#i cannot with the way she looks at him here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

idkyetxoxo · 3 days ago

Text

Aemond Targaryen - Broken Promises

Summary - One passionate night together shatters when she must confront her impending betrothal, leading to a tragic betrayal that alters their fates forever. Left with only the haunting memory of their love, Aemond grapples with the consequences of their brief connection.

Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), violence

Word count - 2581

Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

The day Aemond Targaryen bared his heart to the woman he had hopelessly fallen in love with was also the day their brief love story came to a tragic end.

I sat alone in my chambers, knees pulled tightly to my chest, absentmindedly dipping my fingers into the pool of melted candle wax. The fleeting sting of the burn felt oddly comforting, its warmth a poor distraction from the turmoil within me.

Resting my head on my knees, my eyes wandered toward the window where a fierce storm raged outside, rain hammering against the glass in violent bursts.

The thunder echoed my inner conflict, my thoughts a chaotic tangle of duty and desire.

The looming shadow of my upcoming betrothal to the son of Lord Jasper Wylde weighed heavily on me, yet it paled in comparison to the feelings I harboured for Aemond—the one-eyed prince who had unknowingly captured my heart.

A soft creak interrupted my thoughts. The chamber doors opened slowly, the heavy wood groaning as someone entered.

When I looked up, I gasped—it was the last person I had expected to see tonight.

"Aemond?" I whispered, startled. My fingers brushed the candle beside me, knocking it over. The flame extinguished with a hiss as the wax spilt across the stone floor, plunging the room into near darkness.

He stood in the doorway, drenched to the bone, his black leathers gleaming in the flickering light from the dying hearth.

His hair clung to his face, the wet strands only making the sharp planes of his features more severe, his single violet eye burning with an intensity I'd never seen before.

"Do not marry him," he breathed, his voice rough with desperation.

I blinked, struggling to comprehend his words. My gaze roamed his figure, taking in the sight of him, as if he had just flown through the storm on Vhagar to reach me, his presence here a force of nature all its own.

The storm outside seemed to pale in comparison to the tempest in his eye.

Aemond took a step closer, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor as the storm outside raged on. His face, half-shrouded in shadow, was a mask of barely contained emotion.

I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, my breath catching in my throat as he moved closer, his single eye locked onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

"I cannot stand by and watch you wed another," he said, his voice low and raw with emotion. "I know your duty binds you, but I cannot—will not—pretend any longer."

His words struck me like a lightning bolt. My mind reeled as I processed what he was saying, yet somewhere deep within me, I had known this was coming.

I had felt it in the way he lingered near me, in the way his gaze lingered a little too long, in the way his touch seemed to burn through the thin fabric of propriety.

But hearing it out loud—hearing the vulnerability in his voice as he bared his heart to me—was something entirely different.

"Aemond..." I whispered, unsure of what to say, unsure of what I should feel, or what I was allowed to feel.

His hand reached out, trembling slightly as he cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing gently across my skin. His touch was surprisingly warm, despite the cold dampness that clung to him.

"I have loved you, quietly, endlessly, for so long," he murmured, his eye never leaving mine. "I tried to fight it. I tried to bury it beneath duty, beneath everything else. But when I heard of your betrothal... I couldn't breathe. The thought of you with him—of you becoming his—"

His voice faltered, breaking slightly, and in that moment, all of his carefully constructed walls crumbled.

"I love you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with so much aching truth that it made my heart lurch. "I've loved you from the moment I first saw you, and I will never stop."

Before I could respond, before I could even process the weight of his confession, he closed the distance between us, his lips crashing against mine with a fierce, desperate hunger.

The kiss was rough at first, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every repressed feeling into it, but it quickly softened into something gentler, something more tender.

I gasped against his mouth, my fingers instinctively tangling in his soaked hair as I kissed him back, the world outside falling away, leaving only us and the storm of emotions swirling between us.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine as he caught his breath, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw.

"I cannot lose you," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "Not like this."

"Aemond," I whispered, my voice trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. "I feel the same... I always have."

At my words, something in him seemed to snap. His lips claimed mine again, this time softer, slower, as if he was savouring the moment, afraid it might slip away if he didn't hold on tightly enough.

His hands roamed my body, hesitantly at first, but growing more confident as I responded, my own hands exploring the hard planes of his chest.

Before I knew it, we were moving, stumbling backward toward the bed, our kisses growing deeper, more urgent, as if every second that passed only heightened the tension between us.

When my back hit the edge of the bed, I pulled him down with me, the weight of his body pressing against mine sending a thrill through me that I had never known before.

He pulled away just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze searching.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse with need but laced with a deep tenderness.

I nodded, my heart racing, but there was no fear—only a burning need to be closer to him, to feel everything we had both been denying for so long.

"Yes," I whispered. "I'm sure."

Aemond kissed me again, this time slower, more reverent, as if he was savouring every moment.

His hands moved with care, gently removing the layers of my clothing, and I did the same, my fingers trembling as I unbuckled his belt, peeled away his wet cloak, and let it fall to the floor.

With each piece of clothing shed, the vulnerability between us grew, until we were both bare, exposed not just physically, but emotionally.

When he finally lowered himself over me, his body warm and solid against mine, it felt like the world had shifted, like everything had fallen into place in that moment.

His touch was careful, almost worshipful, as his hands caressed my skin, and when he finally entered me, it was slow, gentle, as if he was afraid of hurting me.

A soft gasp escaped my lips at the sensation, unfamiliar yet achingly beautiful.

He paused, his eye locked on mine, waiting, asking without words if I was alright. I nodded, my fingers gripping his shoulders, urging him on.

Slowly, he began to move, and the initial discomfort melted into something deeper, something breathtakingly intimate.

Each thrust was a silent confession, a shared secret, as our bodies moved together in perfect harmony.

His name fell from my lips in a breathless whisper, and he responded with a soft groan, his movements growing more urgent as we lost ourselves in each other.

The storm outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of our mingled breaths, the soft rustling of sheets, and the overwhelming closeness of his body against mine.

Time lost all meaning as we came together again and again, until finally, the tension built to a crescendo, and we shattered, our release a shared moment of pure, aching bliss.

Aemond collapsed beside me, his breath ragged as he pulled me into his arms, his chest rising and falling rapidly against my back.

I turned to face him, my head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

In the quiet aftermath, with the storm still raging outside but a new peace settling between us, I knew that nothing would ever be the same.

This night, this moment, had changed everything.

As we lay together, the only sound was the steady rise and fall of our breaths and the distant rumble of the storm, now reduced to a soft whisper outside the windows.

Aemond's arm was draped protectively over my waist, his warmth surrounding me like a cocoon.

I traced the lines of his chest absentmindedly, my mind already drifting to the reality I would have to face in a few hours.

But as the weight of duty settled on my shoulders once more, I felt the inevitable tug of responsibility, like a noose tightening around my neck.

I knew what needed to be done. I could not avoid it any longer.

With a deep sigh, I slowly disentangled myself from Aemond's embrace, careful not to disturb him. The cool air hit my skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth we had shared.

I could feel his gaze on me before he even spoke.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep but laced with a note of concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing against my arm, urging me to stay.

I turned to face him, already half-dressed, my heart aching at the sight of him—his hair tousled, his violet eye clouded with worry, his lips still swollen from our kisses.

He looked vulnerable, a far cry from the fierce, stoic prince the world knew him to be.

"I have to go," I said softly, pulling on the last of my clothes. The words felt like shards of glass in my throat. "I have to tell him... about the betrothal. About us."

Aemond's expression darkened, and he sat up, his brows drawing together in a storm of emotions.

"Tell him?" he echoed, his voice suddenly sharper, filled with disbelief and rising panic. "You don't owe him anything. You don't have to—"

"I do," I interrupted gently, though the pain in my chest nearly doubled as I saw the flicker of hurt in his eye. "If I'm to end this, he needs to know. I can't leave him in the dark. It's only right."

I hesitated, reaching for his hand, squeezing it tightly. "But don't worry... I'll be back."

Aemond's grip tightened around my hand, his desperation now palpable. "Stay," he whispered, his voice low but filled with a quiet, almost pleading intensity.

"Stay with me. Forget him. We can leave this place—together. We can run, escape this life, and no one will follow. Let me take you away from all of this."

For a fleeting moment, I considered it. Running away with Aemond sounded like a dream.

A life with him, free of duty, free of the obligations that bound us to others, was all I had ever wanted. But reality was much crueller. There was no escaping our fates.

And I could not live with myself if I left things unfinished if I left my betrothed without an explanation.

"I can't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper as I leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Aemond's forehead. "But I will come back to you. I promise."

Aemond's eye searched mine, as though he were trying to convince himself of my words, but deep down, I saw the doubt flicker in him.

He didn't want to believe it, but he nodded slowly, reluctantly releasing my hand.

"I'll wait for you," he murmured, his voice tight with resignation. "Come back to me."

I gave him a sad smile before slipping out of the room, leaving him behind in the dim light of our shared night, unaware that it would be the last time I would ever see him.

I made my way to Jasper Wylde's son, my heart heavy with dread but resolved to set things right. I needed to tell him that the betrothal could not go forward, that my heart belonged to another, even if it would shatter the fragile alliance our families had built.

I hoped—perhaps foolishly—that he might understand, that he would let me go.

But when I stood before him in his chambers, and the words tumbled from my lips, his reaction was far from what I had imagined.

At first, he was silent, his face an unreadable mask, but I could see the fury simmering just beneath the surface. His eyes narrowed, his hands clenched into fists.

I took a step back, suddenly aware of the growing tension in the room.

"You love him?" he asked, his voice unnervingly calm, though the venom lacing his words was unmistakable. "The one-eyed prince? You think I will simply stand by and allow you to humiliate me like this? To betray our betrothal for him?"

I opened my mouth to speak, to try and reason with him, but the storm broke before I had a chance.

In an instant, his rage erupted. He lunged forward, his hand striking me across the face with such force that I stumbled, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

Panic surged through me, but before I could react, he was upon me, his hands around my throat, his face twisted in an unrecognizable fury.

"You think you can leave me?!" he snarled, his grip tightening as I gasped for air. "You think I'll let you walk away from this? You belong to me!"

I clawed at his hands, but his strength was overwhelming. My vision blurred, dark spots clouding the edges of my sight as my body fought for breath.

Desperation filled me, but it was no use.

The world around me began to fade, the sound of his hateful words growing distant until, finally, there was nothing but silence.

Aemond waited for hours, pacing back and forth in the darkened chamber where we had shared our first and only night together. His heart raced with anxiety, his mind conjuring up every possible reason for my delay, but always, he held onto hope.

I would come back to him. I had promised.

But as dawn broke and the first rays of light crept into the room, reality began to settle in. Something was wrong. Aemond's chest tightened with a growing sense of dread.

He threw on his clothes and stormed out of the room, determined to find me.

It wasn't until later that day that he learned the truth.

When they found my body—lifeless, bruised, and cold—Aemond's world shattered.

The news spread quickly, whispers of a lover's quarrel turned deadly, but all Aemond could hear was the sound of his own heartbreaking, the weight of his own failure crashing down on him.

I had promised I would come back to him. I never did.

In that moment, standing over my lifeless body, Aemond knew that the love we had shared, however brief, would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Our love story had been beautiful, but it was never meant to last.

And now, it had ended in the worst possible way—tragic, unfinished, and forever lost to the cruelty of fate.

In the shadow of my death, Aemond's heart hardened. The gentle, desperate man I had known that night was gone, replaced by a hollow, vengeful prince, consumed by a rage that would never be quenched.

He swore vengeance on the man who had taken me from him, but even revenge could not bring me back.

Our love, fleeting and fragile, was now nothing more than a bitter memory, a love story destined to end in heartbreak.

A/n - I am still not over Autumn and Finny from 'if he had been with me' so I gotta make sure everyone suffers <3

Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy

#house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd one shot #hotd season 2 #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #team green #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #prince aemond

153 notes · View notes

ms-snape · 3 days ago

Note

Imagine Snape cannot find his wand only to find his baby sucking on it like a pacifier

Title: Lost Wand

Warning: None

Words Counts: 1000+

A/N: I have a lot of exams these days so I don't really have a lot of time to write, sorry if this is horrible and really short but i'll catch up in like 2 weeks cause I have vacations in two weeks.

Masterlist

---

The first light of dawn crept into the windows of Spinner's End, casting long, pale beams across the dark wooden floors of the small, tucked-away cottage. The day began like any other, calm and quiet, save for the faint rustling of the leaves outside, the gentle hum of life that seemed to reside just beyond the threshold. Inside, however, something was different today. Severus Snape could feel it.

He stirred from his slumber, his black hair tousled and sticking out at odd angles. His eyes flickered open and met the empty space beside him, where his wife, Y/N, had been resting not long ago. She must have already risen, he thought, her quiet presence an unspoken comfort in his otherwise solitary existence.

Severus had never imagined himself here—tucked away in a little house, married to someone who had seen past his hard exterior and into the heart of the man he had long tried to hide from the world. Y/N, with her soft smile, her kind words, and her unshakable belief in him, had turned his life upside down. But now, that life had become something else entirely—something filled with joy, in the form of their baby daughter, Hope.

As he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his fingers brushed across his nightstand, where he normally placed his wand. But when he reached for it, his hand grasped nothing but air. A frown creased his brow.

"Where is it?" he muttered to himself.

His wand had to be around somewhere. It was always near him—on his person, tucked under a pillow, or within easy reach on a surface in the room. It had never just vanished before. He glanced over to the side of the bed where Y/N had laid, but there was no sign of the wand there either.

“Y/N?” he called out softly, his voice laced with the faintest hint of worry.

She didn’t respond immediately, but the soft sounds of footsteps from the kitchen told him she was already awake and making tea.

Sighing, Severus swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, scanning the room in earnest. He moved to the small desk near the window, where he often worked on various Potions-related tasks, his hand brushing across papers and books. Nothing. Not a hint of his wand.

“Y/N, have you seen my wand?” he called again, this time with a bit more urgency.

The response was immediate. Y/N’s soft voice drifted toward him from the kitchen. “I haven’t seen it. Did you misplace it again?”

“I’ve never misplaced it,” Severus muttered under his breath, though the words were more a reassurance to himself than a rebuke to her. He wasn’t the kind of person who lost things. His wand was his lifeline—his connection to magic. How could it just be... gone?

Y/N appeared in the doorway, her morning robe swishing as she walked. Her eyes, though tired, were warm with affection as she smiled at him. She had always been the calm to his storm, the one person who could steady him when the world felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her brow furrowing in concern.

“I can’t find my wand,” Severus said simply, though his tone carried a weight that betrayed his annoyance. "I’ve looked everywhere."

Y/N's eyes softened with a touch of sympathy. She knew how much his wand meant to him, not just as an instrument of power, but as a symbol of control and order in his life. Without it, Severus felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hated.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the living room?” she asked gently, though she could already see the frustration beginning to build behind his eyes.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “I’ve already looked there.”

Y/N smiled faintly, her lips curling into a small, knowing grin. “Well, you could try checking under the bed. Maybe it slipped under there.”

Severus shot her a brief, skeptical look. He had already checked under the bed. But he wasn’t about to argue. Instead, he muttered a quick “Excuse me,” before disappearing out of the room, leaving Y/N to continue with her tea.

The next hour was filled with frantic searching.

Severus moved through the house methodically, checking every possible place his wand could have ended up. He opened every drawer in his desk, shifted through piles of books and parchment, and even checked behind the cushions of the chairs in the living room. No sign of it. His steps grew heavier with frustration.

"Where is it?" he muttered again, a hint of panic beginning to creep into his voice.

The house, usually so quiet, now seemed oppressive, like it was playing tricks on him. He could feel the walls pressing in, the air growing thick. His heart beat faster. This was impossible.

He retraced his steps to the bedroom, hands shaking slightly as he opened the wardrobe doors, rifling through his clothes as if his wand could be hidden in the folds of his black robes. No wand there either.

“Severus?” Y/N called from the kitchen. He could hear the gentle clinking of a spoon against a cup, as though she was stirring her tea, but her voice held a note of concern that only made his anxiety grow.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, a little too harshly. “I’ll find it.”

Y/N didn’t reply, but Severus could feel her presence in the air, a calm force in the midst of his spiraling thoughts. He had to find it. It wasn’t just about the wand. It was the feeling of losing control, of something slipping out of his grasp.

His footsteps led him back to the living room. He searched behind the bookshelves, checked under every rug. He even checked the fireplace, thinking it might have rolled into the ashes by some bizarre accident. Nothing.

He turned in circles, his mind whirling. He was beginning to feel like a madman, unable to find a simple object in his own home. His mind started to conjure dark thoughts—what if someone had taken it? What if someone was watching him, toying with him in some twisted game?

His heart thudded in his chest. A sudden wave of frustration surged through him. His eyes darted to the corner of the room, where a cradle stood, softly rocking. It was Hope's cradle.

Hope.

Severus froze. A thought sparked in his mind, a moment of clarity cutting through the fog of panic.

"Of course," he muttered, turning sharply toward the cradle.

He approached slowly, as if the very act of moving toward it might disturb some fragile peace. Hope, their beautiful daughter, was nestled inside, her small hands clutching a tiny, unfamiliar object. Severus leaned forward, his breath catching when he saw what she was holding.

It was his wand.

The tip of it rested between her chubby fingers, the polished wood glinting in the dim light of the room. And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Hope was sucking on the end of it, her lips curling around it like it was a pacifier.

Severus stared, his eyes wide in disbelief. He watched as Hope cooed, her little hands gently playing with the wand, her tiny body wriggling with delight. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, despite his earlier frustration.

"Well," he murmured softly to himself, "this is certainly a first."

74 notes · View notes

zoneofsmites · 3 days ago

Text

Still laughing about how they didn't want to "invalidate" anyone's worldstate. But that is exactly what they did.

Morrigan is the most obvious, I really cannot believe that a Morrigan who was a mother would have so willingly taken into her something like Mythal if she was a mother - of at this point - a 10 year old Kieran. Maybe she would, but it would be for different reasons.

Isabela is the most annoying to me. She's talking about how "Kirkwall taught her about family." as if she couldn't have been given up by Hawke to the Arishok. As if she couldn't have ran away from Kirkwall and never looked back. If I had met an Isabela from a world state like that, she would never have said that.

Harding talking about the Inquisition also feels like it misses some... extra flavour here and there based on actual choices. Like my Inquisitor didn't do well with Blackwall, and he didn't survive to see the end of the game. But Lace speaks about him fondly and in such a way that I don't think she should if the Inquisitor never 'redeemed' him.

Zevran is never mentioned by name, but what if a warden outright killed the assassin hunting them. Or he turned on them in Denerim and died later? Then explain to me that entire banter Lucanis has with Harding about why House Arainai messed up so bad they went trough several Talons about it. And now the Crows don't take contracts in Ferelden anymore.

At that point the reason that was given to us for the lack of worldbuild choices to prevent 'invalidating everyone's worldstate' feels null and void. Because you have. You have invalidated many worldstates already by bringing back these character or have people talk around them in such a way that doesn't make sense.

#dragon age #bioware critical #veilguard critical #datv #datv spoilers #sorry i got the isabela line again today and it made my anger resurface #its my main complaint mostly because of how the devs tried to placate us and how it ended up turning out #and it felt like they fucking lied to our faces about it because of it.#i can generally even deal with it because it's not even /that/ much.#and i like the game so much outside of this so i can bite my tongue for the most part #i just needed to get some of the anger out ig.#might delete this post later we'll see. i just wanted to vent for a bit.

75 notes · View notes

ode-to-fury · 15 hours ago

Text

Dance With Me

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook

Summary: Scene after the Illario fight, but the way I would have written it. It's not that deep or different, but I think it's better. My Rook but mostly I wasn't specific.

Disclaimer: Whoo first Lucanis fic! I'm still trying to find the DA companions' voices so you might have to bear with me a little bit. This has been in my brain since the MOMENT he said "I have other plans for the evening". I tried to make him that weird mix of awkward and smooth so lmk if I did that or if I need to work on it. Might come back and edit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You came back here just for coffee?"

Rook's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

When he looked up at her, his heart gave a lurch, the same lurch it had given every other time he'd laid eyes on her.

Her hair was damp and sligtly wavy from her bath, still, and she wore leather trousers and a shirt. It was difficult to see in the dim firelight, but he knew the blue of the shirt would be reflected in her eyes, twinkling above the bemused grin she was giving him.

"What, the stuff in that gigantic villa wasn't good enough for you?"

She folded her arms across her chest, eyebrows raised and dimples clearly visible as she grinned down at him. Mercifully, Spite was being quiet for once. He idly wondered if demons ever got tired, or overwhelmed after a long day. Something to ask Emmrich about, perhaps.

"It's better if I make it myself," he said, not quite managing to smile back at her, despite the lightness that smile brought to his chest.

"And besides, I wanted some quiet."

He hated that her smile melted slightly, her shoulders tightening ever so slightly. He doubted anyone else would have noticed, but he did.

"So," she said, "First Talon?"

"First Talon," he said, and if he was honest with himself, it did not fit right in his mouth.

"I still cannot believe Caterina did that."

Lucanis is the new First Talon. His decision stands.

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her fingers tensed where they rested on her arm.

"Does that mean you're leaving?"

Ah.

He almost grinned.

"No," he said simply. "We have a contract. Besides, Caterina might have named me First Talon, but there's no stopping her from giving all the orders."

This time her smile was wider, and she tilted her head to the side so her hair shifted, glinting golden in the firelight. He ached to run his fingers through it.

"You know," she said, her eyes twinkling with laughter again, "You could have said, 'Of course not. I would never leave with you still here.'

Her Antivan accent was good. Too good. It made his chest feel tight whenever she pretended to be him. He grinned back at her despite himself.

"I would never leave with you still here," he said. "You'll have me for as long as I can put off the Crows."

He saw her brow furrow slightly, but she hid it quickly.

Before he could let his nerves interfere, he stood up, setting his half empty cup down on the table as he did.

"I may have had another reason for leaving the party early," he said, letting his voice drop slightly. He saw her eyes narrow, but then she gave him a crooked grin.

"Besides coffee, you mean?"

He walked past her, to the open space between the dining table and the door, and held out his hand to her.

"Dance with me," he said softly.

It was the first time he'd seen her truly taken aback. To his delight, her mouth even dropped slightly open.

"Dance with you?" She asked, as if he'd just asked her to jump into the Fade.

"What?" He asked.

"There's no music. Also, I told you," she said, shoulders tensing again, "I'm a terrible dancer."

She had. Technically she'd told all of them.

You'd have to get me drunk first, I'm afraid, it's mortifying otherwise. I got told I have about four left feet.

"You did," he said, still holding out his hand. "But you also said you loved to dance."

She tilted her head to the side, almost pleading.

"It's only me," he said softly.

"That's what's worrying me," she said, almost too quiet for him to hear, and he remembered that this was as new to her as it was to him.

What would a first kiss taste like?

Like hope.

She held back for a moment longer, then hesitantly, she placed her fingers in his hand.

They were warm, and her callouses scraped against his own as she allowed him to pull her close to him. His heart thumped in his chest, as if it was trying to get to her.

"I don't know how to do this," she said, and he knew she wasn't only talking about the dancing.

"Like this," he said, curling his left hand around her right, and placing the other one on his shoulder.

"Your elbow has to stay up," he said seriously, lifting said elbow so it was almost in line with her shoulder before dropping his hand to her waist. "Caterina would smack me with a cane if I got it wrong."

"If you try and smack me with a cane..." she started, leaving the threat unfinished.

"I couldn't find one," he said. She tried to hide a grin, but her dimples gave her away, and suddenly those hours with Caterina and her cane seemed worth it to him.

"Now," he said, "step back with your right foot."

She did, looking at her feet, and he followed, relishing the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, the way his hand fit perfectly on her waist.

"Back and to the left with the other."

She did so, and he followed.

"Now bring your feet together, and do the same with the other foot."

They went slowly, and he enjoyed watching the crease between her eyebrows as she concentrated.

Gently, he let go of her waist so he could tilt her face up to his own.

"You should look your partner in the eyes," he said, aware that his voice had dropped lower, but not really caring, "Not where you are going to step."

"And if I step wrong?" She asked, her voice slightly breathy. It felt like soft fingers tracing their way down his spine.

"Trust me to guide you," he replied, his hand going back to her waist.

The corner of her mouth curled up ever so slightly.

"Alright," she said. "I trust you."

As they moved slowly through the room, the firelight caught her eyes and hair, gilding her in gold and taking his breath from him. In fact, breathing felt suddenly like a very big effort.

"What is it?" She asked quietly, almost as if she was scared he would run if she spoke too loudly. He wasn't too certain he wouldn't.

"You are so beautiful," he said, before he could think about it too much, though his voice was markedly less smooth than it had been.

Her eyes, her beautiful, sparkling eyes, widened slightly.

"Really?" She asked.

"Would I ever lie to you?"

She smiled. It was small and soft this time.

"No one's ever called me that before," she whispered.

"Good," he managed to whisper back. "I would have to kill them."

And she laughed. By the blood of the Maker, she laughed and every terrible moment up until just then seemed as though it had a purpose.

"There's that smile," he said, when her laughter died down.

"Your's too," she replied, still grinning happily at him.

"Thank you, Rook," he found himself saying.

"You don't need to thank me."

She leaned in slightly, mischief in her eyes.

"For you, it's on the house."

His stomach tightened slightly when she did the accent, but he tried his best to ignore it.

"Did Illario hurt you?" He asked. "I'll skin him if he did."

She touched the scratch on her neck from Illario's, thankfully unpoisoned, blade.

"A scratch," she said dissmissively. "He hurt my pride more than anything else."

They moved for a few seconds in silence while he waited for her to ask the obvious next question.

"Do you regret..."

"Giving him a chance?"

He'd been thinking about it since they had left Villa Dellamorte.

Didn't you tell me he was basically your brother and your closest childhood friend?

"No," he said. "You were right. He's family."

Family. The word tasted sour in his mouth.

"I didn't even suspect him," he said. "When the Venatori caught me on the boat in Tevinter, it never even crossed my mind."

Almost without meaning to, he brought her right hand to his heart, his fingers tightening over hers. She lay her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer, a solid weight against him. A comfort, for the first time in his life.

"He's better than I thought," he said, absently resting his cheek against her head. Her hair smelled of lightning, and a faint, almost unnoticeable trace of honey. "Maybe there is hope for him yet."

She snorted a soft laugh through her nose, making him grin. It vanished quickly, though.

"But this wasn't a mercy. Being watched by all the Crows, with their knives out? He will never live down being the Traitor Crow, brought down in front of everyone. There is nowhere he can run."

"I was surprised you listened to me," she said. He felt her breath tickle his neck, involuntarily clutched her closer against him.

"So was I," he said. "But... I don't have a lot to lose. What there is... Caterina, this team... you, even my idiot cousin. I'm not giving that up."

She stopped moving, lifting her head up to look at him. She wore the softest smile he'd ever seen on her face.

"What's that look?"

"You have a big heart," she said softly, "For an assassin."

He tried to look away at the tone of her voice, at the emotion in it, but she gently turned his face toward her again.

"That's not a bad thing," she said.

"If it brought me here," he said, taking her hand again and kissing it on a whim, "To this moment with you, then it cannot be a bad thing. I just... I cannot believe he would do all of this, only to be First Talon."

She frowned up at him.

"He said you didn't want to be First Talon."

"I don't. But how am I supposed to trust him with it now? How is anyone? The funny thing is, he might have finally proven he has the abillity for it."

"Right before getting humilliated in front of everyone," she said, grinning slightly.

"Exactly."

He sighed, though it came out as more of a frustrated growl.

"Fucking Illario."

"Hey," she said, gently reaching up and smoothing out the crease between his brows. The gesture made his chest ache.

"We'll work it out," she said softly. "Together. But for now... "

He took her hand again, holding it to his chest so she could feel his heartbeat.

"Just be here with me," she said. "Just for a little while."

"I can do that," he said. "For a little while."

She smiled, and he could see the day was starting to get to her, the tiredness starting to reach her eyes.

"Rook..." he started, not sure what he was going to say, but needing to say something before his chest caved in on itsself. She cut him off before he could.

"Shhhh," she said gently, kissing him for a long moment before laying her head back on his shoulder. He forgot, sometimes, that he could kiss her. Usually, Spite was there to remind him, with enthusiasm. It scared him, how much he ached to feel her lips against his own.

"Don't ruin it."

So he held her close, and kissed her forehead, and later he let her fall asleep on his lap in the chair, savouring the way she held on to his hand even in sleep, and finally letting his fingers run through her hair, softer than silk against his skin.

#i suck at writing smut so this is decidedly not that #but the lack of a tender scene at this point really pissed me off BIOWARE THEY WERE LITERALLY AT A PARTY HOW COULD YOU NOT LET THEM DANCE #rookanis #rook x Lucanis #dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #my writing #lucanis fic #lucanis dellamorte fic #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard #datv #datv fic

67 notes · View notes

felicity-worthington · 19 hours ago

Text

Why is “Doctor Odyssey” a television show that very cleverly shows the depth of the human condition?

So, I have seen some people say that Doctor Odyssey is fun (especially because of Ody3) but also just a superficial show with no plot and I have to politely disagree. I think this show is the opposite, it's just supposed to look silly and superficial at first glance, as you can see when they repeat the phrase "we constructed a paradise" in the weekly recaps.

It is supposed to look like that, it is the idea of a cruise itself, for a week you escape the real world, you enter a new constructed one, which is supposed to be paradise without problems. But here's the thing, here is why there's a doctor and two nurses on this ship: it's just an idea, it's not real.

We especially see this in the episodes "I Always Cry at Weddings" and "Quackers" and of course in the main storyline of Max, Tristan and Avery navigating their relationship and their constant struggle with what they really want in life.

Let's start with "I always cry at weddings" to deconstruct the idea of superficiality with the weekly funny themes and the show only being silly because it's quite obvious here I think. I mean, a man commits suicide in this episode because he's deeply conflicted about what he really wants out of life and how he thinks there is an incurable darkness within him. And we see him, his bride and his best man as an example of how this construction, this idea of heteronormative happiness is just that for a lot of people: just an idea that doesn't guarantee you happiness, but actually destroys lives (not everyone's, of course). And we start this episode superficially, with a couple about to get married on a cruise, the perfect wedding in perfect paradise. But as the episode progresses, we see the cracks and then it gets very real. The scenes with the groom breaking down in the infirmary, the bride talking to Avery and Max after the suicide and her mother's confession are all absolute tearjerkers in the best way. I mean, watch that scene and then tell me again that this show is just a silly Riverdale for adults:

This is actually one of my favorite scenes of the show because the delivery of the line "we need to help this boy" is just perfect, the actress did an amazing job. Also, the character herself says "she pretended her fears away", which underlines the show's idea that this is a paradise where people should just forget their worries, but actually real life catches up with you no matter where you are, you cannot hide from it.

The other example I was thinking of is the latest episode with the Quackers community, which is super silly in a lot of ways and I love that, don't get me wrong.

And then you have this older couple, the leaders (?) of this community, who seem extremely superficial and silly, I mean, going on cruises to go on a quack treasure hunt? So silly. BUT then the cracks start to show again as one of them, the husband (I don't know what his name was, so I'll just call him the husband and her the wife), shows a serious condition, the compulsive urge to swallow objects. When confronted, the wife literally denies it, unable to face the ugly truth. In her world everything is perfect, she and her husband are on a never-ending treasure hunt on paradise cruises, and when something real, something problematic threatens that, she can't accept it at first. And we see that again later in the episode when she refuses to leave the ship:

She wants to stay in paradise, in denial, on the surface. But that's not possible, you can't ignore real life:

But this is her and her husband's dream, an endless paradise in search of ducks, and it's hard to let go and take a deeper look at life and accept that floating through life is a nice idea and might work for a while, but it can't go on forever:

regarding her husbands condition:

Once again the theme of what we want (superficial) and what is really going on (what is behind the construction of paradise) is mentioned.

All of this, and all of the recurring themes I mentioned, are also at play with the three main characters and their constant struggle with what they really want out of life. In a way, their calling to help people is fulfilled by their professions, but then they keep asking themselves, "Is this enough? Is this what I really want out of life, taking one cruise after another?

The theme of constructed ideas versus what is actually going on is also seen in their throuple situation. Max and Tristan have probably always seen themselves as straight, and now they are getting a deeper look at who they are and what they really want out of life. And that is scary, and it often takes years to deconstruct habits and self-image.

But there is no unnecessary weird teenage drama in this show, it is very real. It is supposed to look superficial, you only have to look a little closer to see that it is not.

So once you deconstruct the idea that this is all superficial, you will see that yes, it is silly, so is life and we need those silly and funny moments in life and in this show, but it is also very, very deeply human in many tragic but also good ways.

#doctor odyssey #long post #ody3 #max x avery x tristan #max bankmann #avery morgan #tristan silva #I don't even know if I got everything I wanted to say right and if I got my message across

69 notes · View notes

aquaticmercy · 2 days ago

Text

Bloodthirst

Part 5 of Dark Necessities

Series Summary : You drink Bucky’s blood out of necessity and accidentally form a primal bond that has the ability to unlock an ancient ritual magic.

Chapter Summary : As Bucky’s obsession with the bond grows, you meet a stranger who claims he can help.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x half-vampire!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Blood. Death. Cursing.Violence. Pleasure from a vampire bite (?). The reader is a dhampir/half-vampire/daywalker like Blade, and Blade is a mentor figure in this. Established relationship. Not a really an au, set in the MCU so semi-canon compliant except for the fact that blade is here lol.

Word Count : 2.7k

Note : hey y’all! I haven’t updated this in over a week, but as it stands, I am going to upload a chapter 2-3 times a week. Let me know if I missed anyone in the tag list. Enjoy!

Bucky’s obsession with Joanna’s journal crept in quietly, at first. He kept it tucked under his arm, bringing it with him even to the smallest corners of his life. Before long, he felt like he was compelled to carry a piece of her story.

In the low light of the bedside table, he’d lose hours tracing her words with a respect that bordered on devotion. Each night, you’d find him hunched over the journal, eyes fixed on the paper as if every letter were sacred. His breaths would grow shallow, his body still, save for the fingers that turned the pages. You’d watch him from across the room, feeling a knot tightening in your chest because it did in his.

You knew you should probably take a peek, but the idea of reading it yourself filled your head with a uneasy dread.

You didn’t want to know what was written inside—didn’t want to see the horrors the bond you shared with Bucky reflected in the pages. There was a fear you couldn’t shake off— that the journal held a blueprint of what your future with him might become, and it terrified you more than you could admit.

One night, after you fed on him and showered, you heard him turn the page and exhale, almost a sigh. You knew it couldn’t be anything good.

I can feel Celine’s heartbeat even when she’s not near. When she leaves, I feel like a ship wandering the seas without a destination. Her soul burns with mine like a flame, and I am afraid of how much I crave it.

How strange to feel so full, yet so empty without her… I wonder if this hunger is love or something else entirely. I cannot tell. But I do not care to know the difference.

As Bucky read, his grip on the journal tightened, knuckles turning white. His storm-blue had that faraway look again, as if Joanna’s writing had taken the words right out of his mouth.

He didn’t notice how his breaths grew shallow the way you did— and how his shallow intakes of air made it harder for you to breathe.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek instinctively. In that moment, he felt his cheeks ache, too. Warily, he looked up to you.

He shut the book and smiled as if nothing was wrong. But he couldn’t hide these things from you anymore— you felt the dread he did, the spiral of obsession slowly digging deeper and deeper into his skull, taking root in his brain.

And still, you didn’t open the journal. You haven’t read a single sentence.

It felt like the last line of defense, a boundary between what you could bear to know and what would destroy you if you did.

—

Today, you went on another mission— Elsa Bloodstone had tipped you off.

The sunlight was blinding, slicing through the vein-like branches of the forest like a blade, yet the trees were so thick that there were pockets of darkness underneath.

You and Bucky moved in near-silence through the edge of the woods, stalking the faerie that had left two vampires dead in the last three days. The forest seemed to sway with purpose, the earth beneath your boots uncharacteristically still.

Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves set your senses on fire as you stayed close to Bucky’s side. The faerie had been maddeningly elusive.

But you both knew it was near— you had caught a glimpse of their feet and followed it here.

Bucky’s grip on his rifle was tight, his keen eyes flicking to every shadow that might move. He had specifically prepared silver-tipped bullets in his weapon, hoping he wouldn’t need it. Between you, the bond buzzed softly, a shared endless rise and falls of energy. His adrenaline felt like it had mixed with yours, creating a heady cocktail that made you hyper-aware, feeling the beat of his heart as if it was your own.

The daylight gave you an advantage—Bucky had insisted on that. The faeries had killed vampires— they would expect a vampire to avenge them. They would not expect a daywalker.

This was your best chance.

And yet, this seemed too easy.

As you stepped into a small clearing, the forest fell silent. Not the natural quiet of nature— it was like noise had been sucked out of the air in a vacuum.

It was the kind of stillness that promised violence.

You halted, your hand instinctively resting on the hilt of your dagger. The faint scent of blood drifted to you, sharp and metallic, and your eyes followed it to a figure slumped against the thick trunk of a tree.

A young vampire. Recently turned, by the smell of it.

The fledgling’s throat had been violently slashed, a grotesque smile carved into his pale flesh. His wide, empty eyes stared up at the canopy above. He likely was sheltering out the sun under the shade of the ancient tree. A dark red streak ran down his neck, a brutal sight against his alabaster skin.

“This isn’t right,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you began to back away. Your instincts screamed at you to run. “They’re leaving victims for us to find.”

He stiffened beside you, his head jerking up as he scanned the perimeter. His mouth opened to respond, but the forest answered first.

Figures seemed to spill from the edges of your vision, flickering like flames. They moved with impossible grace, as if they were one with air itself.

Faeries.

Their pale, luminous skin glowed like winter’s first frost beneath sunrise. They wore flowing garments in shades of moonlight, their faces achingly beautiful but marred by a cruel childlike glee. They danced in and out of sight, their laughter piercing your ears, sharp as broken glass.

You knew, now, that this was a trap.

The bond between you and Bucky flared, his pulse thundering in your head. He moved closer, his back pressed against yours as the faeries closed in. Their movements were so fluid, so deliberate. One stepped forward, its lips curling into a smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“The blood-bonded lovers,” she said, her tone dripping with genuine wonder. “How rare. How precious.”

A shiver ran through your veins.

These weren’t just faeries. Your eyes flicked to the brands on their necks— intricate, thorny roses etched into their pale skin.

A marker of devotion.

“A cult,” you breathed, the realization hitting you like a blow. “A faerie cult.”

The stories came rushing back to you, dark whispers of faerie cults who performed ancient rituals to bend the natural forces to their will. The tales always mentioned daywalkers, their connection said to hold unspeakable power.

Perhaps they wanted to test their rituals on a blood bonded daywalker now.

One of the faeries began to hum, the melody soft and haunting. The sound wormed its way into your chest, vibrating in your bones, fraying your nerves.

“To bring back the dead requires a blood sacrifice so rare,” the faerie purred, their eyes gleaming with hunger. “A blood sacrifice so potent.”

Bucky’s body tensed beside you, the bond crackling with his thoughts— anger, fear, and above all, a determination that burned like fire. You felt an unspoken promise ripple through the connection: he would not let them take you. But you knew he could feel your thoughts as well, that you were going to protect him just the same.

The first faerie lunged, and you both moved as one. Bucky’s shot first, the silver-tipped bullet slicing through the air and slicing into the faerie’s shoulder. It staggered back with a shriek, its blood sparkling like liquid starlight. Another darted toward you, your dagger in hand, slicing into its flesh. The faerie hissed, otherworldly beauty twisting into monstrousityz

But then—

A sharp sting bit into your neck. And another.

You slapped at the source, but it was too late. A cold numbness spread through your veins.

You heard Bucky say your name, his voice quiet and distant. The world tilted, the sunlight fading, the trees dissolving into darkness.

You both hit the ground.

And then there was nothing.

—

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the moon, bright and full, hanging high in the sky above you.

How long had it been?

You were in a hole in the ground, vines wrapped around your wrists. The air was damp, the faint scent of moss clinging to your senses as you groggily tried to sit up.

“You’re finally awake,” came Bucky’s low, steady voice. He was crouched beside you, his metal hand working at the knots that held you captive.

“How did you untie yourself?” you croaked, your voice still groggy, the lingering effects of the poison lingering.

Bucky shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t factor in the whole blood-bonded supersoldier thing. Woke up, snapped the vines. Easy.”

You blinked at him, still drowsy. “How are you, like… fully awake already?”

He held up a dart casing he’d pulled from his arm. The faintly glowing residue inside it shimmered faintly under the moonlight. “Silverleaf poison,” he said, toying with it between his fingers. “Hits vampires harder than humans. Guess they were banking on me being out longer.”

You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped you even now. He’s been reading up on your kind.

It took another minute or two, but he finally freed you from the vines. He helped you to your feet, steadying you with a hand on your waist. The bond between you buzzed faintly, a steady pulse of his calm sensibility grounding you.

“They caught us off guard once,” you muttered, shaking off the last vestiges of grogginess. You looked up to the opening above you. You grabbed a root that had snaked down and started to climb out. “Not again.”

Bucky nodded, stretching his metal arm. He felt naked without his weapon, but this’ll do.

As you climbed out of the hole, the forest greeted you with an eerie silence. No whispers. No laughter. Nothing.

Yet again, you got the creeping feeling that said the silence must mean something was wrong.

Together, you moved cautiously into the clearing, every step feline. The smell hit you first—sharp, metallic, unmistakable. Blood.

Then you saw them.

The faeries.

Their once luminous, otherworldly bodies lay sprawled across the ground like discarded old marionettes. Their glowing skin was smeared with their silvery blood, their flowing garments torn and stained. Some had wide, glassy eyes staring lifelessly at the canopy above; others had their faces frozen in terror. Their bodies were twisted at unnatural angles, limbs discarded as they had been ripped apart.

“Holy fuck…” Bucky trailed off, scanning the scene with wide eyes. He stepped forward, nudging one of the corpses with the toe of his boot.

It didn’t stir.

You knelt beside another body, your hand hovering over the intricate thorny brand on its neck. The symbol seemed to flicker faintly, the glow fading as though whatever power had coursed through it was finally snuffed out.

Then, you saw the figure standing at the center of the carnage.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Tall and refined, he seemed utterly untouched by the chaos around him. His coat, deep purple with intricate gold trim, swirled faintly in the breeze. A lavish feather boa was draped over his shoulders, absurdly elegant. His dark eyes stayed on you and Bucky.

The vampire from Dead Club City.

He was renewed with energy— almost glowing.

His fangs glinted of silvery blood.

Oh, he’d kept a couple of the faeries alive enough to feed.

Faerie blood was an acquired taste— and it was intoxicating. A recreational hallucinogenic drug for the vampire community at times, though not without danger— you have heard of multiple overdose cases.

Yet here he was, unchanged by the blood he had drank— as if he had a resistance to it. As if he had built up tolerance to it.

His smirk deepened. It was not friendly. Not warm.

“Ah, the hunters,” he said, his voice smooth and sweet. “Or shall I say, the hunted?”

Your stomach twisted. You could feel the hum of the bond with Bucky at your side, his tensed breathing a steady pull in your chest. He shifted, moving half a step in front of you, his stance protective.

His grip on your arm stayed firm—a reassurance that you weren’t alone. Still, unease prickled along your skin. This man—this vampire—was dangerous in ways you couldn’t yet define.

He had done this. Effortlessly.

And now his attention was on you.

“Eric Veer,” He introduced as he approached, his boots crunching softly against the ground, not caring if he stepped on some faerie remains on his way.

There was nothing kind in this man’s face, only an ancient hunger, hidden beneath a thin layer of civility.

Bucky, however, didn’t move. His hand tightened on your arm—not in alarm, but in caution. His thoughts, muted but present through the bond, was conflicted. But mostly, it was curiosity.

It made you want to shake him, want to shout at him. How could Bucky not feel the danger emanating from this man? How could he not see the predator that lingered beneath the elegant facade?

Eric’s gaze shifted to Bucky, and then to you, lingering for a second too long. His eyes dropped to where Bucky’s hand gripped your arm.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “The connection between you… so raw. So untested.”

You wanted to step back, to put distance between yourself and him, but Bucky’s grip held you in place. The bond pulsed with his determination, and it felt infuriating.

“What do you want from us?” You asked.

Veer shrugged. “I want to help. I have been studying blood bonds for centuries.”

You didn’t trust him. Not for a second.

Bucky, though, seemed to be listening, his thoughts guarded but intrigued. You felt the flicker of his hesitation through the bond, a reflection of your worry.

Eric reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He held it out, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of amusement and excitement.

You didn’t take it.

Bucky, however, stepped forward, plucking the paper from Eric’s hand without any hesitation. You felt the shift in him, the way his curiosity bloomed, the subtle intrigue that bled through the bond. It frustrated you.

How could he trust this man—this vampire who stood amidst a field of corpses like a god laying waste to his domain?

The address scrawled on the paper was written in cursive. Bucky said nothing as he studied it. Eric’s gaze returned to you, as if knowing he still needed to win you over.

“I offer knowledge,” Eric said, his voice low, “What you do with it is up to you.”

He turned then, his coat billowing behind him as he began to walk away. You should have felt relief as he left, but the unease only grew, wrapping tighter around you like a noose. “Be careful with that bond of yours. A faerie cult is the least of your worries.”

And just like that, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the forest.

The clearing was silent once more, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. You stared at the spot where Eric had disappeared, your thoughts a blend of mistrust, and unease.

Bucky, however, was still holding the paper, his expression unreadable. Through the bond, you felt his determination, his mind already turning with plans, strategies— a willingness to follow the thread Eric had offered.

The paper held an address: 10 Wintermeyer Lane

“We shouldn’t go,” you said finally, your voice wound tight. “We can’t trust him.”

Bucky’s hand relaxed on your arm, but he didn’t look at you. “Maybe,” he said quietly, his tone carefully neutral. “But if he knows something about this bond… we can’t just ignore it.”

The connection flared again, a clash of emotions—your mistrust against his curiosity. You didn’t reply, but the fear in your chest refused to subside.

As Bucky tucked the paper into his pocket, you couldn’t shake the feeling that stepping onto the path Eric had laid would lead to another trap— one that Bucky wholeheartedly trusted.

-To be continued…

Taglist : @mystictf @chimchoom @crdgn @a-crying-fandom-lover @otterlycanadian

@sebastians-love @intelligenceofapineapple @put-trash-here @hzdhrtss

@murnsondock

57 notes · View notes

maracujatangerine · 2 days ago

Text

91. A conversation

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

“Cory… I think we need to talk.” Lydia’s tone was cautious. Carefully gentle. “What do you think?”

Coriander had been sitting slumped against the wall on his green pillow in the kitchen. When Lydia spoke, he instantly straightened up.

“Y-yes, Miss Lydia. T-this pet needs to talk. It has been thinking.”

“Okay.”

Lydia sat down in her usual chair, facing him. For quite some time now, she had been more relaxed around Coriander. She had felt able to trust their report and that also he would be less vigilant in interpreting any gesture of hers as a sign of displeasure or censure. Now, however, she once again felt herself hyper aware of her own body language. Do not cross your arms, she reminded herself. Shoulders turned towards him, heart open, posture welcoming. She smiled, and nodded.

“I’m listening. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“T-this pet has been thinking about what.. what has happened to it. About why it is here.”

Coriander rose to his feet, perfectly graceful as usual.

“Miss Lydia, This pet did volunteer, it did. It knows it did.” He pulled a shaking hand through his blonde hair. “T-there w-was a signature, on a paper, and… and…” He shook his head. “T-this pet cannot remember. But.” He looked down at Lydia, grey eyes suddenly fierce. “B-but this pet knows that it wouldn’t have volunteered if it knew. If it knew what it was going to be like. Nobody would volunteer for that.”

He started to pace the kitchen, back and forth, his shaking hands drawn tightly into fists.

“The cold, the beatings, the starvation, the experiments, the violence, the abuse, the contempt, the neglect.” His whole body shaking, he stared unseeing out the window. “The way you are never good enough.”

Lydia could feel her whole chest ache in phantom pain as her heart hurt for him. She wanted to reach out to Cory, but she was also afraid to disturb whatever path he was on. This was probably the first time ever he named the things he’d been going through.

When he just stayed silent, breathing hard, staring out the window, she eventually said, as gently as she could.

“Cory. This is terrible, and I am so sorry that it happened to you. I’m really glad that you can start to talk about it, though. I’m here, and I’m listening to everything you want to talk about.” She paused, and when he showed no sign of even having heard her, she added. “I just want to remind you that this is never going to happen to you ever again. You are safe here.”

He whirled on her, then.

��B-but, Miss Lydia. If nobody w-wanted to buy it, this would not have happened to this pet.” He paused and swallowed. “This would not have happened to me!”

Looking down, he continued. “You have been kind to this pet, that is true. But there is a paper in the drawer there…” He pointed, his whole arm an accusing arc. “That says that you own it. Whatever you want to do to this body…” He hesitated and plunged on. “…to this soul, it is your right to do it.”

Coriander shook his head slowly, grey eyes boring into hers. Very slowly and steadily he said. “Miss Lydia, i-if it wasn’t for you - a-and many more people like you - t-this pet wouldn’t be here.”

He hung his head, then. Exhaustion and a spasm of pain flickering over his face for just an instant. Gritting his teeth, he met her eyes again.

“Miss Lydia, t-this pet needs some time alone. May it be excused to go for a walk?”

Lydia nodded quickly, biting her lip.

“Of course, Cory, whatever you need.”

The blonde young man inclined his head respectfully, but the fire in his grey eyes did not die down.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Lydia held it together while Coriander went out into the hallway, put on his shoes and coat, and walked out the door.

It was only after she heard the sound of the latch clicking closed that she leant down on the smooth, wooden surface of the kitchen table, hid her face in the crook of her arm, and cried.

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#pet whump #whump fic #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #bbu #lydia and coriander #caretaker #pet whumpee #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original writing

73 notes · View notes

mercy-misrule · 24 hours ago

Text

mouthwashing spoilers, mentions of fictional sexual assault, discussion of fictional neglect and abuse of a disabled person, the many nuances of the patriarchy and capitalism

Let's have a chat about how Swansea and Daisuke failed Anya as crewmates!

Thank you everyone for your very lovely and thoughtful responses to my previous Mouthwashing meta pieces, here and here.

Let's have some more thoughts! Again, I'm examining the text from the perspective of a sexual assault survivor, a survivor of a life threatening accident, a domestic violence survivor and a person who grew up in poverty.

I love this game for giving me enough meat to sink my teeth into, for fodder for thought.

I've written about how supremely vulnerable Curly is, post-crash, the real true horror of being reliant for every aspect of your survival on an abusive person.

I'd like to look at another aspect now, the fatigue and isolation of the carer under a profit driven patriarchy!

Being a carer for someone who is entirely reliant on you is tough, is stressful and supremely isolating. The best and most dedicated carers in the world get burnt out, and not because they are bad people who don't truly want the best for the person in their charge.

You see it happen. Their friends and family disengage with them, not wanting to be asked to help, not wanting to confront the difficulty and reality of disability. They'll start to ask why the carer doesn't give their charge up into permanent care, they'll make snide comments about how much easier it would be if they weren't a carer....and if a carer cannot provide for their charge, and does get professional support or their person does go into care, they get met with judgement for 'not trying hard enough' or bewilderment that they might be upset.

The disabled are seen as a burden, and when anyone tries to challenge that, the system is set up both at a macro and micro level to fundamentally quash that challenge.

And at home carers? Over proportionally, they are women.

So look at what happens to Anya. Anya is a medical professional, yes. But there are many tasks that could be done in Curly's care that don't require specialised skills. Swansea or Daisuke could have stepped in at any minute and offered her help.

Instead, she asks Jimmy, the man who abused her, who is abusing Curly to help, because as awful as it is, he's literally the only other person interacting with Curly.

He's the only person who talks to Curly post crash. Anya doesn't say a word to him, only talks about him.

Anya is not a cruel person. She's not revenge driven or malicious. She actively does not want to hurt Curly, his pain is extremely distressing to her, and she is put in the position where she has to cause it, either by her own hands or Jimmy's by proxy, because she has no other help.

Swansea is very dismissive of Anya. He refers to her as our so-called nurse, that woman, and that rickety elbow of a woman. Swansea also shit talks Daisuke, and we know he has affection for Daisuke, but actions, or inaction speak louder than words.

This is a game where taking responsibility is a core theme, and Anya is forced to take sole responsibility, where she could have been supported and helped, if Swansea or Daisuke could have stepped up as her crewmates.

Daisuke is a grown ass man. Is he a young man? Yes. Is he a full grown adult capable of making his own decisions and responsible for his own actions? Yes.

So his choice, to actively ignore Curly and Anya, is just another decision.

The way this mirrors the way society isolates carers is such a good piece of storytelling to me. The way it causes Anya so much stress, the way it causes the quality of care she provides to Curly to degrade because she is the only person helping...it's a mirror of real life.

Is it because Anya is the nurse? Sure. Is it because she's the only woman? Maybe. Is it because both Daisuke and Swansea are mired in different versions of toxic masculinity? Absolutely.

Daisuke's indifference and pleasant disengagement, while being tolerated by everyone, handwaving away criticism is the prerogative of a rich young person, especially a rich young man. It'll all be alright! and no one expects anything of him. It's not the same thing, but there's that tinge of learned helplessness in there.

Swansea's unpleasant, grinding negativity, his self focus, the way everything is a burden to him...if you haven't had to work with a man like this, you're doing well in life. You never ever want to ask them anything because it's like being rubbed by angry sandpaper.

If i seem like I'm being very harsh against Daisuke and Swansea, I am. I am purposefully pointing out their worse qualities, not just as people but as crew.

There is no unity within the crew, and the company prefers it that way. No one unionises after all, if they can't stand or trust one another. They force Curly, a chronic people pleaser to hold himself above them, which spirals his anxiety, which leads into him failing as a captain in a myriad of ways.

Daisuke is introduced too late and underprepared. The crew is automatically going to be against him, frustrated with him, and he has no incentive to work against that, apart from his own easy going nature.

Anya is under immense self pressure. She's failed to get into medical school 8 times. She's got no savings. And then she is in close quarters with her abuser, and the only person she tells about it believes her AND THEN does nothing, and seemingly then crashes the ship.

Swansea has that inbuilt, boiling pressure of a life lived like he feels he's supposed to. But he's supremely unhappy, lashes out at everyone. And not in the way that Jimmy does, but in this unpleasant background radiation way, where everyone is already under so much stress.

Jimmy was barely keeping himself together under Curly's command. Without it, he's a whirlwind of aggression, negativity, threats and delivered acts of violence. There was no unity with him, previously, and there certainly isn't any now.

Everyone is responsible for their own actions, and inaction. But the company set them up to fail before they set off, and then the social desertion of Anya dooms the crew.

Anya doesn't need to be rescued, no one needs to get revenge for her. What Anya needs is support, in the actual physical sense.

Swansea could talk to Curly, to distract him. Daisuke could be there to talk her through giving Curly his meds, keeping her panic at bay.

Literally the least they could do, it could have changed everything. If Jimmy was denied access to Curly, if there was a sense of solidarity between the crew, something, anything. If there was any trust at all.

But instead Daisuke gives into apathy, Swansea into secrecy, Anya into despair and Jimmy into a frothing frenzied need for control.

There is no win solution for the Tulpar crew. This is a hopeless crisis.

But if there had been a sense of community, of reciprocity, they'd have options. But it becomes the loudest voice in the room, Jimmy's voice, and just like that, the options disappear.

Being a carer takes community support. It's how carers are kept accountable too, because a disabled person who needs that level of care exists at the whim of the carer. A carer has to be supported to be supportive. Anya receives nothing.

#mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #mouthwashing spoilers

48 notes · View notes

shinjisdone · 23 hours ago

Text

So....I am thinking about Alucard (again) but his Vlad version....oh, his Vlad version. hits different, different vibe, really good. Unfortunately, just because he changes his appereance, Alucard himself is still the same we know in the show, no matter what form he takes. Him appearing as his former self wouldn't be much of a difference so...

Vlad!Alucard Who Has Amnesia And Still Thinks He Is The Leader Of Wallachia - But His Obsession With You Still Remains...

HEAVILY based on my other ramblings, the detailed one as well as small headcanons here.

TW: HEAVY MENTIONS OF RELIGION, VLAD BEING INSANE AND USING RELIGION TO COMMIT MURDER, SEEING YOU AS AN ANGEL SENT FROM THE HEAVENS FOR HIM, RACISM(? He hates the Ottomen? He's like...from the old times ya know) MYSOGINY (his boss is a woman???), OBSESSION, MURDER COMMITTED FOR YOU, WORSHIP THAT IS ALSO DEGRADING, HE IS NOT OKAY AND NEITHER WILL YOU BE

None...none of this was supposed to happen.

Seras was just in time to block the finishing blow as Integra stared at this creature...the monster Alucard.

Yet, something was wrong, terribly wrong. The form he took on was that of his old and foolish human self and his eyes were nothing of the bloodlust and glee she remembered.

It was pure anger. Pure and cold rage as he gazed about anything in the room.

The long, tattered cloak, the heavy armor he refused to get off and that sword he clung to as if it was the only thing he had. Where are his guns? Where are the glasses she gave him? Where is that smarmy grin, the snicker, the mocking humor, where was Alucard?

Seras' begs of her master reached deaf ears. He was barely listening to her, as if he wasn't even in the same realm as they were, somewhere else entirely. Spacing out but still getting angry at the young vampire's resistance.

The insistence that Integra was his master seemed to displease him as well. He spoke in a thick accent, spatting out that he only has one master and it is no woman.

This wasn't him, she feared. He returned so fast after consuming Schrödinger, but this never could be her Alucard. The one she freed from her father's shackles.

No...he was shackled to something else now.

Shackled to his curse that was you. Chained to his willfull obsession, to his fantasy, his twisted form of love. Integra should have seen it coming that this Alucard would drop his weapon instantly the moment you entered her chambers. His blood-red eyes widening as his breath was caught in throat. Seemingly he had forgotten everyone else there as she watched the man stumble towards you in awe. His hands shook as he kept himself together from touching your radiance and committing sin. Like a puppet on a stage, he fell to his knees, bowing his head to you, dark locks falling in front of his gentle face.

"...Forgive my intrudence, holy angel. Giveth to me the message of God as I offer my prayers."

Fucking hell. It truly was Alucard.

The Bird Of Hermes Is My Name...

It was laughable how quickly this thing was putty in your hands.

Integra sighed, at the end of her wits, but was relieved that this monster was able to be tamed by you. This was no other than Alucard for sure. It was sickening to see him still cling onto that part of himself when it came to you.

As confused as you and Seras may be, she ordered for you to look after him for now. Do not act surprised. Did you think she wouldn't ask that of you?

Both she and you know how Alucard is. And it pains you, terrifies you - because even as he cannot seem to remember himself as the Nosferatu he is - the Dracula Hellsing took prisoner, the one true vampire walking this earth as an immortal being - he is and always will be your monster.

Now he calls himself Vlad the Impaler. The ruler of Wallachia but you do not have the heart nor patience to explain this time and place to him. That his kingdom is no more.

He speaks differently. Voice the same but heavy with a thick accent and speaking in the most polite but proud way you've seen.

You tell him that this place harbors no enemies. There are no Ottomen, no traitors of Wallachia. He believes without a second thought and kneels once again before you. "I thank thee for the sanctuary, o angel." You can cringe as much as you like but he will not stop.

Additionally, Alucard seemed to have forgotten his powers and immortality or perhaps, has not yet regained them. He thinks himself as human and expects an accomodation for one. You offer him a room and though the modernity and the fact he feels no hunger are a novelty to him, he spares these things no thought.

Again, he bows and thanks you once again. "For what reason haseth God brought me here? What message will thy bring me?"

What a load of bullshit. This could not be the Alucard you know (and fear). He may look like him, sound like him but he would never utter such words. With a frown, you step forward and he immediately straightened his pose. As you observe his form, he stares back in awe at the mere short distance of the two of you. A mere servant in the presence of such goodness, such holiness. "Is it really you?" You mutter and gingerly reach for his face. A shudder runs through him as you cup his face and a sigh escaped him. "The touch of an angel..." For a moment, he closed his eyes to memorize and bask in the feeling before gawking back down to you. "I art Count Vlad, thy humble servant. I shall bring death to all thy enemies and have them be a sacrifice."

Your frown deepened and you retracted your hands. "I am no angel. I am...a human. That is all." Alucard's eyes widened and he immediately but gently shook his head. It was like he was hearing blasphemy. "Thou must be. How else could there be such radiance and grace?" He put a hand to his chest, "How else could my heart feel twisted and touched by thy presence? How else could I be so full of veneration at the sight of thy beauty and holiness? Why else..."

Alucard seemed to struggle for words as his breath got caught and his eyes narrowed. You could feel your heart pounding as well but out of fear.

"...does my very existence stop at what I ought to do and be at the sight of thee? Why else had God sent thee to me? Let me be thy vassal, the one who shall shed blood and keep thy hand clean and pure. Let me know, o angel."

Eating My Own Wings...

He was more terrifying than you thought possible.

You almost wished for the old Alucard to be back. This one is a senile, insane warlord who believes each little lie he tells himself. The lies of his kingdom, his faith, that you are an angel sent to him.

It was revoulting.

In the past he wouldn't keep his eyes off of you and never wiped that stupid grin off his face. But now, he bows his head, not daring to stare at you directly or for too long as if he was worthy of your beautiful sight. He showers you in compliments and even prayers. To him, you are a prayer, a benelovence that blesses him. Each word that leaves your mouth and each touch he so eagerly awaits even as he pretends to be humble, are a blessing. To even be in the same realm as you, as you obviously landed from above to see him, is nothing short of a blessing that must be met with gratitude.

Even as he speaks of gratitude and unworthiness, you can clearly and quickly notice that he seeks you out contanstly. The heavy stomps of his armor are hard to ignore. He stalks you without any intention to hide and his face remains blank but soft. The unruly nature of this form of his makes him look so...wild and unkempt with his disheveled hair and the messy mustache...but this form seemed the most non-hostile.

Although he stalks you, he barely lets out a word - aside from begging for your message from God, thanking you again and again for blessing him and imploring for an order, any order to do good in your name. For you. For you to notice him and validate his actions as a warlord.

He must be doing good. The bloodshed and the battles are his prayers and they must reach you, so please, please, tell him he is doing everything right by striking down his enemies.

No matter how many times you tell him you are no benelovent creature, he refuses to believe you. You must hide your identity for men are greedy and will cut off your wings. No one else can see you for what you really are aside from him, of course. It's a way to stroke his ego. Only he can understand and see you for he is God's most humble, most powerful, most blessed servant. He will be rewarded for all he has done and endured, so of course only he knows you are an angel! Everyone else is a blind fool.

As much as he sings your praises, Alucard is too much in awe to touch you. You are a holy being and he cannot ever have the audacity to simply touch you. But, as hypocritical as it is, he reveres in the willing touches he receives from you. Each a prayer, each a blessing. An angel caressing him and showing him...love. True love he has never known. He was always a monster on the battlefield and the common men were traitors and wrongdoers. Only a holy being could hold the essence of true and unconditional love - only you. Only you can love him.

Alucard has lost the wit, the mockery, the giddiness of battle. The only emotions you can make out on his face are reverance and a gentleness that you dared describe as obsession.

No matter what he could ever go through...he was still your sick monster.

The same monster that hesitates to touch you. The monster that won't leave you alone. The same monster that watches you sleep with bated breath, mesmerized by your peaceful figure and the undying wish to craddle you, to share the same peace you feel just once in his life. But he cannot. The only thing left for him is to adore you from afar with a lovesick expression.

...To Keep Me Tame.

The enemy draws closer and so he draws out his sword. He needs no army to protect you and devote the next sacrifice for you. Before every battle, he kneels and lets out an incantation. Promising you glory and the enemy's head all in your name.

"I shan't have any filth taint thy radiance, o angel. The enemy shall lose their pitiful life for daring to approach thee."

His vow is commandable but the way he eagerly turns around and swings his blade with such rage at the danger to absolutely maul them before they can scream out their regrets and begs for mercy. You can't tell if he simply is enraged at the sight of any enemy of the Count Vlad, for wanting to hurt and mock you, or if there is still this bloodlust hidden deep in his dead heart. You do not know. He doesn't squeal in glee when he strikes them down, does not talk down to them. Alucard is as silent as ever as Vlad but the ferocity is still the same.

He returns, reeking and spilled with blood, as he offers you their head. Fearing he will take it the wrong way if you reject it - after all, all he does is for his faith - you try to gently tell him that it's enough, that he doesn't need to fight any more. It works, for he believes his angel.

Still, the look of anticipation in his eyes make you sick. Perhaps one day, you cannot take it anymore. He does his job as Hellsing's hound well unwittingly but the way he seeks you out and looks at you is more than enough. You tell him you are no angel, may be kind to him, may show him humanity, love, but you are not a holy being. That he shouldn't see you as something you are not!

So...stop with the devotion. The sacrifice. This obsession that isn't love.

A monster cannot love. He should know. He is the one who told you!

"...Then what...am I here for?" He told you one day, defeated and disheartened. The desperation on his face was almost shocking.

"...Why am I here in this world if not to serve thee? Why did any of this happen? Why would I march and fight again and again through this wasteland of my own kingdom if...if I cannot have thee?"

You step back. Alucard genuinely sounded heartbroken.

"Each of these non-believing monsters hunting me...I have to kill them, do I not? None of them have the same strength that I have, the will to pray and serve God the way I have! I have swallowed my own armies, my own land just to keep moving on. I kept moving on into this strange, confusing place...all to reach thee, no? That is why I kept on killing, to meet thee, did I not? Is it not what I am here for?"

Alucard stomps towards you, not bowing his head once. He holds onto your arms first with his metal glove, before placing one gently against your face. His eyes are wide and red.

"No one else marched on as I. No one else could ever imagine thy form. Only I can, only I am worthy enough to see thee, to meet and reach thee. To serve thee. My angel."

#hellsing #hellsing headcanons #hellsing alucard #alucard #yandere #yandere alucard #yandere alucard x reader #vlad dracula #hellsing x reader

36 notes · View notes

akascow · 6 hours ago

Text

okay so

i think the viktor and mel hallucinations during jayce's whole Moment in 2x07, their eyes are just completely black. and its VERY faint but u can KIND OF see the outline of their irises if u look REALLY close (irl)

to show u what i mean:

first ones are just normal settings (tho my computer brightness is all the way up), i only messed with the exposure n highlights of the pictures and stuff in the middle ones, and outlined the eyes in the third ones

which could make sense in terms of his mental state i think ? he maybe feels like he let them down, or betrayed them or couldnt help them in a way ??

they dont feel human to him anymore. or maybe hes created these images so theyre judging him as he can only reminisce on what happened and how he left things

mel’s vision looks maybe like either angry, stubborn, strong willed or annoyed lol... her chin is kinda turned down, with downturned eyebrows, and her lower lids are halfway closed implying that shes like glaring or narrowing her eyes at him, her lips almost look pursed together and i think ? her nostrils are flared but its so hard to tell lmao we only get like three frames of over exposure HAAH take these with a grain of salt lmfao

viktor (even tho i cannot for the life of me read his expression HAHA) to the best of my ability i think kinda looks hurt or confused, maybe innocent for lack of a better term or scared. ((which given how he left jayce it would kinda fit lmao)) BUT his brows are ever so slightly scrunched together, one is higher than the other which usually implies confusion or thinking or admiring. eyes are wide open, mouth is agape a teenie bit, these are usually seen with softer, positive or more admirable expressions, and his chin is tilted upward. im not trying to turn this into a jayvik thing i swear im just comparing to my facial recognition knowledge HAHA

and as he loses himself deeper in the hexcore, the more he starts losing and/or fearing the two ppl he loved most ? ... and worries how he’d get back to them (if at all) and how he would imagine they would react.

the two ppl who not only made and brought him to who he is today, but uplifted and supported and stood by him for ~10 years despite everything

anyway this theory would all pair nicely with the voices that start playing in the background during his lil Montage lmao it kind of culminates into a massive guilty conscious, that then outwardly presents itself in their hallucinations:

“i never asked for this” - jayce to viktor, after their conversation about him breaking their promise about destroying the hexcore, resulting in vik leaving him lmao. also jayce literally turned viktor into this metal husk so hes gotta have that sitting on his shoulders too lmfao

“[heimer] was my mentor, and i betrayed him” - jayce (to mel) abt voting heimer off the council despite heimer ending up being completely right about magic in the first place

“it corrupts” “you must destroy it” “ive seen nations destroyed” - heimer about the hexcore, jayce screams over this as those lines play, anguishing over the fact that he literally did this to himself and hes the reason Piltover is (or will be) no more bc he ignored the warnings

“its your time now jayce” “perhaps its time for the era of magic” - mel to jayce, context is in the quotes HAHA. jayce is screaming no! no! and please! during these lines, i think its just to hammer (pun intended) home on the fact that it all ties back to him for ‘creating’ magic. its on HIM (at least in his own mind) for the destruction of Piltover and all of its people

maybe im just thinking too hard about it idk (im not). or unless this was extremely obvious to the average viewer HAHA. in my defense i spent this whole montage pausing every .6 seconds to take a picture of seggsy and broken and whimpering jayce so i wasnt really paying that much attention to it all AHAHA

anyway do u think this was a hallucination or was it actually the mage standing here with him for a flash lmao

okay sorry for that long ass post i would add a page break sooner but it would interrupt my flow of thoughts that i need u all to experience like i do HA

33 notes · View notes

tansyuduri · 3 days ago

Text

Chapter Two of "To Break A King" Is up

“Well, she knows how to hold a grudge,” Merlin observed softly.

“Don’t talk,” Arthur ordered. Talking would use up the little air Merlin had more quickly.

As always, Merlin did not listen to him. Instead, he shook his head and, with what was clearly a great effort, managed to push himself up slightly to lean against the magical membrane.

“Don’t you remember, dollophead? I never do what I’m told.”

“Merlin! Don’t talk!” Arthur urged.

“I sort of have to,” Merlin continued. “Well, not really, but I want to say things.”

“ Mer lin!”

“I wanted to say, I love you. This is not your fault. And if this is it for me, I’m—” Merlin cleared his throat. “Well, I’m partly glad you're here… Glad you’re here for my sake, but not glad about you having to watch. You don’t think you might be able to close your eyes?”

Merlin looked toward him, eyes full of hope. Then he nodded in understanding, not waiting for a reply. “I don’t think I would be able to either if I was in your spot.”

“Merlin. SHUT. UP. You’re using up air!”

“I know… but you can’t reach me either way. And we both know I cannot go a few hours without air.”

Arthur strained harder, desperate to stop this. His fingers scrambled against the cold stone floor, just out of reach from giving Merlin his freedom.

“I’m trying to think of what to say so you won’t blame yourself. What might help you… But I don’t know what to say,” Merlin continued rambling, using up precious air.

“I suppose… I love you and I wouldn’t change a thing? Well, I would change being in here. But if the choice was having the time I spent with you and dying here or never having met you, I know that I’d pick…” A pause, “I’d pick being with you, just in case that was not clear.”

“You stupid self-sacrificial… idiot of a sorcerer,” Arthur gasped out, agony and love filling his chest.

“It's not very nice to insult someone who is dying,” Merlin responded. “But of course, you would. You’ve never had nice manners. You should probably work on that.”

Arthur could feel the tears running down his face. He hurriedly brushed them away, then went back to struggling to reach the membrane.

“I love you, Arthur. With all that I am. Please don’t let this break you. I don’t want this to break you.” For the first time, he sounded frightened. Merlin finally couldn’t hide his fear, and what he couldn’t hide his fear of was how this would affect Arthur.

Also, was it Arthur, or did Merlin’s voice sound strained in another way?

No, it was starting, Arthur realized as Merlin gasped lightly and then tried to normalize his breathing.

“I love you,” Merlin told him, sounding breathless. “Always have... Always will. Well, not at first, thought you were a prat then... But perhaps…” He cut off to take a struggling breath of air.

Arthur could see Merlin's trembling. It was the one reaction to what was happening to him that he couldn't hide. Because he was trying to hide it. For Arthur.

Merlin gasped a few times. Clearly struggling and managing the words. “Goodbye, clotpole…love… you…” He then looked away from Arthur, likely so Arthur could not see the fear in his gaze.

Read it here!

#merlin #bbc merlin #merthur #merlin fanfiction #merlin fanfic #bbc merlin fanfiction #bbc merlin fanfic #merthur fanfiction #merthur fanfic #whumpblur #bad thigns happen bingo #running out of air #my fanfiction #whumpblr

26 notes · View notes

scary-grace · 3 days ago

Text

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

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

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “Speak,” Sir Tomura says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach turns. “No.”

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

“Why does it puzzle you, my Lord?”

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

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

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

“But you would.”

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

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

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

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

“No –”

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

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

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

“My Lord –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For a servant, my Lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You would not compel me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So one pays or is – pillaged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you survive?” Lord Shoto asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you say.

“When do you believe he will stop?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your back hits the wall. “They agreed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Be silent.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x you #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #fantasy au

25 notes · View notes

kalinara · 2 days ago

Text

Oddly, I find myself inspired to talk about Scott/Emma today.

I want to disclaim first that I actually really do enjoy the Scott/Emma ship. I think, at their best, they were amazingly good for each other. I think she was the partner he needed at a time when he needed to be harder and more ruthless, less yielding, for the sake of the survival of their people. I think he helped her remember the good person that she;s always been capable of being, despite her anger, rage and pain, and made her want to be that person again.

But I will never not be frustrated by so many aspects of how the relationship began. And I'm going to get into them below the cut.

(Content warning: I'm going to discuss violation, victim-blaming, and sexual assault/rape.)

So, let me talk about my first frustration:

I will never be able to stop my knee jerk reaction whenever I see someone, in character or out, call it a "psychic affair", when it goddamn well wasn't.

(New X-Men #131)

What it was, was a case of therapeutic abuse. He went to her FOR THERAPY. The "affair" was conducted in the course of therapeutic sessions. This isn't just malpractice, something that, were Emma a real person in the real world, would cost her her license.

In the State of New York, real world, what Emma's doing is a prosecutable crime. Because a patient, in the course of therapy, has diminished capacity to consent.

And look, it's not that I think this is a deal-breaker to their future relationship. The X-Men are fucked up. We all know that. But it is irksome to me that, to this day, this is referred to as an "affair", and not a single character has ever pointed out that Scott was not actually a consenting equal partner here, but a victim.

(In retrospect, maybe THIS is the first initial sign that Hank McCoy was slowly drifting to the dark side, because I cannot imagine a man like DOCTOR Henry McCoy, of this era and before, not being seriously aware of and passionate about the ethical responsibilities that a doctor has to his patients.)

It's probably fair to note the Doyleist elements. It is possible that the writer/artist team never intended this to be as violating and victimizing as it is. But I am skeptical of this. You can't tell me that the people who wrote and drew THIS SEQUENCE:

(New X-Men #128)

did not know they were writing Emma as a sexual predator here.

(I have seen folks bring up the "defense" that Scott was a fucking idiot to go to her for help, as though that in any way excuses her actions. Surprise! Someone who has been recently traumatized does not make wise decisions! That is entirely shocking! It's almost like he might not be in a position to consent to a sexual relationship with someone claiming to act as a therapist!)

You know what's even more frustrating though? The shit Scott gets for the actual START of their relationship.

You remember how it goes? Jean's dead. Scott is at her grave, mourning. Emma goes to him with an offer - a relationship and a co-leader position at the school. He accepts and there's that infamous making out at the grave scene.

It's awful! It's completely understandable that this turns off a lot of folk both readers and in character.

Except that's NOT what initially happened.

THIS is the scene as it initially, actually happened:

(New X-Men #151)

So yeah, THIS is what actually happens. Emma makes her offer. Scott says no. He leaves.

But THEN we get a whole storyline with future bad things happening, and well, apparently someone gets the idea that there's one really good way to avoid all of that mess happening.

So in New X-Men #154, we get this:

And the same scene again:

The exact same scene. Same place, same dialogue, same time.

But what's Scott's response:

It's really hard not to read this as anything but Scott having his "No" literally rewritten to a "Yes" by a future version of his own wife.

And here's the thing, this isn't a meaningless action. Scott takes a LOT of shit from a LOT of his friends and family for this decision. Not just taking up with Emma so early after Jean's death, but also where it happens. THIS IS JEAN'S GRAVE after all.

Rachel, his DAUGHTER, is furious. She basically disowns him outright, switching to her mother's surname and costume. It isn't until the End of Greys (meanspirited bullshit of a story worthy of another rant someday), and their shared grief, that they're able to reconcile.

Hank, probably the closest friend he has at this time, is utterly disgusted. And so many others have similar reactions.

Look, it can be frustrating to read and talk about X-Factor because, in my opinion, so much of Scott's choices are mischaracterized and taken out of context. But at least those are CHOICES that he actually made.

This wasn't a choice! This was an incredibly fucked up act of spousal rape by proxy committed by a hypothetical future version of Jean, where all of the negative consequences fell on the victim's head. Both victims, really, because Emma was not a willing participant in the violation of her new partner.

And what makes it so much more frustrating is that this will never be addressed. There is, I think, a very slight chance that one day an actual, ethical therapist or Doctor might hear the story of the affair and point out "actually, no, that was actually something terrible that happened to you."

But no one is ever going to learn the truth here. Why would it even come up? Scott and Emma have been longer as exes (Krakoa polyamory possibilities aside) than they've been together. Jean isn't the same Jean, she's as innocent of this as young Hank is of any of Hank Prime's crimes.

So this will never get addressed, ever, and I will seethe eternally at yet another example of unjust treatment toward my favorite character. And I can't even be mad at the people involved this time (unlike AvX!) because he DID what they're mad at him about.

It's just he DIDN'T initially, and it's so frustrating.

Again, i don't intend this rant to reflect on Scott and Emma as a pairing on the whole. As I said above, I think, on the whole, the two have been very good for each other. I like the weird whatever-it-is they had going on in Krakoa.

(I could have done without that X-Men Blue storyline where she tries to psychically force baby Cyclops INTO adult Cyclops, but that's a rant for another day. I was really glad to see her back as a proper anti-heroine in Rosenberg's run later.)

I just hate that these darker parts of their origin have never been satisfactorily addressed and it will always bother me.

#scott summers #cyclops #emma frost #this is probably not a post for shippers though I do not mean it as an attack on the ship

26 notes · View notes