him, and he doesn't fall for it. Richter sees Sam Spade's "I'll be waiting for you," and raises him two gunshots.

Peter Lorre like we've never seen him before

Okay, maybe we have seen Peter angsting around and wobbling drunkenly a few times before. But this was the first time I saw him directly address the issues that so closely affected him (and his costars of course) in real life.

Peter Lorre died before talk about the Holocaust really became mainstream. But the emotion behind the lines he delivers as the self-hating German professor speaks volumes. The gleeful smile he wears in his first scene, while saying that the bombing is only what the Germans deserve; his bitter sarcasm about the achievements of German science in the concentration camps, and wondering where all the "good Germans" are now; his breakdown when Richter tells him of a mutual friend's murder at Dachau. Much like his frantic escape attempt in "Casablanca," Peter likely didn't have to fish too hard to dig up the needed emotions for these scenes.

This is also the closest I've ever come to seeing Peter cry.

Other PL fans have lamented that his role was too small. I agree that I'd have loved to see a hell of a lot more of Koenig, but it's not like many of the other characters had much more screen time, which all the different storylines running at once. Aside from maybe Helmut Dantine and Andrea King, most of the important characters probably only have a handful of scenes tops.

Edit: That said, knowing he had scenes indicating how he joined the resistance that were cut is very frustrating.

But the fact that Peter's character not only lives to the end as one of the heroes, but gets to read President Roosevelt's uplifting speech to the German people, definitely counts for something.

That speech packed a powerful punch for me, at a time when I sometimes need reminding that indoctrinated civilians in war zones are still individuals, and can't be lumped with their dogmatic leaders. I don't doubt for a minute that President Biden took inspiration from Roosevelt for how to address the Palestinian people in regards to stopping Hamas.

The Fugitive

I suppose I should also mention the film's lead: Helmut Dantine as Martin Richter, the German anti-Nazi resistance fighter who escaped Dachau Concentration Camp. Helmut Dantine played Jan, the Bulgarian husband in "Casablanca." The controlled desperation with which he gambled at Rick's roulette wheel as Jan serves well for his fugitive resistance fighter in this movie. The fact that Dantine was actually imprisoned at Rosserlaende Concentration Camp for his anti-Nazi political activism at age 19 no doubt also helped him in the role.

My only complaint is the makeup and costuming department failing to help him look the part. While Paul Henreid got a scar and a white streak of hair for Victor Laszlo, Dantine is done up to look like a particularly slick, clean movie star, standing out in a cast of disheveled and weary looking people. One could interpret this as a symbolic way of singling him out as the hero, but I found it distracting. I am not throwing shade on Dantine's acting abilities or natural looks, just how the people in charge had him presented.

I'm unsure how to close this review.

It's getting late and I have some more clips to upload, and cake to eat. "Hotel Berlin" is up there with "Casablanca" on my personal list of unironically great old movies. Professor Koenig is on my list favorite Peter Lorre characters, and I have a handful of new favorite actors.

I'll just finish by saying that this guy in the barrette looks noticeably like Robert Picardo, if maybe a "stretched out" version thereof. Voyager's EMH hanging out with a holo-Peter Lorre in one of Tom Paris's noir programs is something I never knew I needed.

[raspberryfingers]

A Lion In the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 6)

WARNINGS: None

Word Count: 12k

—————

Angry. It had made me angry to consider that Lord Tywin’s name would end up next to mine in the history books, because why should it?

It had been just under two weeks since I’d last had a proper conversation with the Hand of the King, and since then I’d done plenty of thinking about the subject. It was incredibly frustrating to me that Lord Tywin should get some credit for my sword, because all that he had done was stuck his own blade into the man’s skull. He had not fought off the Baratheon soldier, he had not received disgusting threats. And yet somehow, when future generations told the story of the sword, they would have to recall that he had ‘saved my life’.

It was pathetic, and had reminded me of just how much I hated Tywin Lannister. What was even worse, I had let myself be swayed by his gifts and his charming words. How could I have let that happen? I was a Tyrell, after all, I shouldn’t have been so eager to thank him for a set of armor that my father easily could’ve bought. Not only that, but his words were all political, aiming to make me relax—to win me over to his side. And I’d let him get away with it. What a sad realization that had been. 

But, on the bright side, I was continuing to heal rather quickly, and the maesters had allowed me to start practicing again, even if it was only for 30 minutes a day. They said it might actually help to do so, and I’d been more than happy to hear it. 

My grandmother had found a man named Bronn, who was supposedly Tyrion Lannister’s sellsword, and I’d had quite a lot of fun practicing with him. He was a creative fighter, and also very instinctual. It wasn’t something I saw often, and I appreciated it. Plus, he was rather challenging since I couldn’t exert my full skill while I was healing. It was good for me. 

“How long do the maesters think it’ll be before you’re back to normal?” Bronn questioned, grinning as I blocked his swings. We’d only just started meeting, and our current arrangement was 3 times a week. I expected that soon that would increase, at least until Ser Elias came to the capital. 

“They said I should be completely healed in a month at the very latest, but expect it’ll be sooner. I’m personally quite excited. More than anything I’m just glad I can walk around again, and that there’s a sword in my hand instead of a cane,” I noted, spinning my blade backward and dodging Bronn before going on the offense. 

“I’m lookin’ forward to it. You’re good now, can’t imagine what you’ll be like once you’re not in any pain,” he said, huffing out and moving rather quickly to block me. Gods, it felt good to be swinging a weapon again. I had been glad when Bronn suggested that we use real blades and not sparring swords.

“I suppose you’ll see then, won’t you?” I smiled, finally relenting in my attacks and catching my breath. Our 30 minutes were up, unfortunately. I tossed Bronn the small bag of gold that we were paying him, and he gave me a good nod as he shoved it in his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. 

“Suppose I will. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Lady Tyrell. Don’t bother making yourself look pretty next time,” he flirted, chuckling as he left the practice room. I laughed to myself once he’d gone, shaking my head and sitting down on a small bench. There was that, too. Bronn was quite the relentless flirt, and though I tried not to pay him any mind, I had to admit that he was rather charming. And, unlike most men, his flattery didn’t make a person uncomfortable.

I sighed out, reaching for my canteen and taking a sip of water. I was in good shape, of course, but I’d spent nearly three weeks bedridden, and so I had to rebuild a bit of my stamina again. There was a rather noticeable pain in my side, too, but it was far more bearable than it would’ve been even a week ago. Plus, it was worth it to be fighting again. 

I pulled my sword onto my lap just as I always did after practice, pulling out a cloth and meticulously running it over the metal. I didn’t even know why I bothered keeping it so clean, in a week or two I’d be using an entirely different sword, but there was something rhythmic about doing it. 

I found myself humming a tune, which for a moment I didn’t even realize was the Rains of Castamere. Bronn had been humming it during practice, and the bits that he had sung were quite nice. With impressive skills and a good voice, I found myself wondering how the freshly knighted man wasn’t married yet.

“And so he spoke… and so he spoke, that lord of castamere… but now the rains weep over his halls, and not a soul to hear…” I sang softly, additionally beginning to whistle afterward. The song did make me a bit bitter, but gods, the man who’d written it had made it undeniably good. I hoped that someday they’d write a similar tune for me. 

“Lady (Y/N)?”

I looked up from my blade, finding the Lord Hand standing at the open entrance to the practice room. He looked somewhat surprised, and I watched him come down the steps into the room. 

“Hello, Lord Tywin. Is there something I can do for you?” I questioned, rather annoyed that he was intruding. It was a public space, of course, but cleaning a sword was supposed to be soothing, not cumbersome. I was also annoyed because it reminded me that I’d been tasked with speaking to him about my sister's wedding. My grandmother wanted me to figure out who was paying for what, and how much we ought to spend. I knew that I was unfortunately going to have to try and convince him to spend more. 

“No. I heard someone singing, I did not realize it was you. I wouldn’t have expected you to be singing that song in particular,” he replied, looking around before settling his gaze on me in a challenging manner. I only scoffed.

“Rest assured, Lord Tywin, I give more credit to the man who wrote the song than you,” I shot back, glaring at him in a similar manner. We both stared each other down for a moment, but I was distracted by even more footsteps in the hallway. His guard came into view in the doorway then, and I raised my eyes at the sight of a crossbow. 

“Have you really tired of me this quickly, Lord Tywin?” I joked, deciding that I ought to lighten the tense mood as I put my cloth away and sheathed my sword. There was no point in continuing to clean it now. Lord Tywin looked back, seeing his guard and letting out a sigh.

“I’m going hunting, I need to distract myself,” he explained, blinking a few times as he shook his head with annoyance. I raised an eyebrow at him, wondering what beside me possibly could’ve gotten on his nerves so much that he needed to kill something. 

“Well, at some point, my lord, I do need to discuss a few things with you.”

“About?”

“My sister’s wedding to your grandson. I’ve been charged with the topic of finances, unfortunately for both of us,” I answered, adjusting my sword belt with a sigh. Lord Tywin only scoffed, kicking at the stone floor subconsciously. He was even more tense than usual, I could tell. 

“Well, I’m here now. Do you intend to make it quick?” he asked, folding his hands together behind his back. I laughed a little, looking at him as though he were a madman. Was he truly insinuating that I was going to be the one to make this difficult?

“That entirely depends on you. My grandmother did say to ask you about it as soon as I possibly could, though, so I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through it either way,” I said, giving him a look of false sympathy. There was something amusing to me about knowing that he was already having a bad day. Why not make it worse?

Lord Tywin scowled, shaking his head and turning away from me entirely. I stood up as he started for the stairs, and I sighed out with frustration when he began to ascend up them. I quickly went after him, ignoring the slight pain in my side as I moved around his guard and reached out. I grabbed the Old Lion’s arm, forcing him to stop walking.

Feeling me do this, he turned around and raised an eyebrow. He was not in the mood for games, and presently neither was I. He attempted to break away from my grip, but I held on and instead reached for his bicep, walking with him like a proper lady now.

“I’m not joking, Lord Tywin, I do need to discuss the royal wedding with you. I understand that neither one of us wishes to have this conversation, so here is my proposal. Why don’t I join you on the hunt? After we’ve both killed something, perhaps we’ll feel a bit better and be able to talk about the subject rationally. Plus, I’ll even stand in front of whatever animal you decide to kill before you shoot it, that way you can pretend you’re hunting me instead,” I offered, smiling up at him and trying to hold back a laugh at how utterly angry he looked. He refused to even meet my eyes, and his eyebrows were furrowed so intensely that it was no wonder he had wrinkles.

“I do not appreciate your jokes, Lady (Y/N). Why would I invite you to join me for something that I intend to relax with?” he scowled, still not even sparing me a slight glance. I raised my eyebrows with false surprise. It was truly so fun to tease him.

“Are you insinuating that I’m disagreeable, Lord Tywin?”

“I’m not insinuating it, I’m stating it as a fact.”

I rolled my eyes, suddenly wondering if this was such a good idea after all. An entire afternoon with my worst enemy, how delightful. Though, perhaps I could ‘slip’ and let a boar take him the same way that one had taken King Robert. I wondered if that would make boars Cersei Lannister's favorite or least favorite animal.

“I promise to be agreeable, Lord Tywin. I could use a break too, in all honesty. I hardly doubt I’ll be allowed out of The Keep on my own, or without some great reason. It’s starting to drive me insane,” I said, sighing and continuing to hold his bicep. Lord Tywin relaxed a bit and positioned his arm to make it comfortable for me to hold, realizing that I wasn’t going to let go.

“Very well, have it your way then.”

“It’ll be rather fun, Lord Tywin. Let’s stop by my room quickly so I can get my bow,” I said with a pleasant smile, pressing my free hand to his arm in an encouraging manner. He finally looked over at me, and I saw in his eyes that it had been quite some time since he’d held a woman on his arm this way. 

“Of course.”

We made a small detour, and I could tell that walking with me made the Old Lion nervous, for he was constantly looking over to make sure I was alright. His other hand was always ready to reach out and catch me should I fall, especially anytime we went down stairs. It was quite interesting.

I was perfectly fine though, and finally broke away from him so I could retrieve my bow from inside my room. Thankfully, that was all I needed to do, already dressed appropriately for a hunt in my light green shirt and brown leather doublet. It was almost as though I’d stolen Loras’ wardrobe. 

“Are you as good with that thing as you are with a sword?” Lord Tywin questioned, watching me come out from my chambers with a bow wrapped around my torso and a quiver in my belt instead of a sword.

“I’m good with it, but I’m afraid I’ll never be as good at anything as I am with a sword. Well, daggers too, but that’s all,” I said, making sure everything was in place and then continuing to walk with him. I did not bother grabbing his arm this time, for it would’ve been rather awkward. Though, I supposed nothing was worse than the continual clanking of his guard behind us.

From my room, it was to the stables, and it was at the stables that Lord Tywin finally took the crossbow in his own hands and dismissed his guard. It surprised me, and I was honestly somewhat hesitant.

“Lord Tywin, surely it would seem improper for us to go hunting alone,” I said, pausing before I mounted my horse to make sure that we were on the same page. I was gripping the horn of the saddle and had one foot in a stirrup as I waited for his reply. I watched him carelessly mount his horse and then look down at me.

“I don’t concern myself with it. We can offer whatever we hunt as proof. Besides, people will sooner think you’re attempting to kill me than anything else,” he reasoned. I couldn’t help but laugh, finally mounting up and then adjusting all of my equipment.

“That would be rather relaxing, wouldn’t it? A dead man needn’t concern himself with the planning and finances of a royal wedding,” I joked, to which he let out a hardy laugh and nodded in agreement.

The two of us spurred our horses then, emerging from the Red Keep all by ourselves. Flea Bottom wasn’t necessary to pass through in order to reach the countryside, which made me grateful not because I minded the poor, but because I knew that today King Joffrey was there with Margaery. Lord Tywin seemed to know of it too.

“I hear my grandson is out with your sister today,” he mentioned as we rode. 

“Yes. She is exploring the city and making herself beloved to everyone, just as us Tyrells have a habit of doing. You’ve experienced it first hand, Lord Tywin.”

“Ahum, I certainly have.”

I couldn’t resist a smile, though I tried not to think much about it. It was odd, because I detested Lord Tywin for nearly everything he did, and yet when I actually spoke to him it was rather enjoyable. I reassured myself by considering the fact that I usually carried our conversations, and that the only reason I was even laughing or smiling to begin with was because I was teasing him. I didn’t know whether or not I was glad that he’d warmed up to my occasional insults, because while it made things easier, I wanted to hate him. I didn’t like the idea of not being 100% faithful to the vow I’d made as a girl. Perhaps that was why I’d been so uncomfortable with myself lately.

These thoughts plagued my mind as we rode through the city, but thankfully vanished when we finally emerged from King’s Landing and made our way to the Kingswood. It was nice to take a deep breath that didn’t stink of shit, and the woods were extremely peaceful, which instantly made me relax. I suspected that was why Lord Tywin desired so deeply to be in them.

“Do you ever miss the Rock, Lord Tywin?” I asked casually, the thought coming to mind as I admired the landscape. I wondered if it felt like King’s Landing at all with the way it was positioned along the coast.

“Sometimes. I've become just as familiar with the capital as I have with Casterly Rock, but it will never compare to home. The sun rises over the sea here, but at the Rock it sets. It’s quite beautiful,” he said, speaking freely. It surprised me to hear him be so open and honest. I couldn’t help but wonder if the woods alone was enough to make him feel so at ease.

“I remember it. Despite being quite angry with you, Lord Tywin, I can recall being consoled by the pink and orange among the clouds and the water that night. As a young girl from Highgarden, I’d never seen such a beautiful sunset,” I told him, searching the trees for whatever bird was singing such a pretty tune. I noticed that Lord Tywin was subconsciously doing the same. He did not have full control over everything he did, it seemed. It was rather fascinating.

“Do you plan to visit the Rock again, Lady (Y/N)?” He asked, looking over at me as we slowed our horses a bit. I smiled and raised my eyebrow, wondering if it’d just heard the man correctly.

“Was that an invitation, Lord Tywin?”

“If you’d like.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him get down from his horse. I did the same, tying my horse to a tree and fixing my clothes.

“What do you plan to catch, Lord Tywin?” I asked, adjusting my equipment now too. Lord Tywin looked rather intimidating with the crossbow in his hands, and it was surprising to see him hunt. I’d never envisioned him as a particularly outdoorsy man, I supposed. 

“A boar or a stag would be nice,” he answered, rolling his shoulders back to stretch out. I tried to reflect on the last time that I had been hunting—for anything besides a man, at least—and realized that it had certainly been quite awhile. 

“I imagine the fresh venison would be quite delicious.”

He nodded his head in agreement, and he motioned for me to follow as we started to get deeper in the woods. The twigs and leaves crunched under our feet, but not so loudly as to be disruptive to any animals.

There was a comfortable silence as we examined our surroundings, checking the ground for any sign of recent wildlife. After about half an hour, we observed just what we were looking for: stag tracks. At least, that was what we had originally thought.

“Lord Tywin,” I whispered, to which he turned back and looked over. I pointed down at the ground, and he carefully walked over to see them. His gaze was thoughtful as he observed the ground which I had gestured to.

“These look fresh,” he mumbled, and I made a noise of agreement. Slowly, we began to follow these tracks, and as we did I considered that we must’ve been tracking quite the deer, for the tracks were very large. 

My questions were answered when, after a few minutes of walking, the man beside me put his hand up to stop me. I instantly froze, and when I looked up from the tracks on the ground, I couldn’t hold back a gasp. 

Staring directly at us was a white hart, and a rather large one too. My gasp had caused it to look over, and it seemed to be staring at us just as much as we were staring at it. It was an absolutely gorgeous animal, with white fur that was practically glowing and a giant set of antlers. I wondered if this was the most majestic thing I’d ever seen.

It was odd, because I reached out to Lord Tywin to prevent him from raising his crossbow, but when I felt his hands I realized that he hadn’t had any intention to do that at all. All that either of us wanted to do was stare, for how could we kill such an animal?

A loud noise in a bush somewhere nearby frightened the thing, and it promptly ran off, but both Lord Tywin and I were too shocked to move for a moment. I only did when I realized that my hand was still on his, and when I looked down and saw it, I quickly pulled away.

“I’ve never seen a white hart before,” I said softly, swallowing nervously and hoping that he wouldn’t make a comment about me grabbing his hand. He’d looked down and seen it, and I found myself anxious because of it for some reason. After all, I had grabbed his arm without a problem just an hour ago.

“I don’t believe that I have either. Maybe once as a young man, but I can’t recall it if I did,” he said, contemplating it for a moment and then shaking his head.

“Well, if it looked anything like that, then I’m certain you would’ve remembered.”

“Yes, I suppose I would have.”

We looked at each other for a moment, and then back at the ground. So much for the ‘stag’ we’d been tracking. We’d have to find entirely new tracks.

“We ought to go back the other way, I don’t want to go too far from the horses,” I suggested, to which Lord Tywin nodded and began walking. I followed behind, and I could not get the image of the white hart out of my head. They were commonly associated with royalty, and I found myself wondering if perhaps Margaery’s marriage to Joffrey wouldn’t be so horrible after all. Though, that was a large assumption to place on the sighting of an animal. I would sooner trust my grandmother's opinion. 

“Lady (Y/N), look,” Lord Tywin whispered, suddenly getting my attention. When I lifted my eyes from the branch covered ground, I noticed not just one, but two stags grazing directly in front of us. Was this hunt the gods’ apology for the wound up my side?

I smiled at the Hand of the King, and he couldn’t resist a subtle one either as he carefully crouched by a log. I slowly made my way over and joined him, quietly drawing an arrow from my quiver and readying to draw. Lord Tywin did the same, loading his crossbow as gently as he could. 

Once he’d done that, I leaned toward him, motioning that I desired to whisper. He moved in, and my mouth came just before his ear. We were so close that I felt his hot breath on my neck.

“I’ll shoot first, it’s quieter. Once I release, you shoot the second one. The second one being the one closest to you, naturally,” I planned out quietly, making him nod in agreement. I wondered if this was the first thing he hadn’t fought me on at all.

I leaned away and carefully drew back my bow, aiming with relative ease. The only sound made was the small ‘plunk’ of the string releasing, and within seconds the deer I’d aimed at was dead, shot directly through its eyes. As we’d discussed, Lord Tywin pulled the trigger just after I’d released my arrow, giving us two dead stags and quite a victorious hunt. 

Standing, Lord Tywin offered his hand to help me up. I accepted willingly, feeling rather satisfied as we went to examine our kills. They were decent sized stags, and for a moment I almost felt bad. They had been so beautiful, and we’d taken it upon ourselves to kill them anyway. Well, we would at least make good use of them, and there was reassurance in that.

“Both clean kills. I’ll go get the horses, it’s too far for me to carry both of them,” he noted, making me scoff out in disbelief.

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my kill, Lord Tywin. I’m not nearly as weak as you’d like to believe I am,” I informed him, somewhat offended by his insinuations. I stepped toward the deer I’d shot in an attempt to pick it up, but he gripped my arm and kept me from doing it. I was more than just a bit annoyed now. 

“No, I’m not going to have you try and lift that thing. I’ll go and get the horses,” he countered, making me full on scowl now. Why was he being so stubborn?

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lord Tywin. I’m just going to pick it up, it’ll be fine,” I said, breaking free of his grasp and lowering myself so I could get a good grip on the stag. 

“Lady (Y/N), I'm serious, do not try to lift up that animal!” 

I entirely ignored his command, doing precisely what he hadn’t wanted and raising my eyebrows at him once I’d managed to stand up without a problem. The deer was slung about my shoulders, and he looked utterly annoyed.

“Would you look at that, Lord Tywin, my limbs didn’t fall from my body!” I exclaimed, feigning shock and then rolling my eyes at him. His sentiment had been entirely pathetic, and I hadn’t a clue why he was being so adamant about it.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said after a moment, glaring at me and then lifting his own kill from the ground. I scoffed at him, my anger over the subject only increasing.

“I wonder if it’s possible that you’ll ever stop treating me like I’m still a child. I’m more than capable, my lord, I promise you that. And yet for some reason, you are always doubting me, always giving me far less credit than I deserve. Well, quite frankly, I’m sick of it. I’ve worked hard my entire life, and it wasn’t just so that you could constantly treat me like a little girl,” I ranted, frustrated that he wouldn’t even look me in the eyes as I said it. He looked entirely disinterested, nodding at what I had to say as he looked around. I was close to just snapping altogether. 

Lord Tywin looked around for a few seconds more, finally making eye contact with me when he was certain I was finished. “I will stop treating you like a little girl, Lady (Y/N), the day that you stop acting like one.” 

He moved past me before I could reply, beginning to walk toward the horses. For a moment, all I could do was stand there. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it hadn’t been that. Because it had made me even angrier, yes, but it had also hurt. Tywin Lannister was the one person on earth that I could not bear to be seen as a child by. 

As this hurt and anger built up inside me, I did not waste time following after him. I began to huff out, not with exertion, but with absolute fury. How dare he? After all that I had done to help House Lannister, he still refused to treat me with decency.

“I do not act like a child, Lord Tywin! I have tried my very hardest to get along better with you, for the sake of our families if not for anything else. Out of courtesy, I have held back nearly everything that I wish to say to you, but you… you are merely insistent upon being an insufferable cunt!” I yelled at him, watching him stop in his tracks. His back was to me, and I stopped walking too as I watched him process what I’d said. I had used his full ‘title’ again, though it was more out of hurt than anything. I did not feel like crying, but my lip trembled all the same. “Why… why do you have to be such an insufferable cunt?”

Lord Tywin finally turned to face me, and I prepared myself for whatever insult might come when I saw his signature furrowed brows. I expected something along the lines of ‘you’re a spoiled child’, or ‘because you deserve it’—that or some other horrible insult. But, as the Old Lion looked at me, something in him shifted. His brows relented, and he sighed out with a sort of defeat. 

“I didn’t want you to do it because I was worried that you would hurt yourself,” he said, blinking several times as his eyes narrowed. It looked like it had caused him pain to say it, although I was rather confused. How was that relevant at all?

“What?”

“I did not want you to pick up that deer, Lady (Y/N), not because I see you as a child, or because I see you as incompetent, but because I was worried that you might end up hurt,” he admitted, and for some reason it made him vulnerable. Why did he have such a hard time saying such a thing? It made sense, I supposed.

“And how was I to know that? I may be a woman of many talents but I cannot read minds. Why didn’t you just… I don’t know, explain that? Instead you decided that it would be easier to make me upset.” I adjusted the deer on my shoulder, starting to feel its weight quite prominently. Gods, I could not wait to be back to normal in a month.

“Sometimes it is easier to let people believe what they’d like to,” he noted, eyes still focused on mine. It was a change, for usually he did not bother to make eye contact when we spoke. I swallowed, staring at him for another moment and then shaking my head.

“Well I don’t want to believe that, Lord Tywin… I don’t- don’t wish for you to truly see me as childish or immature.”

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing that I don’t. Not most of the time, anyway.”

We said nothing else, only staring for a few moments before continuing to walk back to the horses. If there was one thing that I could say about Tywin Lannister that was true 100% of the time, it was that he never failed to surprise me. In both good and bad ways, I supposed. 

After a few minutes we found the horses again, and I was grateful to be free of the ache on my shoulder as I tossed the stag onto the back of the animal. It was also fairly easy to secure, and it did not move an inch when I mounted my horse.

“We can discuss the wedding now, if you’d like,” Lord Tywin offered, getting onto his horse as well and shifting in the saddle. I immediately shook my head.

“No, I don’t want to talk about the wedding.”

“Why not? It was the reason you came with me.”

“Because I’m having too good of a time now to want to think about costs. I’ll just tell my grandmother that you agreed to pay for half of it and that’ll be that.” I shrugged, spurring my horse and starting off through the woods at a walk. Lord Tywin followed behind.

“Your grandmother won’t be satisfied with that. You’d be paying for half and supplying the food,” he pointed out, coming up beside me now so we could face each other as we spoke. I looked over at him with quite a bit of surprise.

“You’re the first man in history who’s ever wanted to pay more for something, I hope you realize that.” 

“If House Tyrell is also providing food for the wedding, then it is only fair that I pay more. I hope that you will trust me on the subject of economics.” Lord Tywin raised both eyebrows at me, and I couldn’t resist a small smile. Who else but the richest man in all seven kingdoms would I listen to on the subject of money?

“Very well, Lord Tywin, you will cover a bit more than half. Satisfied?”

He gave me a courteous nod and I laughed, shaking my head at how specific he was on the subject. Although, I suppose one only remains rich with smart financial habits, and being specific about costs certainly is one.

We finally emerged from the woods, and I inhaled sharply at the sight of the sunset. Although the sun was behind us, it was absolutely gorgeous, and the clouds painted all hues of orange and pink across the sky. Kings Landing, as hideous and horrible as it was, looked magnificent. It nearly seemed to glow.

“It’s beautiful,” I muttered, trying to recall the last time I’d seen the sky look this way. It had perhaps been years since I’d observed such a breathtaking view. 

“Yes… beautiful.”

Lord Tywin’s inflection made me curious, and when I turned to look over at him, I found his eyes fixed on me. He inhaled and looked back at the Red Keep, and I assumed that he’d nearly zoned out while looking at me. 

“It’s getting late, Lady (Y/N). That took much longer than I’d anticipated, and King’s Landing is too dangerous after dark. For us, anyway,” he said, making me laugh in disbelief. Too dangerous after dark? If anybody even attempted to lay hands on us it would be the last time they had hands. Although, I suppose I hadn’t brought my sword with me, and I was no expert with a bow.

“And what do you propose we do? One way or another, we need to get back to the Red Keep. Plus, I’m expected at a dinner with your daughter and the king. Both of my siblings will be there, and if I don’t go, it will look bad,” I explained to him, not sure what exactly he had in mind but knowing that one way or another we would have to get back. 

“No, we don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Need to get back to the Red Keep. You have blankets in your saddle bags and so do I. Surely a woman who murders and hunts in her free time isn’t so refined as to refuse sleeping under the stars,” he teased, subtly grinning at the look of shock on my face. Was he utterly insane?

“I’ve never slept outside, Lord Tywin. Not genuinely, anyways,” I sputtered, knowing that the closest I’d ever gotten to doing so was laying out blankets in the middle of the hedge maze with Loras when I was a girl. 

“Perhaps you’ll like it,” he said, looking around for—or rather scouting for—a place to camp. I licked my lips anxiously, trying to find a way to convince him that we shouldn’t do this. To go hunting with him was one thing, but to spend the entire night with him? That was nearly as bad as saying that he was my friend, and if people found out the rumors would be ten times as bad. 

“But the dinner-“

“You don’t want to attend that dinner, Lady (Y/N). And even if you did, we’ve got a better dinner right here than they do.” He motioned his head to the deer on the back of his horse, giving me a somewhat annoyed look. I glanced at the Red Keep, and then back at him. 

“People will talk.”

“Let them. The last time I checked, your hatred for me was still very real and genuine. I feel quite confident that any rumors people might spread will quickly vanish the next time you happen to call me an insufferable cunt. Unless you disagree with my first statement, that is.”

I huffed out, shaking my head and looking away. Yes, he must’ve gone mad, because there was no other logical explanation for him not wanting to return to the Red Keep.

“Trust me, Lord Tywin, when I say that I completely agree with your assessment of my feelings toward you. It’s why I’m so vehemently against your current proposition. I’ve only been able to tolerate this time with you because I killed something. I would rather spend tonight with your daughter and grandson, rest assured,” I said, continuing to shake my head over the idea. The Hand of the King gripped his reins, turning his horse to face me and then settling. He had a very testing look on his face, and I only grew more frustrated as I realized that this was all somewhat amusing to him.

“You’re more than welcome to return on your own, I certainly won’t stop you. I promise you, however, that you will not find any more joy with the king or his mother.” He began to ride away from me now, and I sighed out as I followed behind him. He had laid his eyes on a particularly lucious field, and seemingly had every intention to stay there for the night. 

“There’s an inn nearby, Lord Tywin, why not stay there if you’re insistent upon not returning to the Red Keep?” I questioned, suddenly remembering that if we rode north for about 10 minutes we would stumble upon one. 

“Every inn within at least 20 miles of King’s Landing is full, Lady (Y/N). They’re accommodating the new mass of Lannister and Tyrell soldiers,” he reminded me, to which I groaned. He was right, of course, and I’d already known that, but it was a desperate grasp at something. “I don’t believe you’ll find sleeping outside to be as horrible as you are imagining it to be, and even if it is, it’s only a single night.”

I sighed, realizing I’d exhausted my arguments. I also had no desire to go through King’s Landing on my own, and I knew that Lord Tywin had won for the first time. I prayed he was right about it not being so bad. 

“Fine, Lord Tywin, I’ll join you. Though I am curious, when have you ever slept outside before?” I questioned, suddenly wondering how he even had such experience. How was it possible that the richest and most stuck up man in all of Westeros had done such a thing? Had he secretly taken the black? I laughed to myself at that thought, for it certainly would explain his wardrobe.

“The late King Aerys and I were rather fond of sneaking away from his Kingsguard as boys, and we could not go to inns without being recognized,” he revealed, which somewhat surprised me. It was easy to forget that at one point in time he and Aerys had actually been the best of friends, and it made me feel odd to learn such a fact about the two of them. It was strange to picture a young Tywin Lannister—with a head full of blonde hair—sneaking about with his silver haired companion. It was strange to picture Lord Tywin doing anything remotely fun or mischievous at all. Though, I supposed that sometimes certain people brought out certain sides of you.

“We can stay here for tonight.”

I was broken from my thoughts, and I watched the Old Lion dismount and lead his horse to a tree nearby. Just as I had suspected, he had wanted to stay in the grassy field. I followed him and dismounted too, of course, tying my own horse to ensure he wouldn’t run off or hurt himself. As I examined the stag tied behind the saddle, another thought came to mind.

“How do we plan to eat these deer without knowing how to skin them?” I asked, slowly realizing I had no clue how to skin an animal. I had turned to Lord Tywin, suddenly feeling utterly clueless. The fresh meat certainly would be good, but how on earth were we to prepare it? I certainly had no clue how to gut or cook an animal. I’d have much better luck seasoning one.

“Bold of you, Lady (Y/N), to presume that I don’t know how to skin an animal,” Lord Tywin replied with a hint of amusement, clearly enjoying the anxious look on my face. It only transitioned into surprise as I took in this new information about the man in front of me.

“You do?”

“Of course I do. I’ll find a good log and we can put them on that. Do you know how to build a fire?”

“No, but I can set up our ‘camp’ and perhaps locate some berries to accompany the venison. Maybe herbs, too,” I suggested, though I still found it somewhat ridiculous that I’d agreed to do this. I also felt rather embarrassed by the fact that I genuinely possessed no survival skills. It was something I’d never even needed to think of before.

“Very well.”

I watched Lord Tywin wander into the woods, and I sighed as I located the blankets and such in my saddle bag. It didn’t take very long to lay everything out, so I ventured into the woods myself now too, carrying an empty saddlebag and a cloth to wrap the fruit in.

Much to my relief, I found plenty of berries and herbs, and I was quite excited to bring them back to Lord Tywin. If nothing else, I could at least boast that we wouldn’t be eating any poisonous substances tonight.

However, when I was on my way back to our campsite I became a bit sidetracked. I suddenly noticed an unusually large tree, and it reminded me of one that provided shade for nearly an entire courtyard in Highgarden. I could recall climbing that tree as a child, and for some strange reason I’d felt compelled to do the same with this one. 

I placed my bag down, digging my boots into the base of the tree and gripping at ridges in the wood. I had prepared to start climbing, but was unfortunately interrupted by my least favorite sound: Tywin Lannister’s voice. 

“You shouldn’t do that. You’ve already been walking quite a lot today, among various other physical activities. You’re going to set back your progress.”

I turned and faced the Old Lion, sighing out with a bit of frustration before realizing he was right and relenting. I supposed that it had been rather stupid, in all honesty. I wasn’t even sure why I’d wanted to do it to begin with. I supposed I just missed home.

I placed both feet back on the ground again, bending over to grab the saddlebag and then beginning to walk back with him. We were both silent for a few minutes, but the question on the tip of my tongue did not wish to remain unheard.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Yes. It had been more than half an hour and you still hadn’t returned. I thought perhaps a boar had gotten you,” he answered sarcastically, making me involuntarily smile. Humor was not something that most people would associate with Tywin Lannister, but if you caught him at the right moment you would certainly find it. I supposed even if you didn’t catch him at the right moment he was still rather snarky, which frequently annoyed me. But, in this setting, it was rather nice.

“Why were you attempting to climb a tree? I was rather surprised to find you that way,” he questioned after a moment, looking over at me curiously. I couldn’t blame him, it was somewhat random. I wasn’t entirely sure what had gripped me either.

“There’s one just like it in Highgarden; I used to climb it all the time as a girl. I can still remember poking my head above the leaves and seeing out for miles… I suppose it was one of my favorite places. The other nice thing was that none of my guards could climb up it in their armor, so they’d be forced to let me stay up there,” I told him, laughing to myself at the memories of Ser Elias frantically trying to get me down. Eventually he’d given up, especially once he’d realized that I was surefooted. 

“I see. I take it your findings were successful?” Having noticed the weight at the bottom of my bag, Lord Tywin moved on from the subject. I looked down at it as well, satisfied with my collection.

“Of course they were. I never let you down, Lord Tywin.”

“Ahuh, never.”

We arrived at the campsite then, and I was pleasantly surprised to see a fire already going and a log already laid out in preparation. The Hand of the King certainly knew how to work rather quickly.

As we approached the fire, I noticed that he’d laid out the two deer nearby, though not close enough that they might attract anything to us. As I placed down the saddlebag he went over to them, picking one up and bringing it over.

“Come here, I’ll teach you how to skin it,” he offered—well, more like demanded—as he placed it down on the decent sized log he’d acquired. I finally permitted myself to say the thought that I’d been pondering all day.

“You have considerable strength for your age.” 

Lord Tywin suddenly stood straight and looked over at me with utter surprise. Both of his eyebrows raised at me, and for a moment my cheeks went hot with embarrassment. I supposed the sentiment had sounded better in my head.

“For my age?”

I stared at him for a moment, and for some reason his offense—as it was not truly that genuine—became amusing to me. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, waving my hand as I giggled to insinuate that I didn’t want to talk about it. Lord Tywin simply scoffed, shaking his head and kneeling down in front of the stag. 

“I did not mean it like that. It was supposed to be a compliment.”

“Are you entirely certain that none of the berries you picked are poisonous, Lady (Y/N)?” he questioned, gazing at me with false concern. I continued to laugh, joining him in front of the log and nodding my head. Yes, he was in quite a good mood—we both were.

“Yes, I’m quite certain, my lord.”

He gave me the subtlest of smiles and then turned his attention back toward the stag. He looked at it for a moment and then nodded, reaching for the knife. When he held it out to me, however, I merely gaped at him. I didn’t have a single clue how to skin an animal, and I didn’t want to risk ruining our hunt.

“Lord Tywin, I-“

“Don’t get all whiny, I’ll help you. I wasn’t going to have you do it all on your own, that would be foolish,” he grumbled, grabbing my wrist and placing the knife into my palm. I sighed out with relief, swallowing as I glanced down at the carcass. For a moment there, I thought he’d expected me to just intuitively gut the damned thing. 

“How- How do I start?” I asked, completely unsure of how to even begin. After all, before today, I’d never even imagined I’d skin an animal. But Lord Tywin knew that too, and with an understanding patience he moved closer to me. He wrapped his right hand around mine, gripping it so that he’d also be able to control the knife. His palms were warm, and for once so were his eyes. 

“Let me guide, hm?”

I nodded, swallowing nervously as he brought my hand up to the stag's underside and pushed the knife inside. It was an odd feeling, though I was more preoccupied by the feeling of his hand squeezing around mine as he did it. That, and the fact that he was so close to me I could faintly feel his breath at the top of my neck.

I couldn’t focus on it, however, because he masterfully brought both of our hands down in clean cuts. We had opened up the animal, and I could see the pink of its raw flesh peaking through from under the fur. I began to wonder why the Boltons did not just do this instead.

“I won’t make you handle the intestines and such, but watch carefully so you at least know how,” he explained, suddenly letting go of my hand. I gave the knife back to him and watched with the intent to learn as he cleaned out all the organs, throwing them off to the side. I’d seen enough of mens internal organs in my life to not feel particularly disgusted by these.

“Shouldn’t you bury those to avoid attracting anything?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. He made a small noise of affirmation, moving closer to me—and handing me the knife—once more.

“Yes, I’ll do so while the meat cooks. Now, let’s finish skinning it. You’re going to dig under the fur, and hold it up with your other hand to get a cleaner cut,” he instructed, hand again coming to mine. The feeling gave me goosebumps, the hairs on my arm rising in response to his gentle palms.

But, either way, I did as I was told and reached to lift the animal’s coat with my free hand. The feeling was somewhat uncomfortable, but I did it nonetheless. When I looked over, Lord Tywin nodded to let me know I was doing it correctly. He then guided my hand again, cutting firmly underneath to remove the skin from the carcass. 

“I’d like to try on my own, if you’re alright with it,” I said genuinely, beginning to feel a bit more confident now that he’d shown me the general gist of it. He said nothing, but moved his hand away from mine and looked at me in expectation. I swallowed, reaching forward again and continuing to cut back the fur. His silence seemed like good enough of a sign to me, and eventually the majority of the deer was stripped bare. 

“Well done, Lady (Y/N). A woman of many talents,” he remarked, though it seemed half genuine and half sarcastic, as if it was in his nature to be rude but he was trying not to be. I held my tongue, instead letting him carve a reasonable amount of meat and push it onto a stick. I proceeded to season it, of course. I would not have my hard work from earlier go to waste.

I sat by the fire as it cooked, and meanwhile Lord Tywin went off a considerable distance to bury the guts. He also took the remains of the carcass with him, though I was not entirely sure where he planned to put it. I found it unnecessary to ask, for strangely I trusted him with it. Though, I could never admit it out loud.

After a while, Lord Tywin joined me in front of the fire again, and having already cleaned my hands I gave him the cloth. Once he’d wiped his own hands clean I offered him some of the berries I’d picked, and suddenly I was glad that I’d decided to stay with him out here, even if it was somewhat odd. I was glad that I’d convinced him to take me hunting to begin with.

“Aren’t you grateful that you brought me with you now, Lord Tywin?”

“How do you mean?”

“You didn’t want me to join you this morning. You were in quite the mood, and yet even despite that we’ve had a lovely day. In my opinion, at least,” I said, smiling at him as I took another berry between my fingers. Lord Tywin scoffed.

“You’re hardly ideal company.”

“Neither are you when you decide to be like this,” I complained, scowling and wondering why he was so quick to put his walls back up every time I began to tolerate him. I supposed it was a good reminder of why I hated him to begin with.

“I apologize for being rude,” he said after a moment, looking over at me. I could tell it was genuine, but I was still somewhat bitter. Why did he feel the need to be rude in the first place? It was so frustrating. 

“You ought to.”

Lord Tywin looked as if he was about to get snarky again, but he contained himself. What a miracle, it must’ve been the first time in his life.

“You’re right, Lady (Y/N), it has been a nice afternoon. It’s been far too long since I’ve spent a decent amount of time free from the Red Keep,” he admitted, which I could relate wholeheartedly to. “And I suppose it’s better that it was you rather than any of those other fools, snakes, spiders and mockingbirds.”

I couldn’t resist a smile at the reference to some of the Keep’s more infamous members. It really was quite the compliment, because even if I did hate him, he could at least trust the fact that I was genuine. False kindness was much worse than honest hatred, my sister had made plenty of people aware of that fact. However, this was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

“Are you suggesting I’m not capable of being a snake?” I questioned, wanting to get in his head. Such animals were often found underneath flowers, after all.

“You are most certainly capable of being one, but you aren’t. You have no political motivations, unlike your sister. You’ve admitted that all you want is for your father to give you complete command over the Tyrell army,” he answered, pointing out several true facts but ultimately missing an important detail.

“And you believe that prevents me from wanting to advance my siblings? Be careful, Lord Tywin, nightshade is often mistaken as a harmless berry. People only realize their mistake after digesting it,” I cautioned, using my own alias to make him rethink the statement. He pondered for a moment, staring straight at me.

“Have I made a mistake, Lady (Y/N)?”

I gave him a soft smile.

“No, Lord Tywin. Not you.”

He gave a surprised raise of the eyebrows, though he was teasing more than anything, and I felt oddly at peace for the first time in what must’ve been weeks. Yes, I was certainly enjoying today. Though, that thought led me back to something I’d wanted to inquire about earlier.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Lord Tywin, what happened? This morning, I mean. What made your day so awful?” I questioned, for he hadn’t been in nearly such a good mood when I’d first approached him this morning. He was even more bitter than he usually was, and that was saying something.

Lord Tywin blinked a few times, staring into the fire and probably contemplating whether or not he ought to tell me. He decided in the affirmative as he turned his head to look at me, opening his mouth to speak. “Tyrion wishes for me to give him Casterly Rock. He came to me this morning to request it.”

“Will you?” I inquired, staring at the Old Lion. Even just mentioning it had seemingly made him upset, and so I naturally knew that the answer would be no, but I desired to dig deeper into the issue. 

“I’d rather be consumed by maggots.” Lord Tywin only glared into the distance as he spoke; there was venom in his voice as he did. I sighed, trying to figure out where I ought to go from here.

“May I ask why that is?”

“It would be rather rude.”

“I called you an insufferable cunt a few hours ago, I can’t believe this to be so much worse,” I reasoned, huffing out with subtle annoyance. Lord Tywin similarly looked upset, but after a moment he confessed.

“I don’t believe that he’s well suited for it. Constantly drinking, constantly whoring. He would bring down the family legacy that I worked so hard to restore if I let him. Which is precisely why I don’t plan to do so.”

“Lord Tywin, why do you have such grievances against your child, who has never done a thing against you but exist?” I asked, feeling sympathy deep in my heart for Tyrion. As far as I was concerned, he was extremely capable. He’d done well as Hand of the King in his father’s stead, and he’d been responsible for the wildfire at the Battle of Blackwater. To any reasonable man, these were clear signs of competency. To Lord Tywin, however, nothing would ever be enough to override his contempt.

“Never done a thing against me? That boy killed his mother to come into this world. Don’t be foolish, Lady (Y/N),” he replied sharply, practically turning his head completely away from me. And so there it was, not only was Tyrion’s drinking and whoring embarrassing, but he had also been ‘responsible’ for the death of Lady Joanna. I merely shook my head at Lord Tywin.

“Me, foolish? Says the man who truly believes that Tyrion wanted to cause the death of your wife. I know you still feel her loss, and I know that you simply want someone or something to blame for it. Tyrion seemed to be the best culprit, didn’t he? Well, allow me to inform you that he most certainly is not,” I lectured, watching Lord Tywin move forward to take the meat off the fire now that it was ready. He glared at me once he’d done that, and it only prompted me to continue. “And, perhaps if you’d shown Tyrion an ounce of fatherly affection or kindness, he wouldn’t resort to whoring and drinking to fill whatever emptiness you’ve instilled in him from such a young age. You have outcasted him, of course he’s miserable.”

I watched his face rather carefully, gauging his reaction to hearing such a thing. I was correct, and he could not deny that with any real logic, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he did anyways.

“You make excuses for a man you don’t even know,” Lord Tywin pointed out, placing the meat onto a fresh cloth. It was so tender that we were able to take pieces off with our hands.

“I defend a man that wouldn’t need defending had he not been a dwarf. Plus, I have been in his position, fighting for my fathers approval so that I might obtain what I deserve. Tyrion is the most like you, Lord Tywin. He is most qualified to take over as the Lord of Casterly Rock, and you hate to admit it because of your personal grievances,” I replied, reaching for some of the meat once I was finished. It practically melted in my mouth, and I knew then that at least Lord Tywin had been honest about us having a better dinner here than we would in the Red Keep. It was sort of ironic that a better meal could be found in the Kingswood than at the finest tables in all seven kingdoms.

“My personal grievances…” Lord Tywin huffed, shaking his head before continuing, “my father, Lady (Y/N), made House Lannister the weakest of all the great houses. Our gold mines were just as abundant then as they are now, and for some reason, he believed that meant that anybody should be allowed to take from them. He loaned to nearly every single lord in the kingdoms, and gods forbid that he ever asked for that gold back. We were picked on relentlessly, all because my father didn’t have enough of a spine to realize that he was being used and laughed at. I grew tired of hearing that sound rather quickly, as you can imagine. I’ve fixed the ruination that my father brought upon House Lannister, and dealt with the personal embarrassments. He gave my mothers jewelry to a whore… so perhaps- perhaps now you can understand why I have very little interest in giving Tyrion the rock,” he said, staring into the fire for most of his rant. 

It was odd to consider, for I’d never really spent any time thinking about Lord Tywin’s childhood. I had known that people called Lord Tytos ‘the Laughing Lion’, but that was about as far as my knowledge on the subject went. After all, why should I take any interest in the man responsible for putting Tywin Lannister on the earth?

“But it’s more than just that, and I can’t expect you to understand what it’s like to lose a person that you love. I can’t expect anybody to understand what it was like to lose Joanna… I- I loved that woman more than anything. I loved her more than any man or god. And the day that I lost her, well…” he trailed off, and even despite the fact that he would not look at me, I could see the pain and sadness in his eyes. By some miracle, I found sympathy in my heart for this man. I supposed I didn’t have a clue what it was like to lose someone that way—not even an inkling.

“Tell me about her. What did you love most about her?” I turned to face the Old Lion more completely now, leaning on my hand as I sat. Lord Tywin looked at me then, and for a moment I thought that he was going to stay silent. But no, he decided to surprise me.

“That’s an impossible question to answer. I loved everything about her, from her smile to the way that she would attempt to break my composure at court. I sought her advice more than anyone else's, even Kevan’s. She was an advisor and a friend, and more than that she was one of the only people who could ever make me smile or laugh. And gods, she was so beautiful… there was something in her eyes…” 

I watched Lord Tywin go off to an entirely different world. He did not even seem like himself as he spoke about her, and it made me soften. I had never met a man who loved a woman so much, which was surprising given the fact that Tywin Lannister was frequently regarded as utterly ruthless. And yet here he was, with all the love in the world in his eyes as he spoke about his late wife. 

It was no excuse for how he treated Tyrion, of course, but I supposed it made more sense now. To care for a person that much and lose them… well, it would take a toll on anyone. It was also interesting to consider that many people had said the best part of Tywin Lannister died with Lady Joanna, because I found myself in disagreement with that statement.

The best part of this man had not died, for the way he was sitting here talking about her was so genuine, so pure. If this was not Tywin Lannister at his best, then we weren’t sitting here eating venison and berries. I suspected that the best part of him simply just hadn’t had anyone to show itself to since then. 

“If it is any reassurance, Lord Tywin, at least you got to experience such love to begin with, as did she. Most women can only dream of marrying a man who loves them that much, and you gave her that. At least, I know that I certainly won’t receive such affection from whoever I’ll end up marrying,” I told him, reaching out and placing my hand on his shoulder as a reassurance. He looked over at me, thinking for a moment.

“Perhaps you will, Lady (Y/N). Do not give up hope just yet, you probably haven’t even met the man you’ll marry,” he pointed out, being surprisingly optimistic for once. I shrugged, and now it was my turn to gaze into the fire.

“Yes, perhaps I will…” I trailed off, beginning to really consider the fact that I most definitely would not end up marrying a man that I loved. I would end up with some first born son or other, and the second that the ceremony was over my father would take the opportunity to pass on the title of commander to Loras. After all, what husband would want his wife leading an army? That would make them far too self conscious.

I sighed, reaching for the strings at the back of my doublet and loosening them as well as I could. Unfortunately, I’d gotten rather used to having Cerella there to help me, and now I had no chambermaid. I was going to have to do something unimaginable. 

“Lord Tywin… could you…?” I motioned to the strings on my doublet, and he instantly nodded. For all of his faults, he was at least not so cruel that he would not help a person even if it had no effect on his life.

He moved over to me, and I adjusted all my hair to make sure that he could reach the strings with easy access. For the second time that night, his breath was on my neck, and I could feel his hands working at the back of my garment. It was oddly intimate, and all I could do was look down while he helped me.

“There you are, all the strings are undone,” he said after a few minutes, moving away from me and sitting down on the grass once more. I nodded, letting my hair go back as I removed the doublet and was left in my shirt, pants, and boots. I folded it neatly and placed it down beside me, laying down on the ground and turning my head toward the fire. I would have felt rather uncomfortable being so casually dressed in front of any other man, but somehow it was not like that with Lord Tywin.

I suspected that it was reassuring to know that he took no interest in me, for why would he? Not only could he purchase any whore he wanted, but I was also an absolute nightmare for him. There’s nothing particularly attractive about knowing someone detests you more than anyone else.

And even more reassuring to know was that even if Lord Tywin—by some utterly insane means—had been attracted to me, he was not the kind of man who had no self control. Which is not to say that he did not have desires, because just like any other human I was quite certain that he did, but he was not a desperate man. Unlike most, his head did not turn to utter mush at the sight of a woman’s skin. 

It was this reassurance that allowed me to slowly drift off, even if I wasn’t on my bedrolls and had no intention of sleeping yet. It had been a long day, and I had certainly exerted myself much more than any maester would’ve recommended. That, combined with the sound of the fire and the darkness of night coaxed me into sleep. And I wouldn’t realize it until later, but the next morning I would wake up among my bedrolls and blankets, perfectly sound. Not only that, but I would also have an extra blanket: a blanket that Lord Tywin was lacking.

—————

Lord Tywin had been contemplating when he realized you’d fallen asleep. He was removing his own coat when he looked over and noticed your closed eyes. For a moment, he thought that perhaps you were just resting, but the slow pattern of your breathing was unmistakable. Yes, you were asleep. So what was he to do?

Should he wake you? Let you sleep in the grass? Well, he knew he ought to move you onto your bedrolls, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do so without waking you, and that was the dilemma. Plus, what if you woke up while he was attempting to move you? The last thing he wanted to do was freak you out or make you uncomfortable, especially after what you had revealed to him several weeks ago. 

While contemplating what to do, however, he couldn’t resist the urge to admire you. Lord Tywin had met plenty of women in his life, and yet you were certainly quite unique to him. All the Tyrell women seemed to have a certain wit to them that was impossible not to admire, or at the very least respect. 

He certainly knew you better than he knew any of your family, and he distrusted you significantly less than them. Well, maybe he distrusted you more than your father and brother, but who could blame him? The men of Highgarden certainly paled in comparison to its women. And his opinion on your brother was something else entirely, something you’d lecture him about eventually. It seemed you enjoyed doing that with quite a lot of subjects.

But right now, all he could do was admire your sleeping form. If he was honest, Lord Tywin was rather confused as to how you were not yet married. Because even if he did not want to admit it, he knew that you were, in fact, beautiful, incredibly intelligent, and well mannered. At least, you were with anybody besides him. 

Any lord should certainly want such a woman at his side, though perhaps other men were not so confident and felt insecure next to you. It was also entirely possible that you’d given your father such a hard time with the subject that he’d simply not cared to do anything about it. Not yet, anyways. It seemed that you already suspected your days without a husband were numbered. 

But that was neither here nor there, the only thing that mattered right now was that you were asleep. You looked so peaceful when you slept—to Lord Tywin at least. It was strange to see you this way, especially in sharp contrast to your usually bright and energetic person. It was also very different from the woman who told him off at every opportunity she got. You were a rather angry person, and Lord Tywin was not sure whether that was merely a reaction to him or a characteristic of yours, though he wished to know. 

But at least for now, here in this moment, you were at peace. He was determined to keep it that way, bringing him back to his dilemma once again. What to do? He did not wish to leave you in the grass, he had at least decided on that. That narrowed it down to two options for him: wake you, or pray you did not wake up as he carried you to your bedrolls. 

Lord Tywin’s mind felt cloudy as he debated it, but after pondering for a few moments more, he felt his nervous figure involuntarily moving closer to your sleeping one. Before he had time to rethink what he was doing, he gently slid one hand under your back. When you remained asleep, he exhaled with relief and carefully continued. His other hand came under your knees, and slowly but surely, he lifted you from the ground. It was only a few steps to your bedrolls, and his muscled arms did perfectly fine with your weight, even despite having carried around deer carcasses all day. Plus, he much rather preferred this to some dead animal, for you did not stink that way. You actually smelled quite nice, with a somewhat floral scent as befitted a Tyrell. 

Lord Tywin was careful as he set you down, placing your legs first. He kept his hand under your head, preventing it from hitting the ground with any real force as he lowered the rest of your body. He slowly removed his hands, sighing out when he observed that you were still soundly asleep. He’d moved you successfully, thank the gods. 

Lord Tywin reached down and covered you in your blanket, which based on the material probably only provided modest protection from the cold at best. Well, you were from Highgarden, why would you need heavy blankets in your saddlebag? That was what he reasoned, at least. 

Not wanting you to be cold, Lord Tywin got up and grabbed one of his own blankets. One would be enough for him, for he could always put his coat back on if he needed to. He came back to your bedrolls again, kneeling down before you.

Gently, and what another person might describe as rather sweetly, he brought the blanket over you, making sure that it trapped in as much heat as possible. His eyes scanned over your sleeping form once more to check that everything was alright. When he decided it was, a sudden urge gripped him. 

Lord Tywin could not explain what in the seven hells possessed him, but he found himself reaching toward your head, softly running a hand over your hair. The feeling made his stomach tighten, and that alone made him vastly uncomfortable. What was he doing?

He exhaled as his jaw flexed forward, his eyebrows already furrowed together just as they commonly were. Lord Tywin moved from your side and resigned to his own bedrolls, hoping to let the odd feeling pass in his sleep. When he woke in the morning and set his eyes upon you, however, that feeling would only take a few moments to return. And gods, as hard as he would try, it would not go away.

TAGLIST:

@cheyxfu @lemonscoffee @groovy-lady 

@ladysindar @vesta-ro @exo-nova @paola-carter

@prettykinkysoul 

@fullmoonshadowwrites @kishie8 

@the-desilittle-bird @dianilaws @girlonfireice 

@muscari-fae @lostgirllulu 

@abigfanofgameofthrones @smalltownbigheart 

@frombloodandflesh @supernaturalismyreligion666

@thanyatargaryen @rey26 @hexandale @pkawaiidesu5394 @aimsro @gbatesx @lockleysgrl

[weepylucifer]

3 or 50 for the dialogue prompts!

50. “People are staring.”

Ulixes' hand hovers for an uncertain moment but then, at last, settles like softly drifting snow on his comrade's back. Five fingers splay between tense shoulderblades. "Take a deep breath, Steban."

"I'm sorry," Steban whispers. "I don't know why... I... this shouldn't be happening."

"It's going to be alright," Ulixes says.

Steban shakes his head. "I know this isn't normal. People are staring."

In reality, Ulixes surmises, the staring is probably mostly in Steban's mind, a manifestation of his very reasonable reluctance to embarrass himself in public. There are not many other shoppers present in the Frittte, two or three people drifting along the shelves, and most of them are absorbed in their own tasks. Sure, maybe some shoot them a slightly strange look, but disinterest takes over within seconds.

"Nobody is paying attention to us," Ulixes says, keeping his voice level and steady. "You can take your time choosing what you want."

Steban puts his hands on his mouth. Overwhelm is making his whole skinny frame shake. "I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up right now." Fevered, his eyes dart along the wide, expansive shelf crammed with garishly colorful packets of chips and nachos in flavors ranging from reasonable to outlandish. Dozens of brands, dozens of meaningless choices... freedom, under capitalism. "They're all the same, but really they're not... but really they are..."

"Yes, Steban." Ulixes begins to search his pockets for a handkerchief. Preferably a fresh one...

"I can't even afford these, really. I... this is the first time this week I have food money, and..."

Ah, and here is the crux of the problem, Ulixes thinks as he wraps an arm around Steban's quivering shoulders, here's why he's witnessing his best friend have a panic attack inside a Frittte. They're well into the week. And yes, of course, rent was just due... and Steban managed, again, to dodge eviction, but at a price. Really, Uli should have caught on, known what it meant that Steban was smoking a lot more and not inviting him over for dinner. Not that Steban would have simply told him. He never does. Maybe he doesn't want to be a burden, maybe he's too proud, maybe it's a bit of both.

Ulixes emphasizes. He hasn't known hunger himself, not like that - but right now it's as if he can bodily feel it. That yawning pit in his stomach, the nausea, the lightheadedness of too much nicotine and too little else. The emotional toll of the situation. Brittle, fragile, fit-to-crack emotions. He feels it all so acutely it makes his teeth ache. Just his imagination? Or... is this plasm? Is he really picking up Steban's real feelings?

Be that as it may, it is time for him to step up now. Ulixes straightens his back. "Step outside, Steban. Get some fresh air. Hand me your grocery list, I'll finish up the shopping for you."

For a moment, relief and stubbornness do silent battle beneath Steban's eyes, but he gives in. "Okay. Here," he says and tries to, along with the list, press a few pathetic, crumpled bank notes into Ulixes' hands. With his eyes lowered, his voice an anxious husk of itself, he adds, "Please make sure to budget."

Ulixes sighs. "Keep these." He has a little money left from his latest job - he takes commissions, occasionally, for translations: from Walder into Suresne or the other way around. It's irregular work and the rates are disturbingly low, but at least it's the occasional something. "Just buy me a coffee sometime," he says, knowing full well that he is never going to call in any sort of repayment for this as long as they both live.

--

They worked on the presentation together, because they naturally collaborate on most things now, but the assignment was ultimately Uli's: he's the one who must stand in front of the professor and his fellow students and, well, present.

Ulixes is not the words guy in his revolutionary cell of two. He sees himself as Steban's pillar of support, chiming in when needed, putting enemies of the cause in their place by any means necessary (any day now his chance will come), but not taking center stage. The syllabus is less than accomodating towards his vision. He can't just let Steban orate in his stead: he has to give some kind of talk, and it will affect his grade.

Now here he stands, seriously rethinking his every academic ambition. A lecture hall filled with students, their expressions ranging from bored over sleep-deprived to hungover, are looking at him. His palms are sweaty. The lights are too bright. He's all alone up here.

His eyes seek Steban, seated somewhere in the middle of the room, not up-front but not back row either. Steban smiles at him. Why can't you be here with me, Ulixes thinks. By my side as always. I can't do this. People are staring. They'll think I'm weird, they always do.

For a moment, he imagines Steban answering him, his voice so soft and kind and soothing as always, You'll be alright. You prepared for this, and you know your stuff. You can make them listen to you too. I have faith in you.

Clammy and tense with stage fright, Ulixes imagines Steban actually projecting those thoughts at him through an inframaterialist connection, through their strong bond, to show his support. Wishful thinking. Or is it...?

His hands unclench.

--

It felt right when they linked hands leaving Steban's apartment: like safety, like belonging, like doing something fundamentally correct. Steban felt something inside his chest swell with pride then, about fifteen minutes ago. Now, in the middle of the sidewalk on Rue du Saint-Ghislaine, in the middle of the afternoon, he's beginning to grow worried.

He tugs lightly on Uli's hand. Misinterpreting the gesture, or maybe just being stubborn, he merely takes this as incentive to walk closer.

There's nothing for it. Somehow, the topic has to be breached. But how to do that, and not hurt Uli's feelings?

"Maybe we should... erm..." Steban falters. Uli looks so uncommonly relaxed. He hates to take this from him.

"Yes? Maybe we should what?"

"Well..." Steban tugs at his hand again. "Maybe this isn't our... best idea to date."

"What do you mean?" Ulixes asks.

"I..." Steban squirms mentally. "I mean, it's nice like this, but... and I hate to reduce this to identity politics, but... look, it's like this. People are staring. We are going to get hate-crimed."

"I'll teach anyone who dares a lesson," says Ulixes ferociously, or what he thinks is ferociously. Steban finds himself endeared as well as concerned.

If only it worked like in Nilsen's theories already, he thinks, if only we could master that mind-melding technique. Then I could get him to understand why I worry. As it is, if I refuse him now, it's just going to look like I don't want to be seen with him.

Steban rolls his shoulders in defeat and submits himself to a near future filled with ambiguity and miscommunication.

--

"Don't worry," Steban says, "They're going to love you."

Ulixes wonders how Steban knew he was worrying. Maybe they're finally cultivating sufficient plasm, starting to read each other's minds? Or maybe it just shows in his face and posture. "I... hope you're right," he says.

"I know I'm right. Look, my family don't expect... I mean... they don't need you to impress them somehow. They're eager to meet you. They're simply, well... happy I have someone."

"That sounds nice." Ulixes can't even imagine bringing Steban home to his parents' house. Maybe once the revolution is at hand and it's time to torch the place. And even then, only maybe.

He's not actually that worried about meeting Steban's relatives. Steban talks often enough about how great they are, how tolerant of his idiosyncrasies - what, really, can go wrong? Okay, fine, maybe he's a little worried. The worry is being exacerbated, subtly, by his surroundings. Or maybe just his thoughts about the surroundings?

Revachol is enormous in size, so much so that a person can spend their whole life in one's quarter of town and never feel the need to leave. Consequently, there are whole neighborhoods of Revachol West where Uli has never gone, and this part of Jamrock is one.

Steban grew up here, which renders these streets sacred. Uli is not sure how to tread on sacred ground. Surely every other pedestrian on the sidewalk can see that he's never been here, that he doesn't belong here, that only by the grace of Steban's leave is he permitted to traverse here. Is he imagining it, or are the locals giving him hostile looks? Hostile looks out of black pool eyes...

"What's with you?" Steban asks. "You've gone all fidgety."

"Sorry." Ulixes tries to get a grip. Surely if Steban has noticed, so has everyone else on the street. Noticed him, the interloper, the intruder. "I just... I don't know, I feel strange. People are staring."

Steban pats his shoulder as they continue walking. "Oh, come now, they're not going to eat you. Yes, this is Madre turf, but you don't have to keep squinting over your shoulder. I doubt you'll meet even one banger today."

Ulixes feels like his brain is lagging behind. He hadn't been thinking of any of that sort of thing at all... or had he? Somehow, subconsciously? "Uh... what turf?"

"La Puta Madre. You know, the gang. They're not that interesting, they're just like the RCM or something." Steban shrugs. "No need to be such a gringo about it."

"Sorry." Ulixes lowers his eyes, appropriately chastised. Steban must see him hunch in on himself, because he squeezes his shoulder again.

"Hey, it's no big deal," he says, because he's just that nice, and intuitive. Or maybe...?

--

Ulixes tries to huddle in a doorway, but it only provides scant protection from the rain. He doesn't have an umbrella, or the right clothes for being out in this weather, and he hadn't planned on it either. He'd planned on a nice, cozy afternoon of drinking coffee inside, maybe reading, maybe chatting, maybe listening to the radio, perhaps even making some love if the evening took them that way. But then Steban got that faraway look in his eyes that he sometimes gets and started muttering about there being "something in the wind" and that he had to "get out to it", rubbing his arms as if suddenly chilly. Idly, Ulixes wondered - and still wonders - if Steban got his hands on some kinds of drugs somehow.

(That would be alarming.)

He raised his reasonable concerns about the weather and the chill and the weirdness of it all, but Steban had brushed him off and said again, "There is something in the wind," in an urgent-sounding tone, and now he's standing out in the rain with his head tilted upwards, eyes closed, arms spread at his sides, listening intently. He's getting soaked to the bone. His hair and clothes stick to him. Still, there's a blissful little smile on his face - whatever he's listening to, it is in some way making him happy.

Uli crosses his arms. The cold is starting to get to him. He's sure he sees people passing by, huddled up in their coats, giving them irritated looks from beneath their umbrellas.

"Steban, come on, this is getting seriously weird. You're going to catch your death out here. People are staring."

Steban only raises a hand in his direction, pointer finger extended, Wait. Be silent. His eyes do not open. His lips move silently.

"What? What is it?" Ulixes shouts across the empty plaza.

Steban's eyes still do not open. "In a basement pub on Boogie Street, a man has just lit his cigarette the wrong way round by accident," he announces. "To the North, down the coast, three men are pissing into the canal. Competitively. No-hands-style."

"Grand revelations," says Ulixes.

"Whatever else it is, she says it is not yet time." Steban lowers his hands and blinks. "Like I'm not ready yet. Still, she's there. Isn't it amazing?"

"She?" Uli asks, and thinks, would that I could see what you see.

--

A day after this, Ulixes wakes up to golden morning light filtering in through the window, and Steban shifting languidly in his arms, still mostly asleep. He murmurs something unintelligible and nestles closer and wraps an arm around Uli's skinny chest, and it's a moment worthy of preserving in amber and gold, the kind of moment he'll remember to cheer himself up during harsher times. And ever so briefly, in this moment without thought and barrier and pretense, everything seems to slot into place, the universe to right itself. And in the quiet of his own mind, still in that floaty place between waking and sleep, Ulixes becomes convinced he can feel a current of drowsy, pleased emotions permeate his mindscape that are not quite his own, that feel sun-warmed and shimmery, and smell like soap and herbal shampoo and library shelves, and taste like a hint of some mellow, spiced tobacco: finally, real, actual Stebanthoughts.

Warm,

the sun-yellow feeling whispers,

Safe.

Pleasured.

Affectionate.

Then Steban's eyelids flutter and he drops off again, his breathing deepening.

Later, when he wakes up properly, maybe Ulixes will decide that he imagined this, or that it was a fragment of a dream, nothing more. Perhaps he will be right. But then again... who can say for certain? For now, he closes his eyes again, and permits himself to bask in the complete contentment he was given.

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

I don’t care about his haters I want to hear about buggy’s qualities 😭😭😭

i let this one sit in my inbox for a while because your phrasing kept making me laugh. i hope you don’t mind the delayed response.

buggy’s qualities! (note i did not specify good qualities or bad qualities.) let’s get into them.

already established in that post:

greedy (obviously)

selfish (obviously)

two-faced (very obviously)

loyal (limited applications)

self-preserving (a strong instinct)

untrustworthy (almost comically obviously so)

trusting (to the point of naïveté)

an interesting, contradictory lineup. what else is there to buggy?

he has very romantic notions of piracy.

despite saying the only thing that matters to him is treasure & the acquisition thereof, the way he acts says otherwise. he parties at the drop of a hat (improving crew morale). when his crew, thinking he’s dead, has moved on, even going so far as to adopt a new captain and flag (after… how long have they been apart, exactly? weeks? days?), he rescues them, no questions asked. he weeps to hear how badly he was missed after his arrest, how proud his crew was to hear of his involvement at the paramount war, and he returns both sentiments instantly. the captain-crew bond means something to him. (small wonder why.)

he turns up his nose at crocodile’s deeply unromantic “piracy is a business” mindset—buggy doesn’t care about building capital, he wants to find the one piece! who needs a five-year plan when you can just find the biggest, best treasure that ever existed right now?!

oh, hey, related to that:

he’s impulsive.

why make a plan when you can just do things?! who needs to learn anything from these soft-hearted pirates—buggy’s got a treasure map and a devil fruit worth more money than he’s ever seen in his life! he’s gonna head out on his own ASAP! that should be no problem at all… for this pre-teen… on the grand line. mm hm.

he wants to get back on the grand line and find the one piece—or captain john’s treasure—or any other treasure he finds a map for, really. how? well, he’ll follow the map, obviously! …and when that leads him into danger?

he can be inattentive.

more specifically, he gets fixated on his goal—treasure, killing luffy, silently panicking, yelling at shanks, whatever—to the point that he somehow misses everything else going on around him. does not notice shanks walking up behind him—twice. does not notice smoker or his officers surrounding his men until it’s too late. walks into a cave that’s actively being mined because he thinks treasure might be there. walks into a well-appointed navy garrison because he thinks treasure might be there!

he doesn’t notice he’s standing next to whitebeard—you know, the nearly twenty-two foot tall man—until he hears the guy call him by an insulting name.

buggy makes rash decisions and has a short temper—a dangerous combination.

he hears insults where none are intended, and lashes out violently—maybe lethally?—and sometimes when insults are intended, he doesn’t bother to wonder who’s offered the insult until after he’s fired one back. at which point he may wilt like a daisy, if the person he’s insulted turns out to be, say, whitebeard.

(why yes, i do think that moment is hysterical. not least because i suspect whitebeard cannot remember buggy’s name, and calls him red-nose because that’s all he does remember about him.)

but even at his most weak-kneed, fawn response, pathetic little guy, we have to keep in mind:

he’s charismatic and inspirational.

and i’m not just talking about the impel down guys! his original crew were just as impressed by him—though maybe impressed and terrified in equal measure?—at the start of the orange town arc. they were confident in his victory over these three weirdos to the point of cockiness, just laughing when zoro cut buggy down. they’re really shaken when luffy, after a few minutes of devil fruit v devil fruit combat, totally curb-stomps buggy. they prefer to believe he’s just not taking the fight seriously yet.

they’re fully convinced of his strength, cleverness, and power!

…now i’m not saying their impression of him is based in reality.

buggy’s an excellent bullshitter.

but it’s not enough to just tell a good lie, you also have to be convincing about it. (usopp, early on, is more entertaining than convincing—a good liar of a different flavor. storyteller, not self-promoter.) and while there are plenty of characters who can see through buggy’s act (to name a few: alvida, galdino, luffy (sometimes), most of luffy’s crew, most of the named characters who broke out of impel down…), there are plenty who can’t.

buggy’s “who am i?!”/“captain buggy!” chanting with his crew is not super original, maybe, but it sure gets his men pumped up. his “let’s go after the one piece!” rant in ch 1082 doesn’t impress crocodile or mihawk, but when he airs it to cross guild as a whole it sets things in motion such that the two of them can’t do shit to stop it.

…and that’s buggy as i see him, more or less! let me know if you think i’ve forgotten something! i certainly may have, or i may have lumped the trait you’re thinking of in under one of these other headings, but you won’t know unless you ask.

[chipthekeeper]

so. instead of typing out my reactions as the show played, i recorded a voice memo of my own personal commentary. some highlights lots of nonsense under the cut

episode 1

- As excited as I am for this……I wish it was Andor

- Please be good

- Immediate alien. All of the Andor criticisms out the window. We're back

- Why did she pay that guy? This is like the main place. He barely pointed. She was very easy to find

- It's hitting me that this is High Republic shit and that's just fucking beautiful. I might cry. Oh my god, spinning noodles

- Backup knifes. Oh god….She sliced your backup knifes

- oh [splutters] a backup backup knife!!!

- She's got another backup knife?!

- Man, that was so fast. Like. I mean, I knew, we all knew. But damn

- Come on, he's just a noodle guy. Leave him alone

- IN THE COLD OPEN! She dies in the cold open. Fucking hell. God

- Okay, so she has different hair. So maybe it's not Moon Knight

- Oh fuck, I love this ship. I'm going to be obsessed with this

- [gasps] Pip!!! [pathetic whining] he’s a babyyyy [voice breaking] Oh my god. I would die for him

- [just fully unintelligible noises for Pip]

- [chuckling] aha! Trade feds, neimoidians. heh. It's all coming together….

- They have better accents this time

- Yeah, Pip. Come on, buddy. He's like a multi-tool. This is hilarious. [wheezing laughter]

- Oh, what's this? [gasps] A VECTOR!!! Holy fucking shit. [laughs in satisfied THR fan]

- YORD!!! TIME FOR THE YORD HORDE HERE WE GOOOOO

- Yord. You’re such a prick– ohhh n….Mind touch. Or not. Ugh, I don't like that. Yorddd. You're a prick. Your padawan is cool though.

- Oh my god, they're buddies!

- “Your mothers, your sister” (truly the most ugly and horrifying sound you’ve ever heard came from my mouth here)

- What's HAPPENING?

- Yord. Come on, buddy

- Iron Man?

- Yeah, we know it's Coruscant. Looks like it's made out of Legos. That's great

- *Sol telling the younglings the force is an ocean or whatever* [adorable whining] Elzar Mann coded!!

- “Master Vernestra” [another very ugly noise] Oh god, what a thing to hear. Oh fuck

- “i remember when you were that small” [giggling] fuck

- [delighted laughter] They become chairs, that's amazingggggg

- Wheeeeeeee! Oh shit

- Piiiiiip! Pip, wake up. D-does he have legs? Can he move? I-I don't know if he can move on his own

- Oh, oh–oh n-no…. (tbh don’t even remember what was happening here)

- Now you gotta land this thing. Oh, it's on..fire ahhh that’s a problem. Girl, good luck

- You better hold..your little droid. Hold him!

- [delighted gasp] Jecki!!

- “it is highly unlikely she survived” Oh, it was a very lucky crash, don't worry about it

- ....I think we should give Vernestra some hair back

- Okay, I'm out on Moon Knight theory again, which is great because I like..the other way better

- Well……..No, no, I'm out. I'm out. I'm out. Not gonna suck me back in again……….Oh god but it would be interesting if she thinks—ah fuck!

- *scary horror movie twin thing* [terrified] Ah, what the!! Who the fuck is that? [whispering] what the fuck…..oh. Uh-uh. Mmhm. oh. Horrifying. Scary. I don't like this at all. Wwwwhat was that? [incredulous noises] What the fuck?

- [delighted] Yord!!!

- [gasps] Selkath! Name That Alien, babeeyyyy!

- Yorddd! He’s ripped!!

- Just. Put your shirt on, bud……I can't wait for that to be gifs

- Back to this terrifying shit

- Oh, it's baby you………..Oh there's some Force shit happeninggggg

- uhhhhhh?

- “i saw her die” did you though???

- Yord put your lightsaber away, dickhead….it’s pretty though, don’t put it away :)

- Yord! Chill!

- Okay. Capital A Acolyte, so….

- Is each of the episode titles going to be for both of them?

- Nina Gold casting! the goat. un-de-feat-ed

- I'm sure I don't need to sit here and watch all the credits.......[gasps] Neal Scanlan! ah see, I would've missed that

episode 2

- *watching previously on, "mothers" mentioned* Show me motherrrrr!

- [stressed out sigh] I'm confused. I hope to be less confused by the end of this episode. But if not, we'll talk about it…..I say as if I'm speaking to someone besides myself

- Jedi outpost! When are we?

- Not cool Mae

- Is she going to kill somebody in the cold open of every episode? because that's going to really..start to hurt

- WOW, you guys are so unaware. How are you Jedi?

- “attack me, with all your strength” just–nobody wants to do that, do they?

- [delighted giggling throughout Mae/Torbin “fight”]

- Oh, Tommen. Why are his feet weird? Is he….not human? He’s gotta be human

- *osha talking about being flexible* Oh. Flirting? No, that's inappropriate………..There's flirting. It’s happening

- “let’s say this twin theory holds true” [ironic cackling]

- So Yord's a cop, which is unfortunate. As a founding member of the Yord Horde

- *Mae picks up a cup while Qimir is sleeping* Throw it at him. *she throws it at him* [satisfied cackle] I'm always right

- It'd be so funny if he's not the guy

- Hmmmmmm……So he can also be an Acolyte?

- I need this drink shaker

- So I like it much better if he's not the guy and he's just….helpin’

- So you're cheating at your Jedi killing homework and you don't want your boy to narc. That's hilarious

- [snorting] Your dad never likes when you get a tattoo

- [theorizing mumbles] They came to recruit…and the girl started the fire….They took her afterward….Fuck

- [whispering] I don't know what to do with my arms

- It's pretty theeeere. I'm going to be obsessed with this planet

- “i know why you took the Barash Vow” [most delighted scream/gasp yet] BARASH VOW MENTIONED!!! [confused mumbling] Okay, but he's there–why is…Did he come out of it?.......Oh, it's a different variant of the vow?

- [cackling in Tommen Baratheon] He sounds like a full grown man. Ohhh my god. Was not ready for that

- *kitten squeaks in background, not relevant to commentary but had to mention*

- Well, that's not good–girl, get out of there! Don't touch the evidence! Oh my God. You’re not helping yourself here, kid

- Go, escape, flee

- Atta boy, Yord

- Ohh that guy better be a descendant of Ram Jomaram

- You go, Jecki. Oh she’s so proud of herself [chuckling]

- Why do I have a feeling this isn’t gonna work?.......You’re very bad at this

- “Maybe supply us with the truth” Ooh! Get him, Yord!

- “I have a bad feeling about this” YEEEEAAHHHHHHH

- “You are not my master. I do not need you anymore.” ouch

- [groaning] I'm with Yord, I have a bad feeling about this

- Ope, all your backup knifes is gooone….

- Wheeee! [chuckles] Yord.

- [extremely high pitched] ooooohhhh thebackupknifehedidn’tfind!!!!

- BWAH SMOKESCREEN!!

- Are they gonna run together? I would like that to happen. Run and go back to Mom

- Go, go with her……Missed. Missed on purpose!

- Kind of hurts me to see what Vernestra becomes

- Man, if she kills Kelnacca, I'm gonna be so mad

- *episode ends* DAmmit!! Ugh. God. Fuck! [grumbling] This is gonna be a long ass week

so clearly i'm very normal about all this !

[bitterrobin]

3, 9 and 12 for the hater ask game <3

3. a screenshot of the worst take you've seen on Tumblr -- ooh I have a screenshot, hold on.

yeah. Granted, its an old post back when the Tim/Damian conflict was more recent (I think 2013/2014-ish) but it's still very emblematic of those kinds of Tim fans. The kind of fans who treat Damian (a child) as an abomination who will never change while still excusing Jason (a young adult/current adult). I still laugh at this, its so egregious. "Jason never tried to kill me" sure man. sure. "--in no way suggests he's changed his goals at all" uh huh. "im not coming back to the manor" okay. goodbye. I swear some people treat this era like Damian was trying to alien assimilate into the family and destroy only Tim's life on purpose. Because of course everything's about Tim, nothing can be nuanced enough to include the 10 year old's trauma and everyone's else's grief into account, and if you excuse the child's actions then you're advocating for bullying/bad parenting/sibling abuse /s.

9. worst part of canon -- simple answer, how writers will always rehash arcs and the same "explorations of a character." More complicated answer, I'm not a fan of the way supporting characters have been erased in current/modern comics. I don't like when those characters explicitly created to support the main character's plot lines and expand their world are either completely gone or so sanded down they're practically splinters of wood. Some examples, I see mentions of Tim's wider supporting cast that are gone (idk Ives sounds interesting), theres the fact Maya Ducard hasn't shown up until very very recently, Harold Allnut and Leslie Thompkins vanished into the aether, Waller got super-butchered etc.

12. the unpopular character you actually like/why you should like them -- hmm. Kind of hard to answer since I can't gauge the unpopular ones in wider fandom. Technically, every character has their haters- ah wait. hold on i'm receiving a vision. ITS THE PARENTS. No matter which side of the fandom its always the parents (TM) that get disparaged and raked through the coals. Willis and Catherine Todd, Janet and Jack Drake, Crystal Brown, Talia al Ghul, I could go on probably. Yes, I do actually like all of them. Willis's abusive nature was a retcon and even if it wasn't, its still rooted in classist ideas of "Poor man will inevitably abuse wife/child because he is poor and unsatisfied, something something he didn't work hard enough for capitalism." Willis can be a subpar father, but hitting his child shouldn't be the only aspect to explore. Jason tried getting revenge for his dad's death, he loved him, what you do with that is more interesting to me than "Willis sucked and Jason hates him and Bruce is better/Bruce is equally as bad and Jason also hates him." Catherine and Crystals addictions are often portrayed as "absent and not nearly there enough to provide their child protection." Catherine's sickness/addiction was super up to interpretation until it was retconned to "full blown drug addict". Crystal was being abused and trying. Children can resent their parents over this, but sometimes you need to look past the character and at the actual writer who wrote this into canon. Did they or did they not hold their own bigoted views and insert them into the comics because that's what they wanted and no one stopped them? Janet was dead before she could meaningfully warp Tim and by all accounts she was loving to Tim even when she wasn't always there. All of Jack's flaws are so utterly banal and human and a clear signifier of the 90's/2000's ideas of parenting that making him more than a slightly pathetic and macho-oriented man just...doesn't make sense to me. And I won't get into Talia because we'll be here for hours. I will say that Talia is truly in a lose/lose situation because people will hate her whether she actually has a hand in Damian's childhood or not. To me all of these parents can be nuanced and interesting to explore, especially in situations without their children. I like writing about Willis and Catherine's childhoods. I like exploring Talia's relationship with her father. I like thinking about Jack being hopeless and still having redeeming qualities and Janet being so loved by him it destroys him when she dies. I just think the idea of "parents before they were parents" is neat! I love thinking about the people they used to be before a child, because having children is so changing. Was Willis affected by his own parents? Did Willis actually know Lady Shiva as friends or was there some crazy backstory we'll never get? Did Catherine have her own hobbies and dreams, did she always want a child and accepted Jason as her own so readily because it haunted her for years? Did Janet go into archaeology for a specific reason, was it a family passion? Did Jack meet Janet and covet her intelligence and independence? Did Talia dream of becoming a world-renowned surgeon and having that be accepted by her father wholeheartedly, having her successes be her own successes?

Disclaimer: If you vent using DC characters then thats entirely valid! I'm just weirdly neurotic about accurate portrayals and in no way am I an authority on any of the above.

[cant-get-no-worse]

I don't understand why Barcelona fans still are asking for Messi. It's a bit ridiculous, isn't it. He left the club, like any other player, it's what happens in transfers windows. He may be a legend but he is a player and therefore subject to be bought and to play for another club, fans should accept that rather than ask him while he's playing for another club.

First, we are celebrating our title with our team - the current one, the 22 people and the staff that brought us this Liga. That's the main focus of today and the whole week.

But.

Make no mistake, this Liga is the result of a whole year of fighting from those 22 players and the staff, and they've been rightfully cheered on and showered by love from the fans. Nobody's claiming Messi won that Liga, we owe it to them. But it does not stand alone. For there to be light at the end of the tunnel, there needs to be a tunnel, and there need to be people who went through it. The 2022/2023 season is the final, bright peak of the mountain of hardships that were 2018/2019, 2019/2020, 2020/2021. It stands on top of individuals that have carried this team and took every single hit when everything - board, players - was failing. And that individual, whatever you think about it, however you want to put it, is Messi. From 2018 to 2021, the guy was alone. He broke his back trying to carry that team. He took the image hit and the pathetic trashings - the 4-0, the 8-2, despite not being his failures, have all been put to his name. The fight this team put on to win la Liga, we owe it to our current squad. But to remember where we come from, to remember the team that went through the tunnel, who was there while everything was fucking off, while celebrating our current achievements with this team, isn't disrespect towards anyone. It is merely respect towards everyone. That's precisely what this club is all about. Més que un club.

Now to answer the first ask, it's true that there have been calls for Messi throughout these past weeks — actually, since he left. I'm not going to talk about the practical reasons why his come back could serve the team, why it would not be only a political and financial move to have him back but an asset in our play too, that's another story. Rn I'm trying to explain why people are "calling for a player from another club" as you rightly put it. The reason is simple: it wasn't a simple move in a transfer window. The player didn't want to leave. It left a very bittersweet taste in everyone's mouth, a feeling of something unfinished, a hurried and unworthy ending not representative of the player's status, of what he gave the club, of his love for it nor the love the culés had for him. Being forced out of the club + the COVID situation preventing him from bidding a proper goodbye after twenty years to the public was a harsher blow than you could imagine.

I feel like a lot of people exterior to the club forget who he is for culés - and who is is, personally, for Argentinians, a whole other relationship - because of his international status. For the world, he is Messi. His very name is a brand (on which we capitalized, btw, we're no exception and the club remains a politic and financial institution), he is the superstar in the first sense of the term.

For culers, he is Messi as well, but not only. Just like Iniesta is Spain's idol while also being Barça's very own. Messi, like Andrés, Xavi, Carles, Geri, Bojan, Sergio — is from La Masia. Brought up in the spirit of the club. We saw him grow up. We saw him make his way through the C, the B, we saw him debut in the A, being taught by Dinho, Eto'o, Deco, Sylvinho. We saw him start to affirm himself in a failing team of 2006/2007, we saw him raising his Ballon d'Or at the Nou. We saw him want to leave, we saw him want to stay, we saw him play with club legends while forging his own, we saw him come back to us after every summer and international tournament with yet another failure and being torn apart by the press, we saw him run, sweat, kick, pull up comebacks, play his magic, carry a team, kiss the crest, taunt a crowd, all for Barcelona.

If you haven't experienced it, I cannot explain to you the joy and the utter pride it is to see him wear the Blaugrana colors and to have done so for the past fifteen years. I cannot explain to you the rush of emotions it is to see him kiss the crest of the club you love and to think he's ours. Before being the world's, because he is the world's, his name, influence and image go past clubs and countries, but before this, he was Argentina's, and he was ours. No player is ever above the institution (someone should tell PSG) and Leo Messi is not above FC Barcelona. But, like Xavi, Andrés, Carles, Cruyff, Guardiola, and countless others, he is at the heart of it.

So, that's why. Had he left on his own terms, like he wanted to in 2014, 2015 or 2020, fans would have an easier time accepting it because they'd know he was where he wanted to be. But it's been made very public how he wanted to stay, how finances forced him to leave and how, more recently, complicated and disrespectful his relationship with PSG had gotten. That's why some (not everyone, but I'd say a comfortable majority) people are asking for him. Now that he finished his love story with his country in the dreamiest way possible, they're calling for him to come home, and to properly finish his story with the club of his life.

Just because he is Messi, do not blame us for loving nor wanting to say a proper goodbye to Leo.

[jackdaw-kraai]

New Patreon Post? New Patreon Post.

It was probably high time I told y'all about the fact that I have a patreon again and attempt to do so in a way that's not completely gauche, SO. Let me tell you about about what it is, does, and after all that, why you should at least look at it even if you would sooner gargle orange juice after brushing your teeth than give me money.

Patreon, as you probably know, or maybe not, is a site that kind of works on the old idea of patronage. AKA, artists get paid money to do what they love so they don't, y'know, starve. Except instead of one rich fuck, it's funded by many far-less-rich people, because fuck capitalism. In practice, you subscribe to an artist, pay them however much a month you want, and the amount determines which tier subscription you have and what rewards you get access to. As you've probably guessed, I have such a system in place.

So *slaps roof of patreon* lemme tell you what this bad boy can fit in it. It can fit LORE for one, like, all of it. This is where I post 4K long essays on the specific kind of fungus that grows only in the driest place on a fictional planet, digests rock in order to get nutrients, and feeds an underground ecosystem through the mycelium that bore through the rock and into the networks of underground rivers that exist there and thus is a keystone species for an entire biome. I also post fictional transcripts of drunk history videos with a delightfully crude historical archivist, that tell stories about how a fictional train network got created by a trainwreck of a human being that involves a contest, a technically legal museum heist, the mob, a trained cat, and a disastrously gay aristocrat. And then another about that guy's mob enforcer sister who once killed a man by putting him in a headlock and flexing her bicep and also her absolutely pathetic wimp of a husband who loves his built-like-a-semi-truck wife very much.

That's not even mentioning the extensive articles on my own conlang, including IPA annotations, detailed character descriptions, redacted reports from amoral scientists who are about to greatly regret everything they ever did, and excerpts from an essay on forbidden magic by a scholar from outside the community.

Mind you, almost all of those are in the lower tiers of the patreon, the tiers that you can get for only a handful of dollars a month, yes, a literal handful. I haven't even gotten to the high-tier stuff. Higher-tier rewards include: ability to vote in polls that make me answer spoiler questions, access to secret lore like how the magic in this world works and what occult elements are at play in the story, and even creating a character together with me if you really decide to be insane with the money you throw at me. I've already done this once and it was great fun to create Sol with someone, an absolute unit of a black lesbian fighter pilot with the soul of a gentle giant.

With all levels though, you also do this: you support my ability to write, and keep writing, as I begin to plan out my own original fiction ideas and further career steps into becoming a published writer. You support my ability to experiment with my writing style, my interests, and help me keep my head above water in a world that's increasingly hostile to artists and writers. You support my ability to live a small, comfortable life that lets me create wonder and magic in a world that desperately needs some of that.

And, as I promised above, even if you don't want to, or simply can't give anything (Gods know that everyone is struggling to get by these days) then it's still worth looking at the public-facing page, because instead of boring-ass tier descriptions, I gave each tier a little blurb of text that is a part of a larger, fragmentary story of Keshiro, Storm Wraith's, last great adventure before he left the Desert. It's a story that currently only exists in said blurbs, but is planned to be written out in full, and when it is, it will, of course, be posted for free on Ao3, no caveats or strings attached. Until then... give it a read. Tell me what you think. I'll see you there.

The link to my patreon page, see what you think.