#i don't. remember how to draw his hair so this is good enough i think . maybe i'll keep it like this

[justewil]

i think he is stupid💙

[syluss-littlecrow]

size training with sylus

<slyus x fem!reader>

where you’re size training on Sylus’s dick. ❤️

genre/warnings: smut, pwp, big dick!sylus, size training, size kink, dear god sylus and his fat cock, breeding kink, unprotected sex, pet names, dacryphilia, it’s just sylus brain rot ❤️

w/c: 2K

a/n: I’m on Love & Deepspace fic tumblr! 😮 hope I’ll be welcomed nicely here haha. As a peace offering, this is my present to everyone (and especially the Sylus girlies)!

You shift your body slightly, trying to make yourself comfortable, on top of taking slow breaths, your heart fluttering at Sylus's soft voice coaxing you. 

"That's it. Take it slowly, kitten", his voice slow and deep in your ears. But you don't see the way he's shutting his eyes and biting his inner cheek every time you squeeze around him. He's trying to pace his breathing as well, but it feels so fucking good.

You whine softly against his bare chest, his heat radiating off you, his slender fingers stroking your hair slowly, and his other hand drawing soothing circles on your thighs. 

You don’t remember how it started, but your thoughts start to drift, recalling the times your mind would float whenever Sylus had his lips on yours with you straddling on his thick thighs. He would devour you, painfully slowly because he knows that’s what riles you up, and he definitely enjoys listening to your whimpers, your non-verbal pleas for him to do more to you. He’d make sure your lips are wet and messy once he’s done with you, his touches teasing and light against your skin. Sylus secretly wants you to beg for it, because he knows that he’d give in to you in a heartbeat. His fingers would cup yours that were on his chest, and the look he would give you reset all the butterflies in your stomach. You would feel his thick erection, hidden under the thin silk black bathrobe he’d always wear against your clothed pussy, and dear god, he’s so fucking big. But before you could ask, Sylus would trail his fingers to tease your wet clit and pussy, soaking in your adorable reactions he swears is enough to get him off, erasing the question of wanting him to fuck you off your brain when the pleasure from his fingers tingles through your body. 

Sylus doesn’t pride himself as a generous being, but he thinks he’s always generous enough for you. He realises he enjoys having his face in between your legs, making you squirm, listening to you sob when he overstimulates you with his tongue, making sure his tongue presses and grazes fully on your clit while he listens to you fall apart, his crimson eyes locked onto you while he holds you down to take whatever he’s giving you. 

He’s good at distracting you like that whenever you want to bring up the question of fucking. 

This time though? Through your wet lashes from the overstimulation and hazy thoughts, all you were craving for was just to be fucked stupid by Sylus. Your hand reached out and pushed against his head. Sylus pulled back slightly, confused for a moment. 

“What is it, sweetie?” He paused, his hands trailing up and down your thighs. 

Your mind slowly clears, but your pussy is still pulsing from him tongue fucking you.

“Need you to fuck me, Sylus. Please. I don’t think I can take it any longer.”

Sylus is momentarily taken aback by your demand, but he realises he can’t keep holding it off, mostly because there’s only so much longer he’s able to hold back, especially when you’re begging for him like that. 

“I don’t think-“

“I can take it”, you muttered stubbornly, yanking your partner towards you. You shift yourself above him, straddling his thighs, just shy of his appendage. 

As much as your determination is endearing, Sylus knows your comfort should come first. And he knows very well that his cock isn’t gonna fit into you in one go, so he decides to let you gauge it for yourself—putting your hands into the string of his robe, gesturing you to loosen it. 

And you do, your gaze flickering from his cool expression to his silk robe sliding off his body when you untie the string. 

You swallow hard when his cock comes into view—thick, long and heavy, the tip red with a wet sheen of precum. Yeah, that’s definitely not gonna fit in you in one go. You and him solely being just wet enough wasn’t going to cut it. 

Nonetheless, you’re still determined. Your eyes meet his gaze and an idea pops into his head. 

He intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Tell you what, sweetie. I’ll fit into you slowly. Doesn’t matter how much you can take, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable when you’re doing so.”

“But-“

He presses his lips on the back of your hand. 

“I’ll be fine. You trust me, right?”

You nod, watching the way his eyes soften before you. 

So there you are, lying on your side, facing Sylus, your cunt trying to adjust to his cock as he stretches you open. It’s been a couple of days since you’ve been size training with your partner. It started off with getting his cockhead in, and that was already making you hitch your breath. Then inch by inch he sinks into you from then. He’d let you cock warm him like that and it never failed to leave you so full one session after the next. 

It’d been seven days, and you barely pushed through three-quarters of his girth. Initially, Sylus still could tease you while you tried to take his cock, but as he sunk deeper into you after each session, it started getting harder for him to maintain his composure—every twitch, every squeeze—had him digging his fingers into his palm, clenching against his silk pillow and breathing a little harder. 

He huffs once more when he feels you clench around his cock. 

“If you’re gonna keep clenching around me like that, Kitten, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.”

You glance up, watching the way Sylus’s platinum hair becoming a tousled mess against the pillow. His crimson eyes cast to meet yours, his lips pulled into a slight frown. 

“I can’t help it”, you reply, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

You hear Sylus hiss slightly once more when he twitches inside you. 

“Do you think you could fit another inch in?” It almost comes off as a beg. 

You inhale shakily, shifting yourself further downwards, taking another inch of his cock. The both of you gasp at the sensation. 

You freeze at the thickness. How far down are you already?

“You’re almost all the way in, Kitten”, Sylus whispers, almost as if he heard your thoughts. His breathing is growing heavier by the second, and he’s forcing himself to hold back from just thrusting the remainder of his cock in. It’s dangling over him like his favourite prey. 

His thumb strokes against yours, trying to distract you from the pressure on top of pressing your forehead with kisses, singing you soft praises.

Your mind is gradually turning more hazy with Sylus’s cock taking up the majority of your thoughts, on top of his body soap that’s been creeping into your olfactory senses. The more Sylus inches his cock into you, the more he’s pressing onto your g-spot, and the more it’s starting to make you see stars whenever you blink. You’re growing so sensitive that you’re feeling every throb Sylus’s cock is giving you. 

Your hand is on his arm, trying to ground yourself from the slight soreness. Another strained whimper when Sylus pushes him deeper into your pussy. Slick leaks from your pussy and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sylus. 

Another kiss to your temple, another circle drawing session on your thigh.

“Do you want me to go all the way in?” 

Your toes curl.

“I can take it.”

So Sylus inches his cock right to the hilt, knocking the wind out of you. 

Tears are prickling at the corner of your eyes, but oh god you do feel so good. 

“How are you feeling, sweetie?”

You hiccup softly. “So full.”

He chuckles. “Such a good girl.” The vibrations of his light laughter only press his tip further onto your g-spot, and it’s making your thighs shake from the impending orgasm. 

“D-don’t move so much, Sylus. You’re gonna make me—“ you try to bury your head into his chest but he stops you with his fingers in your chin. 

“Make you what?” 

He intentionally shifts, and his cockhead hits your sensitive spots again, sending fireworks into your eyelids, and a strained moan. Sylus seems to enjoy your reactions, because then he flips you to your back, his large frame looming over you, forcing you to look up at him with your legs folded, and still with his cock in you. 

Oh no. 

Sylus looks down at you with the faintest glint of softness in his eyes before it completely disappears, now just hunger seeping through the red. 

“Sylus!-“ you gasp, his fullness penetrating into you again, this time easily, considering the wet and sopping mess you’ve made around his cock. 

He only hums in reply, then pulling out slightly before he pushes into you again. He’s found your sweet spots, and he’s not letting it go that easily. 

The knot in your stomach pulls tight, and it’s making you tear up in sheer pleasure. You’re barely able to meet Sylus’s eyes, not when he’s fucking into you and has your head thrown back while you’re fighting to keep your eyelids open. 

It builds and builds. Sylus probably realises it from how much you’re just pulsing on his cock. His thumb rests at the corner of your lips and you let him slip in, your glazed out eyes meeting his. It makes his heart flutter when you’re completely undone like this for him, but he’ll never admit it, at least, not yet. 

“Gonna cum. Fuck, it’s so much, Sylus-“ you whimper before your mind completely melts away. 

“Release all you want on me, sweetie. That’s my good girl.”

That’s enough to send you over the edge—your orgasm hitting you like waves, tingling through your body like electricity, the pleasure eating you up over and over again. Sylus watches affectionately while you fall apart on his cock—the way you’re writhing and squirming, the way his name leaves your lips after every moan, the way your pussy creams so much on his cock. He thinks he’s doomed because he never gonna get enough. 

“Looks like a little kitten made a mess”, Sylus teases. He watches the way cream pools at the base of his cock when he pulls out slightly, only to thrust back into you again. His eyes flutter shut at the tight warmth eating him up, groans replacing his words. 

“Now, can I make a mess in you?” 

Your watery eyes meet his, and he’s equally about to lose all composure. You cup his cheeks, taking him by surprise, before giving him a quick peck on the corner of his lips, and then you nod. Said corner of his lips lift in satisfaction at your approval.

He’s just ready to ruin you. 

His strokes become more heavy, the overstimulation shutting your brain off. Nothing but pleasure is surging through your nerves now. You’re even holding up your legs so Sylus can fuck you deeper. 

“Now be a good girl and take all of it”, he mutters huskily, burying his face against the crook of your neck, his eyes snapped shut and his eyebrows furrowed. 

Despite the fact that you don’t get to see the way Sylus’s face contorts in pleasure when his orgasm hits him, his groans right in your ears serve you satisfied for now while thick white spurts into your abused pussy, filling you up all the way, some seeping past your plugged hole. 

You don’t realise how much you’ve clawed down Sylus’s back while he was emptying himself into you. 

Well, he doesn’t need to know anyway. 

Sylus stays above you for a moment, the both of you catching your breaths. He still has the energy to plant more bites on your neck while you stroke his hair. 

He pulls back to look at your face properly, and all you can think of is how fucking good he looks post-fuck—messy, sweaty, and so fucking delicious-looking. His fingers brush away your strands of hair, and his thumb caresses your bottom lip. 

“You’re truly gonna be the death of me, sweetie.”

[joycrispy]

I wanna talk about The Angel Who Would Be Crowley.

Because I had a certain set of expectations, which got thoroughly trashed in the first five minutes of S2, and my genuine response is, "Oh, fuck, yup. You're right. That's WAY better."

Looking around at GO fandom, I'm not alone in this. So let's talk about it.

Basically, a lot of people (myself included) believed that he was a high-ranking angel, and therefore as chilly and remote as every other powerful angel we'd seen at that point. We pictured Crowley-To-Be as long-haired, regal and imposing --and the fanart at the time reflected this. I'd link some if Tumblr didn't hate links.

Something like this:

We were collectively drawing on a few things --mostly, Crawly's appearance and general bearing in the Biblical scenes of S1--

--But also scattered hints of his importance, backed up by conspicuous absences in Heaven and a few profound displays of power. That's all better covered elsewhere, so I won't reiterate the arguments here. All I'm saying is: I think our headcanons were justified.

But it turns out he was this:

!!!

With his curly little--!!

And his neat white--!!

IT TURNS OUT, he was an angel who squeaked and squealed when he was happy; who flailed his arms around and made explosion noises with his mouth to explain nebulas; who preened when told his stars were pretty. Furfur, who knew him before the Fall, says:

"You used to jump on me back, little monkey in a waistcoat..."

(The use of a diminutive there, 'little'...oh, that fascinates me.)

In a pretty huge subversion of expectations, we're given these glimpses of an angel who was sweet, and joyful, and heart-meltingly silly.

In sum...an innocent.

(Perhaps innocent to a troubling degree.

We see how he troubles Aziraphale, during their first conversation. He starts looking around and behind them, checking to make sure that no one can HEAR the blithe and reckless things coming out of this angel's mouth. This angel who talks like he's never been reprimanded in his life; like it's never occurred to him that anyone would want to hurt him.

Before the Beginning, Aziraphale understood Heaven better than he did. The danger is plainly occurring to Aziraphale.)

So now, we the viewers are in on a cruel joke that Aziraphale has known all along, which is that this --THIS-- is the angel who--

*checks notes*

--did a million lightyear freestyle dive into a boiling pool of sulphur. For asking questions.

...Imagine you are Aziraphale, and everything inside you wants to believe Heaven are the Good Guys, and God is Good and Everything She does is capital-R Right...and now try to reconcile that. Keep trying. I don't think he ever totally managed it in 6000 years.

All this gets further complicated when we learn that, despite all of the above, we were still right. That sweet excitable babby up there?

He WAS a powerful and high-ranking angel.

That much is explicitly confirmed, with significant evidence that he could have been among the mightiest of archangels...

...Who apparently accosted his fellow angels for piggyback rides. And was remembered millennia later by those (now fallen) angels as something 'little.'

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

Hell, Aziraphale has known to be wary of the archangels (and the judgements of Heaven in general) since before the Fall even happened. He chooses to believe they are Good; he can't fool himself into thinking they are Safe.

Yet he's absolutely certain that Crowley won't hurt Job's children. Enough to stand in a burning building and say to them, "I can't save you, but don't be afraid. I won't need to."

And what reason does he give?

("I know you."

"You do not know me."

"I know the angel you were.")

What does that tell us about who he was? Is?

("The angel you knew is not me."

But how is Aziraphale supposed to believe that, when he can see him all the time?)

tl;dr --yes, this is better. I love the tragedy of it.

'Innocence died screaming' and all that.

[kasagia]

Losing your memory

Pairing: Young! Coriolanus Snow x fem!Capitol! reader Summary: He used to be your Coryo. Now he has become the man you don't know. The Plinth heir. The future president of Panem. You pray every day to forget about the sweet boy you fell in love with, on whom you could always count. To forget who he was and lose the memory of the past. Just like he did. Well... not exactly. Unfortunately for you, he still wants to remember you. Inspired by: "Losing your memory" by Ryan Star Word count: 7,2 k ~•♤♤♤•~ Coriolanus Snow's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~

You've been avoiding him ever since you found out he was back in the Capitol.

A month ago, this news would have aroused great joy and ecstasy in you. Your Coryo is back home. He managed to shorten his exile and gain Dr. Gaul's favour again.

But the man who returned from District 12 was not your dear friend or lover. This wasn't your sweet Coryo, with whom you walked hand in hand to school. This wasn't the boy you shared your lunch with. This wasn't a boy who cared about your well-being above his own. This wasn't a boy who joked about snobbish children spoiled by the richest people in Panem with you and Sejanus at the end of the day. (Although he talked with them, trying to keep up good appearances—he used to call that one of the responsibilities of being Snow.)

The man who came back was Coriolanus. The new Plinth heir. The shell of someone you knew. The ruthless, cold pet of the mad creator of the Hunger Games you despised.

Sejanus' death didn't hurt you as much as the transformation of Coriolanus from the person closest to you into someone you barely even recognized. And from the tearful, sad, resentful, and disappointed stories you heard from Tigris, you had an accurate picture of the man who took your Coryo's place.

And you hated him with all your heart.

Especially after what he promised you when you stayed at his apartment for one snowy winter night.

You lay wrapped in the various blankets and quilts Coryo and Tigris could find. It was winter, and they didn't have much money for additional heating, so they mostly walked around the house in several layers and slept under piles of clothes.

You didn't know about that that night.

Tigris lent him her quilt so that he wouldn't have to be ashamed of the poverty his family had fallen into since you were supposed to come to sleepover with him after the argument with your parents.

Cuddling up to your blonde boy, you tried to fall asleep, listening to his heartbeat. You frowned at the sound of it being a little faster than usual.

You lift your head and look at him carefully. His gaze is distant and thoughtful as he lazily draws patterns on your back as he presses you against his chest.

"Coryo?" you whisper, cupping his cheek in your hand tenderly and forcing those blue irises you have loved so much to look at you. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

He sighs long and presses a kiss on your forehead, the tip of his nose stroking your hair, as he is inhaling your scent. "I just... I just think about the fact that you deserve so much more. My grandma and Tigirs deserve much more than... this." he says with disgusting pointing at the room you were in.

"This..." you say, clasping your hands together and pressing a tender kiss to the back of his hand. "Is more than enough. You are all I need. And one day, when you are President of Panem or any other important figure in the Capitol, none of you will lack anything. This is a temporary state. You are too smart to be anything less than great, Coryo. You know it."

You see him hold back tears. He pushed your head onto his chest to rest his chin on your head. He is not crying. He almost never cries. But you know how close he is to it by the slight quiver in his breathing.

"I know I don't show it often enough... but you mean... everything to me. I can't imagine how I would go through these all without you by my side."

"I love you, Corio. Just promise me you won't forget this. What you went through, what you experienced. Don't forget your struggle. That's something you should never be ashamed of." he tenses at your words but leans in to kiss you passionately and hungrily. Putting all his unexpressed emotions into action and into that kiss that warmed you more than any blanket or radiator could ever.

"I promise. I will never forget how you kept me sane. When you were the only shelter I could go to and the only support that could bear the boundlessness of my troubles and doubts. How you were my only moonlight in the worst of my darknesses." you laugh softly, recognising part of his words.

"Quoting poets will get you nowhere, Coriolanus Snow." you say teasingly, rubbing your nose against him, at which he chuckles, licking his lips.

"Well... I've learned that in some situations, it gets me somewhere. And it's a very cold night tonight, don't you think? I can't let you freeze to death." he says as his hands go under your shirt—actually, his shirt that you stole from his closet.

"Well… I guess there's nothing left for me… but to place myself under your solicitous care." you sigh softly as he pins you underneath him, making sure the cocoon of blankets is still tightly wrapped around the two of you.

"I couldn't have said it better." he whispers and presses his lips against yours, stealing your breath countless times. He pulls away just a little to say against your lips, "You're mine. We belong together. No matter what."

He makes you shiver as you eagerly agree to everything he says. You don't realise how, in the future, you will curse every single intimate, sweet moment you shared with him.

Ironically, you realise how deep he has gotten under your skin the moment he returns to the Capitol, and you have to avoid him, not when he is sent into exile.

It was probably because when he was gone, you were too distraught to bother leaving your room, opening the blinds, or wiping the tears that somehow kept leaking from your eyes to notice how almost every place reminded you of him. If you could, you'd go back in time and tell yourself there's no point in crying over the asshole he's become.

Although maybe you already felt that your Corio was leaving, and it was a way of mourning him?

Anyway, you saw him everywhere. Not Coriolanus. Coryo. He stalked you in the library, the park, the cafe near the academy that you two and Sejanus liked to go to, and of course the Academy itself. Kudos to your parents for not letting him into your house. At least he didn't pollute your room with memories of him.

Involuntarily, you wonder if he also sees you, for example, in every corner of his apartment. Or maybe he renovated it beyond recognition to erase all traces of his past?

You didn't know.

And you didn't want to know.

The information about him that Tigris gave you when you met her at your house when Coriolanus was at the university for classes was sufficient.

Just because it didn't work out with her cousin didn't mean you would abandon your only real friend. And just because things didn't work out with her cousin didn't mean she would stop (more or less subtly) encouraging you to go back to him.

"We talked about you." she says, making adjustments to your dress that she made for your birthday party thrown by your parents. Another one of the unpleasant responsibilities.

"You and your grandma?" you ask, trying to avoid HIM as a topic as much as possible.

"No. Me and Coriolanus." she says, pinning something to your waist—some decorative strip of fabric or something—you're not sure; you're too focused on the window and the bustling city as you are trying to ignore her words. "You know… I think… I think I saw in his eyes… the old Coryo. For a brief moment, but… maybe if you came back to him, he would come back to himself too."

"I'm sorry, Tigris, but I think he went too far on his path to simply go back to who he was. Surely not because of me."

"I understand… I just really miss him." she says it in a soft, broken tone, and your heart breaks at it. You hug her with all your strength, uniting with her pain that you also felt so deeply.

"Me too." you whisper in her ear as she cries into your shoulder.

Tigris was a very strong woman. She always impressed you. You wanted to be as strong as her. But even the toughest had to cry sometimes.

After all, there comes a time when even the snow melts... even if only for a little while.

You held him tightly in your arms as Corio cried into your chest.

His grandmother fell ill. Hard. Without a doctor, she definitely wouldn't be able to get out of this on her own, and they didn't have the money to pay for one, let alone the medicines.

Your boyfriend spent the whole day planning, thinking, and getting any money, but it was not enough even to buy the cheapest antibiotic.

However, you didn't expect that after you found out it all from Tigris and ran to him as fast as you could with the chicken soup prepared by your servants and all your pocket money, he would start crying.

Coriolanus Snow cried like a little baby.

You handed the money and soup to Tigris, who, after feeding up their grandma, quickly ran out with her to the doctor. At that time, you were holding your boyfriend in your arms in the other room, who simply fell apart from his helplessness.

"Shh… it's going to be okay, Coryo. She will live, falsify that stupid hymn and hate me for not being enough for you just as she used to." your attempt to comfort him didn't help. If anything, he only cried more, holding onto you tighter and tighter.

"I should be able to take care of them... I should be the one taking care of you, not the other way around. I'm pathetic and weak. I'm not worthy of being called Snow."

"Hey, my sweet boy, look at me. You are strong. You are the strongest man I know. You are looking after me all the time; you literally give me everything you have, the last piece of your food, to keep me happy, safe, and full when I forget to bring a damn second breakfast from home or don't have time to eat something. You love me, and I love you, and that's how it works. We care about each other. And I have never, ever regretted being with you. Because what we have… is more valuable than anything else in this world. I trust you implicitly, and I will always be by your side. You are not alone with your problems and suffering. Not as long as I am here."

"But for how long will you stay? For how long will you endure with me?" he asks, and after one look at those a little red from crying, beautiful blue iris, you answer without a shadow of hesitation.

"As long as you love me and I can trust you. As long as I breathe. As long as I am in your mind and heart. I am not going anywhere, Coryo. Money can be earned, but what we have... you can't buy it. What I feel for you is more dear to me than any treasure in this world and I will never exchange it for anything else." you promise, stroking his hair tenderly to help him calm down.

You should've then wondered why he doesn't agree with you then. Why doesn't he say that he also feels this way and that he also values you more than money, glory, and honours?

But he blinds you by telling you for the first time that he loves you.

And you cling to him, wiping the tears from his face with your lips and foolishly believing that your love is pure and eternal.

Like a driven snow.

You knew this day would come someday. The day you let your guard down. But you hoped it would take a little longer before you came face-to-face with Coriolanus.

You are completely unprepared for this. You just freeze like a deer in headlights when you see his face at the end of one of the university's corridors as he walks forward, looking for something in his bag. Before you can even think about running away, he looks up, probably feeling watched, and his blue, icy eyes meet yours.

You both stand there transfixed, looking at each other, taking in the changes in your appearance since the last time you saw each other, which was after you broke up with him, when you saw how tenderly he treated Lucy Gray and how comfortable he was around her. And after someone politely informed you that he had kissed her.

"Y/N!" Coriolanus calls out to you and takes a step towards you, but you quickly step back and run through the crowd of people to get away from him. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't give up that easily. He never does. "Y/N! Wait!"

You have no intention of doing so. You run as fast as you can, bumping into several students along the way. You don't even bother apologising; you just run, hoping that Snow will stop being hot on your heels. Which, by the way, was a miserable dream after how fit he was after his training and the time he spent as a peacekeeper.

On the way, you notice a woman's bathroom and immediately run into it. You lock yourself in a cabin, thanking God or whoever is up that you managed to get an empty cabin and hide in it. You hear his quick footsteps and the door opening, followed by the screams of other women in the bathroom. You sigh in relief as you hear him obediently leave the room.

You're not leaving, though. You are not stupid. You know he's waiting at the door for you to come out. You decide to wait here until the end of the break between classes and hope that he will drop the idea of continuing to chase you and talk to you, and he will attend the lecture instead.

As the bathroom begins to empty, you realise that the next lectures must be soon. You stand silently on the toilet seat, listening carefully, waiting for the right moment to emerge from your miserable hiding place.

Just as you are about to reach for the doorknob, the bathroom door opens. You shiver as you hear heavy footsteps echoing off the tiles of the empty bathroom. And you think that you can smell the subtle scent of roses in the air.

"Come on, Y/N. I know you're here. I just want to talk."

Said the snake moments before eating the bird alive.—you think, mentally mocking how gentle he was trying to present himself. As if he could still be your Coryo.

"I have time. I can play hide-and-seek with you, if you want to. After all, you always liked to play this when we were kids. And you always lost."

You roll your eyes, listening carefully to his footsteps. He was opening the first cabin. You were in the middle one—the one a little closer to the door (and him).

"We'll have to talk eventually. You can't avoid me and ignore me, no matter how good you are at it lately. Let's stop this ridiculous, childish behaviour and go talk over coffee and some of your favourite cookies at the cafe near the academy. Just like the good old days. Well, this time all your orders are on me. What do you say?"

You would have snorted if it hadn't immediately revealed your hiding place to him. How dare he invite you to the place where you, he, and Sejanus spent the most time? To the place where your first unofficial date was.

He wanted to manipulate you, to make you believe that your Corio is still there and lives behind the façade of the rich, arrogant asshole he has become. But you knew better. His eyes told you everything you needed to know.

Even without Tigris' help, you realised that he... was a completely different person. He turned into somebody you only used to know in the past.

"Seriously? Still nothing? So you prefer the hard way, then..." he says, opening another cabin. You wait patiently for him to come to yours.

You breathe as quietly as you can, trying not to let him know which cabin you're in. You listen to his slow, measured steps as, with the incredible confidence and calm that is typical of him, he opens each cabin door, moving inexorably towards you.

Your heart quickens, beating madly, when you see his shoes in the whole, under the cabin's door. He reaches for the door handle, and before he can open it, you push the door against him with all your strength.

You hear him curse, taking a few steps back in a daze and holding his nose. You take the opportunity and run to the exit of the bathroom as fast as you can, not looking back.

"Fuck! Y/N! Are you insane?!" he shouts, running after you.

You reach the door just in time and slam it behind you, sprinting out of the university. You get in your car and drive away with your tyres screeching. In the rearview mirror, you see him leaving the building and following your car with a furious glare.

"I can't believe you invited Snow." you huff, fixing your makeup in the mirror. Your father is buttoning his cuffs, and your mother stands next to you, also putting the finishing touches on her appearance. "You hated him when we were together."

"He is an ambitious and clever boy. Plinth did well to make him his heir. You should reconsider whether he really is that bad. This match would have opened many doors for us. Not only among Plinth's allies but also among Dr. Gaul. God knows how she favours this boy. Who knows? Maybe one day he will be president of Panem."

"If so, I will run away abroad." you say it bitterly, putting your lipstick back in your purse and adjusting the necklace around your neck to make yourself look perfect.

"Don't be stupid. Snow wouldn't be so bad for you. Since you are our only child, we must marry you well. Make sure your husband doesn't blow our fortune in a week. And Snow is a thoughtful boy. He wouldn't let you live below the poverty line."

"And he's quite handsome." your mother adds, straightening your father's tie. "Still, he's not a womaniser. I heard he turned down the... special attention of Crane's daughter and a few other Capitol's girls. I guess he's been alone since your breakup."

"Hmm. Great. He wouldn't cheat on me with other snobs in the capital, but he would fuck with whores in the district. The perfect candidate for a husband." you scoff, walking with them to the next room, where the photographers were waiting to take a photo of you together.

“Language, Y/N. You are a lady. Besides, it is not certain whether he and this Lucy Gray actually had something between them. After all, she's a woman from the district.” your mom says this, smiling for the cameras.

The flashes blind you a little, but with your father's and mother's hands on your shoulders, you somehow manage to keep your pose, fake, pretty smile, and opened eyes.

Your father thanks them and leads you out of the room and into the corridor leading to the great hall where the ball was to be held.

"And even if he did, it's good that he had some fun. It will make him appreciate the treasure that you are and see that you are irreplaceable." he says, taking the box out of his pocket. He hands it to you with a warm smile. "Happy birthday, my treasure."

"We've already given her..." your father shushes your mother. You send them a confused look as you open the medium-sized box.

You find a tiara there. A small diamond tiara.

"It will match your dress perfectly." your father says proudly. You nod and walk to the mirror to put it on, despising the object in your hands with all your heart. You may look like a princess, but you've never felt so... disgusted with yourself before.

This feeling intensified even more when, after a toast and receiving wishes from several of your friends and more powerful families, you managed to sneak out to the balcony. Not long after you, all the single, young men of the richest family on the Capitol entered, with Coriolanus among them. They each took a cigarette and started smoking, gossiping about the events of the week…

And their topic of conversation was exactly what you were afraid of when you got that fucking tiara.

"Have you seen this? I bet they're pure diamonds. Old Y/L/N wants to marry her off so much that he's using every trick possible."

"He doesn't need to do much. She is beautiful in her own right. But this character… it's easier to train a dog than such a stubborn cow."

"What Snow? Are you now regretting that the Capitol's Diamond slipped from your hands? I heard she wants nothing to do with you. How unfortunate that it happened at the moment when you started to count in the eyes of the elite, and now you really have any chance of grabbing this precious gem for yourself."

The Capitol's Diamond. You shudder, thinking about the nickname you've been given.

That's what they called you. The sole heiress to your parents' fortune. Diamond of the Capitol, the best match in the city, with a dowry greater than any other woman. Anyone who won your hand was guaranteed to reach the top and success with your family's connections, your charm, beauty, and brain. And these vultures knew it perfectly well.

You were curious how the new Coriolanus would react.

Your Coryo only took advantage of your position in society when he had to. He didn't ask you for money or for you to convince your father to whisper a good word about him here and there. Maybe it was because of his pride; maybe he really didn't care. You have no idea. But Coryo despised that term as much as you did. You wondered if that had changed as well.

"I'm still in the game." he replies evasively, sipping his drink. The others laugh and he frowns in displeasure.

"Sure. Because the way she ran away from you today when you approached her with a gift says exactly that." they mock him. You see him clench his jaw, glaring at them coldly as he considers his next move.

"Enjoy it while you can. Your good mood will end when our cat-and-mouse game is over and the Capitol's Diamond hangs proudly on my shoulder." you huff, shaking your head in disbelief. You come out of hiding, and all the men on the balcony tense up and look at you in surprise.

Especially Coriolanus. Suddenly everyone is staring intently at the garden of your estate, too shy to look at you. Except Snow. He drills a hole into you with his gaze as he thinks of a way to undo what he said.

"Gentlemen." you scoff, walking past them and ignoring Coriolanus' glare. "For your information, I would rather live in one of the districts than marry any of you. Enjoy the party." you add sweetly, walking back to the ballroom.

The party is in full swing. You are talking to Thomas, using a sweet boy in a shameful way—to scare other men away from you. Just as you expected, they started flocking to you like flies to a fire.

So you chose the least spoiled of them. Thomas was nice and funny; you had a good time talking to him, and dancing with him was even better.

He wasn't rich; he wasn't part of the cream of society. You were really starting to enjoy spending time with him. And most importantly... he looked nothing like Coriolanus. He was nice for the eyes, but his dark hair, eyes, and sweet, shy personality made him drastically different from your ex. So he was the perfect break from your dramatic love life. Boring, nice change.

You danced to a waltz with him. He held you gently, close but respectful, not invading your personal space. He was a perfect gentleman. The man of your dreams.

If only Coriolanus' icy eyes weren't focused on both of you like a predator waiting for its prey to stumble, you would be able to enjoy Thomas' company to the fullest.

You are with him at the buffet, sipping drinks, when suddenly the last person you expected to meet here approaches you.

"Mrs. Plinth." you whisper in shock as he stands in front of you.

She looks—probably the way she feels. Nice on the outside and devastated on the inside. The dark circles under her eyes cannot be fully covered by makeup, and the deep black of her dress is a clear reminder of what she is still going through.

You can't imagine the pain he's going through right now. And you wonder why the woman decided to join her husband for your birthday party. Since Sejanus' death, she has rarely left their apartment.

"Y/N. Can I steal you from this young man for a moment?"

"Of course." you say, not even looking in Thomas' direction as you and Mrs. Plinth walk to one of the empty living rooms in your mansion. You close the door behind her and point to the couch. "Can I get you something to drink? Or to eat?"

"No. There is no need, darling. I just… I just came here to give you something." she says, pulling a thick letter out of her purse. "I… the letters from Sejanus are still reaching us. The flow of information between the districts and the Capitol is… very heavy and long. Especially when the peacekeepers are now checking every one of his correspondence. He sent it to you. Or rather, he wanted you to send it to him. Or rather, he wanted you to have it, just in case he couldn't… I'm sorry."

Your heart aches with sadness, seeing her on the verge of tears. She probably has no one to talk to about her son except her husband. After all, Sejanus was a traitor of Panem…

"He was a wonderful friend. The best one somebody could have. I could always count on him. Thank you for... taking the trouble to give me a letter from him. That... means a lot." you say, fighting the urge to hug the woman. The Capitol is not famous for acts of tenderness, mercy, or compassion. You had to keep up a facade. Always.

You take the letter from her and walk her to the exit. You give her one sympathetic look—everything you could afford in your position—and close the door behind her.

You sit on the couch and open the letter with trembling hands, trying not to look too closely at the way he wrote your name on the envelope. You know that will remind you of how you taught him how to decorate letters in his first days at the Capitol. Because everything here had to be perfectly beautiful. Even the fucking handwriting.

A bracelet falls out of the envelope and onto your lap. It is not particularly beautiful or sumptuous. It is a simple strap holding a peg-shaped pendant with some black, crushed stone placed behind a piece of glass.

You place it on the coffee table and open the letter with trembling hands. You already feel that after all this you will have to fix your makeup, which you will probably ruin with tears, but Sej's letter cannot wait until the end of the party.

Y/N, If you are somehow reading this letter, it means that I am not at your 20th birthday party, which makes me very sad. (You know how I love celebrating in your garden away from these Capitol's snobs.) Coming back, you know that I wish you all the best (along with Coryo. He's too big of a stick up his ass to write to you, even though he misses you and can't stop thinking about you. Take pity on me and write to this stubborn idiot, because I don't think I can stand another tirade about you and your perfection. Seriously. Our boy is getting mad because of this despair. I don't recognise him at all.) So, my dear friend, I wish you the best. I don't have any trinkets, interesting books, sweets, or anything suitable as a gift here, so I hope you'll be satisfied with what I came up with. I am not a poet, so don't laugh at me. I shall hear... or not. I made the bracelet, which you've probably already seen, myself. And that stone that is inside (and I hope it survived) is coal. I wanted to give this to you as a symbol of who you are to me. Everyone sees you as a diamond, something precious and beautiful. But for me and probably other people close to you, you are something more. This shiny diamond facade hides carbon. A simple coal, an ordinary soul like many others. But you made something more out of that ordinary coal. You are a diamond. Indestructible, the most durable of all. The purest form, preserved among the other gems and stones of the Capitol, because that's what all these power-hungry assholes are—coals that have decided not to change, to choose what is easy for them. I hope now you can see why I liked that nickname for you, diamond. So I hope you always stay true to yourself. No matter what. That's what I learned here, and I want to pass it on to you. Although I hope that by then the three of us will meet again in the Capitol. Do not wait for us both, Sejanus P.S. I miss you too.

You fold the letter and put it back in the envelope. You wipe away the tears that remain on your cheeks with your hands and take a few ragged breaths, trying to calm down.

You freeze when suddenly someone's arms wrap around you. The scent of roses hits your nostrils.

You get up from the couch like you've been burned and push Coriolanus' arms away from you. The feeling of sadness quickly turns to anger and pure fury as you stare at Snow.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you growl through a clenched jaw, extremely glad that there's a couch between you, or you'd hit him. And it was easier for you to explain your tears and smeared makeup than your red knuckles.

"Sweet, kind Plinth, giving you thoughtful gifts from beyond the grave. You love the dead Sejanus so much and ignore the living me. It must be hypocrisy on your part, don't you think? You accuse me of forgetting about Sejanus when you treat me so shamefully, worse than a dog. Should I die so that you can finally stop giving me the silent treatment and running away from me?"

"Believe me, you don't want to hear what I have to say to you." you huff, taking the bracelet and the letter. You hide them in the bodice of your dress and go to the mirror to fix your smudged makeup.

"You do not have to do that. Your boy isn't at the party anymore anyway." he says, standing so that you can see his reflection in the mirror.

"What?" you ask in surprise, turning to face him. You both stare at each other. In fact, you're only now getting a chance to take a good look at him. And you notice with dissatisfaction that the bastard found out from Tigris what your dress would look like, and he chose a suite so that both of you would match. "Where is Thomas?"

"Your little boy toy? Do you think he's enough of a distraction? That he can replace me? That he'll make you feel what I feel? Maby, that he can even protect you from me? Only I know you. I'm the only one worthy of your fucking attention and affection." you push past him, but he grabs your elbow.

"Touch me again and I'll cut off your hand and shove it down your throat." you growl, breaking away from his grip.

"Such aggression… I don't remember you from this side." he mocks you and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You step away from him and cross your arms, staring at him defiantly.

"I will ask you one last time. Where is Thomas?"

"Let's just say that your mother and I caught him stealing your jewelry. We were merciful enough to solve the matter quietly. You will never see that garbage on the ball or any gala again. Certainly not on yours."

"Were you the one who framed him for this?" his silence and the calculating, self-proud look of the cat that caught the canary (or, in this case, the snake that choked the mouse) tell you everything. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" you ask furiously.

You want to move past him, but he pushes you back, making you bump into the wall. He closes the gap between you in one step, pressing his chest against yours.

"You're mine. You've always been. You shouldn't lead this loser on or give him false hopes. We both know we will end up together."

"I broke up with you." you remind him, not caring about his intimidating attitude.

"A mistake I intend to fix." he says, leaning towards you.

His nose brushes against yours, and you shiver. You lift your leg, trying to kick him in the groyne, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees your sudden movement and grabs your thigh in a tight grip. If it weren't for the thick layers of material, he would probably leave bruises.

"You... you have nothing to fix. There is no longer us. I don't even know you anymore, Coriolanus."

"Don't." he growls at you angrily. You can see the desperation and madness in his eyes at the fact that you're using his name and that you wrote off your relationship. "It was always you. You were always mine, Y/N, and I was always your Coryo."

"Things are changing quickly. We are not the same, and now we have nothing in common, nothing to talk about."

"We have EVRYTHING to talk about. I still love.."

"DON'T!" you interrupt him. He freezes. You rarely shout, especially at him. That's why he takes a step back before putting on his impassive mask again. "Don't even say that. You have no idea what love is. Sure, you may feel attached and even desire me at some point, but you have no idea of unconditional, true love. So for old time's sake, leave me alone."

"What about you? Do you think you are so holy and blameless? That I'm the only bad guy? You lied to me. You promised you would stay with me, no matter what."

"I promised it to my Coryo. Not to you, Coriolanus. My Coryo died in District 12 with Sejanus—maybe even in the Hunger Games—when you let Dr. Gaul brainwash you in the name of fame, money, and position. You think that old hag didn't tell me why Sejanus is dead? That I don't know that your songbird has disappeared? That I would believe that Highbottom just got high or drank himself to death?" he clenches his jaw and fists at your words. You can see how furious he is, but he holds back, still controlling himself.

"Everything I did, I did for us. For you. For Tigris and Grandma." you laugh, wondering who he's trying to fool—himself, you, or both of you at the same time.

"No. You're doing it for yourself. Only for yourself, Coriolanus." he gets even more angry and pins you to the wall again. His cool blue eyes are raging with rage, and you try hard to push away the feeling of fear he has stirred in you.

"Do you want a reason to hate me? So you and Tigris can still gossip about my madness? Then maybe I should let this old man pursue her and sell her as a wife to one of them for good money."

"KEEP HER OUT OF IT! It's Tigris, Coriolanus! Tigris! The woman whose sacrifice you owe your entire fucking life to! A woman who went out of her way to give your ungrateful, selfish ass something to wear. Who sacrificed the love of her life in the name of maintaining the façade of Snow's wealth?! You can give a damn about me, Sejan, and even that little songbird of yours, but if you fucking ruin the life of your cousin—the only goddamn person who still cares about you—I promise you, in memory of OUR dead friend, that there won't be a fucking hole where you could hide from me."

You stare daggers at each other, both openly expressing your resentment towards the other. You have no idea why he still cares about you—is it because of your money, position, or some sick fantasy he has in his head, or maybe he actually still cares about you?

You don't think about it when a more important issue arises.

Suddenly, he grabs your face in both hands and pulls you towards him, greedily kissing you as he connects your lips after a very long time of separation. He caresses your lips with his and kisses you with such fervour as if he craves you like a hermit starving for water.

And for a moment, you feel like you were with Coryo, when all that mattered to you was the other one, when you could get lost in each other, forgetting about the rest of the world and the worries that were waiting for you.

And that's exactly what he's doing now. He makes you forget about anything but him.

You can't help but moan into his mouth as he presses his body against yours. When he releases his strong grip on your cheeks to grab you around your waist and press you against his body, his leg is between yours.

He kisses you more hungrily, groaning too at the familiar warmth of your body against him and the feeling of your soft, silky skin pressing against him. The scent of your perfume mixes, creating a perfect combination of roses and your favourite flowers. Your hands automatically go to his hair as you hold on to him and press him to you. You don't like the gel on your hands from his hair, but you ignore this new, irritating feeling by biting his lip.

You don't think at all. As well as Coriolanus. You both just kiss each other, your tongues joining, as you both let your desire for one another take control of the situation.

You only come to your senses when your lips break apart. You gasp, trying to breathe again, as he fucks your exposed collarbones with kisses. Your brain comes back to you as he leaves a hickey on your neck. He bites you, making you moan so needily that a wave of shame washes over you with his tongue, soothing the bite. You push him away from you and place your hand on your chest, trying to regain control over yourself.

"See? We belong together. There is no other way, Y/N. We are all we need."

"Bullshit." you gasp, trying to ignore the possessive, smug feeling blooming in your chest when you see his messy hair and your lipstick smeared on his lips. "Since you are that good in losing your memory, then forget about me too."

"I can't. I just can't. You think I haven't tried? That you don't haunt me every damn step I take? Everything I have and everything I know is saturated with you. With the memory of both of us. I forgot about what I had with that songbird and my friendship with Sejanus, but I simply CAN'T forget about you. I haven't spent a single damn day without thinking about you. NOT EVEN ONE. And I know you felt the same way. Do you know why I didn't kill that stupid boy who was clinging to you? Because I knew it would make you hate me even more. I was alone without you at 12, and you know how it ended. You are my conscience. Without you... there's nothing holding me back. Without you, there is nothing to distinguish me from the Hunger Games tributes. I have no borders, mercy, compassion, or anything that makes people human beings. And Gaul knows it. That's why she told you all of my crimes; that's why you're paranoid now that I'm someone completely different. But it's still me. I. Am. Still. Your. Coryo." he says it firmly, taking a step closer to you with each word.

"Don't turn me into a fucking cricket for your Pinocchio. I am not, and I do not want to be your conscience. I will not take part in your lies, games, and manipulations." you say as you both stare at each other, neither of you wanting to concede to the other in any way.

"I will have you. One way or another, but I will. Even if it is the last thing I do, I will have you by my side. Just where you always belonged. I promised you to be my First Lady. And I intend to keep that promise."

"You must become president first. And believe me, I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. Maybe you can't forget about me. But I can. I do not need you. I never needed you. How ironic to be able to lose the memories of everyone except the girl who will be the end of you, isn't it, CORIOLANUS?" you mock him, a smirk on your lips, making him a promise.

You walk past him, and this time he lets you go, knowing full well that he won't do anything more with you today. At least he got his kiss and a little taste of you, a reminder of the reward that awaits him when everything finally falls into place. When he finally has you in his arms and is at the top of Panem—his rightful place.

"The game has just begun!" he shouts after you, staring at you as you head towards the bathroom to touch up your ruined makeup. It gives you satisfaction to think that this bastard will probably have to clean himself up after your little make-out session, too.

You think that maybe Gaul was right about the Hunger Games being the whole world. But the reality was that there could only be ONE winner.

And among the people of the Capitol, only you and Coriolanus had a real chance of winning. It has always been like that. And even lost memories that do not want to go away so easily are proof of this.

Part 2

[robo-writing]

Hello!! I came from your single mom one shot and I am in love with how you write Logan. Could we have a worst!Logan and wife!reader at a bar and he’s getting hit on relentlessly by a girl who won’t take the hint even though he has stated that he is happily married MULTIPLE TIMES and then reader comes in and rips the girl a new asshole and Logan likes it a little too much and practically drags her home to fuck because of how hot he got from her getting angry and defending him?

How very Beth Dutton of you op! The girl that stands in front of him flashes him a smile—pearly whites, black hair that reaches down to her back, topped off with a low-cut shirt and a pair of jeans that draw the eye of everyone behind the bar—everyone except him that is.

He knows what she wants from him before she can utter a single word, eyes shamelessly moving across his body with not a hint of subtlety. A few years earlier and it might've worked, she's cute enough. A vixen, all doe-eyed and determined, if he was a younger man she might've been his type. But that's all in the past; she's cute, Logan thinks to himself, but she's not his wife. His eyes don't move from where you're standing at the bar, barely giving the girl more than a passing glance as she speaks. "Hey there, mind if I keep you company?" He almost rolls his eyes, but he keeps himself in check in hopes that he can resolve this without any trouble.

"I do unfortunately," he says, flashing the pretty gold band around his finger as he takes another swig of his beer. His fingers play with the ring around his finger, smiling to himself like a love-struck fool when he remembers what it symbolizes. He'd hope that would be the end of it, but unfortunately for him, it is.

The gal's either too drunk or too pig-headed to get the hint, so instead of backing away she leans in real close, too damn close—close enough that it starts to draw your attention from across the bar.

Suddenly your interest isn't in your drink anymore, and before you can walk closer Logan puts his hands up, mouths out lemme handle this, before speaking up again. "Listen, I'm a taken man." He says with a sigh, giving her his full attention. It doesn't deter her in the slightest, a coy smile tugging on the ends of her lips. "That's a shame. Your wife know you're here?" "She does," he nods with a smile, "and she's right over there." He points right to you, where you raise your glass with a thin-lipped smile, sarcasm evident in your body language. He can tell you're in a good mood tonight because you haven't dragged the girl by the hair yet, and he'd rather not ruin the night because she can't take a hint. Surely, she'll leave—except she doesn't. No, she does the exact opposite; she looks back and sees you, laser-focused on the two of them, and with all the audacity in the world, she fucking smiles back. You almost shatter the damn glass in your hand. "Oh, that's alright," she whispers with a wink. "Lemme go talk to her." His eyebrow damn near reaches his hairline, looking at the young girl as if she's truly lost her damn mind. Normally he wouldn't give a damn if someone wants to catch their death, but he takes pity on her for the sole reason that he really doesn't want to get kicked out. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Don't worry," she says, and to put the icing on the cake she puts her hand on his chest, loops her fingers around his dog tags and tugs him down. "I can handle myself." With that one gesture he knows she's just sealed her fate. No, you can't, he wants to say, but she's already making her way across the bar where you stand, looking like hell itself. You know he doesn't have eyes for anyone else but you, but it doesn't matter—someone else touched what's yours, so you have to remind Logan where home is. He's not really sure if he should feel happy that his girl is so protective of him, or sad that he's about to get kicked out of his favorite bar. Logan sighs and puts his beer down, reaching into his pocket and dialing 9-1-1 just as the telltale sound of glass shattering echoes across the bar. It really is a shame—he liked this bar too. The only good thing that comes from tonight—minus the visual of you with blood across your face—is the jaw-dropping sex that ensues the moment the two of you get home, remnants of rage seeping through every touch as you drag him upstairs by the collar. He's more than happy to let you take the lead, content in being your personal scapegoat if it means he gets to see you bounce on his lap like a woman possessed.

Lips intertwined, clothes askew and hair tousled. The taste of iron—a split lip, he remembers—then moans into your mouth when he remembers how you got it. Is it wrong to say you look your most beautiful when you're mad? He doesn't give a shit if it is, especially if his punishment is your pussy gripping him like a vice. He likes you like this—jealous, protective—it's what drew him to you in the first place, how you bite down on what's your and refuse to let go. From the moment you saw him you staked your claim and he was more than happy to follow you for the ride. "You like it when she touched you?" You mutter, lips pressed against his as you ride him for all your worth. Sweat beads off his brow, eyes closed in bliss, he nods his head no but it's not enough—you want to hear him say it. You teeth dig into the skin of his shoulder, a delicious groan erupting from him as you repeat yourself. "Answer me Lo, did you fucking like it?" "No, no—" he gasps, hands wandering across your body. "Wasn't even looking at her, swear to god—" "And who were you looking at?" you ask, and the answer makes your walls flutter across his cock. He lets you hear him loud and clear, giving you a lop-sided grin as he thrusts up into you.

"You, sweetheart, only you." "Louder," you moan, scratching at the expanse of his back, encouraging him. He repeats himself, fucking into your gushing cunt, his words bringing you to a new high with every thrust. His words are long, drawn out, caught in his throat as he struggles between speaking and catching his breath. "Only got eyes for you baby—fuckin' christ—" He speaks long after you've stopped, so engrossed in pleasure you can barely hear anything beyond your ringing ears and the slap of your ass against his thighs. "All yours baby, all fuckin' yours."

[jawbone-xylophone]

Okay time to be really opinionated: I think almost the entire TMA fandom writes Michael Distortion wrong.

Every time I read a fic about him people are emphasizing how swirly and elongated he/it is.

What's scary about Michael is that it is essentially the living personification of gaslighting. He makes everything else metaphorically swirly.

Sure there's "nobody would believe you", but most people who meet Michael think he looks angelic. He only looks scary out of the corner of your eye, or if he's feeding you just enough truth to get your guard down. He's fun to draw and describe as a psychedelic nightmare, but he is basically the gaslighting demon. It's a polite young man with curly hair and a beautiful smile who you could absolutely take home to meet your mother.

You only know he's a monster because your lizard brain starts screaming.

On a related note, its portfolio also includes dissociation and hallucinations, and nobody takes enough advantage of that– like, kissing Michael. Lots of people describe kissing Michael as a very physical event with notes of static and that tingling sensation of limbs falling asleep. A good start, but my argument: you feel him smooching your cheek and giving your hand a cute little squeeze, despite the fact that he's across the room ordering a coffee. It feels so real. You can feel his callouses catching at your fingers, but no matter how you flex your hand there's nothing there but air. You don't know if you just want it that badly and your eyes are lying, or what. He brings you a coffee and the sensation vanishes.

I know exactly what that episode about "the man who wasn't there" was because I've experienced it, and nobody utilizes that enough. Have you ever closed your eyes and tried to walk through a room, and been Firmly Convinced there was an object in front of you you were about to run into, despite no evidence of such an object when you open your eyes? It's a little like that. Any sort of relationship with Michael Distortion (not recommended and likely a way it has killed many people) would involve you getting comfortable with the fact that your senses are lying to you at an exponentially increasing rate, like a frog slowly being boiled alive.

Is he there? Is he not? Does it matter? You feel loved. You remember being told good morning and eating a homemade breakfast. Did you actually? Maybe it's a memory from a year ago you only think is from this morning. He's adorable even if his laugh gives you tinnitus. Maybe you've always had migraines. He takes care of you through them. Can you remember what he does to take care of you? ....normal people stuff, probably. Ice packs. You think he brought you ice packs once. You're sitting at a bus stop, going... somewhere, for a reason you're sure, and your body is telling you you're sitting on his lap but you keep checking, tapping with your nails, and the seat is hard metal. Does it matter? Maybe it really is him. You'd prefer if it was him. These cute little hallucinations are his way of showing affection. It's comfortable, even when the city shuts off your water because you only thought you paid your bills. He gives you his coat in the rain, and you laugh together and run through the weather, but when you get home you're holding a stranger's purse full of cash instead of a coat and you have no idea why. It's his idea of affection, though. He says he loves you when you ask about it, anyway, and don't you need the money now?

He's a lovely young man and the only normal thing in a world gone mad. The gloves only come off when it's done playing with its food.

[baby-tini]

Imagine Dabi kidnaps you and he's actually really sweet. Besides the kidnapping, he could be actual boyfriend/husband material. Like he hasn't hurt you physically and it kind of fucks with your head a bit. He provides everything you need to live plus more. And you don't have to worry about surviving anymore. Since you were kidnapped dare you say more relaxed than ever. So, you put up with it and eventually develop Stockholm syndrome fr.

I don't think this was a request BUT I genuinely can't stop thinking about this, I love when he's so soft.

You despised him at first when he took you away, but it got better, Dabi told you it would. He told you that if you behaved that he would take care of you, treat you like a princess. Dabi truly loved you, he just wanted you to understand that and he would do anything to make you understand. It took a little while with punishments here and there but it worked. When he came home, you were there to greet him with open arms. Telling him how much you missed him, kissing him, nuzzling into his chest. Dabi could truly say, that for once in his life he truly felt happy, at peace... like he finally was enough for someone.

It felt.. nice, to be around Dabi, he was comforting in a way. Brushed your hair for you, braided it, let you sit with him on the balcony as he smoked. It was nice to just sit and talk about things with him, smelling the mid-night air as you leaned against his chest. He smelled nice, the smell of cigarettes now becoming a comfort, the sick smell of ash that had you wrinkling your nose now had you clinging to him, shoving your nose into his jacket. Dabi truly became someone of comfort for you, holding you close on cold nights. Kissing your head when the thunder sounded too loud on some nights.

You don't remember falling asleep, but then again, no one does. His side of the bed was warm though, so that had too mean he was home now, throwing the comforter off you go looking for him, and sure enough, he was out on the balcony, smoking. He truly looked ethereal, his eyes relaxed, shining a beautiful cerulean, head thrown back, dyed black hair a little tousled from scarred hands running through it. Dabi truly is a sight to behold.

Opening the sliding door, he looks up at you as you step out, closing it behind you so that bugs don't get it. He wraps an arm around you as you walk towards him, plopping down into his lap as blows the smoke away from you. "How you feeling doll, you sleep good?" There's a nod from you as you bury your face into his chest, inhaling that sweet smell of ash you've come to adore so much. The smell always makes you think of him, an automatic comfort it brings you is a stress-relief.

"How was work," you ask him softly, running your hands through his hair. He inhales through his nose before sighing, "It was fine, tiring, but fine." You can tell, he sounds exhausted, looks exhausted too. You kiss him, running your hands up and down the nape of his neck, he shudders at that, pecking your cheek. His right hand running up and down your back, drawing little patterns every now and again.

"...can I hit it," he glances at you, then looks at the cigarette, the tip burning a bright blue. He hums at you, holding it to your lips as you inhale the smoke. Holding it for a couple seconds, you blow it out away from his face. He pushes some of your hair behind you ear, mouthing at your neck. "You feel better pretty girl, hm?" His voice is always a welcome, low and deep, sounding so apathetically pretty.

"Yeah, thank you," he hums again, kissing at your collar bone as he runs a hand through your hair. He kisses your cheek before giving a couple pats to your ass, "come on, up, I'm tired doll, lets head in."

[shinsocest]

No. 005

notes: I don't remember this being so slimy but I love it. Anyways wish me luck at work tonight. It's my first time being in charge without the general manager breathing down my neck 💀

warnings: Size kink, degradation, praise, breeding, oral (both), voice kink, overstim, body worship

“I said no.”

You spit the words from your mouth angrily as you glare at the man you just shoved. The bass of the club thrums heavily in your chest, mimicking the heavy thud of your heart as he looks at his alcohol strewn shirt and returns your glare.

He’s been haranguing you all night. Awful one liners that he had to have thought up with his dick, and trying to buy you drinks. You’ve been polite, declining his advances one after another just trying to enjoy the night out with your friends, but now he’s crossed the line.

Your friends had excused themselves from the dancefloor to get more drinks, but before you could follow them he’d slid up behind you and put his arms around your waist. The unwanted touch had been enough to make your skin crawl.

You try to maintain your glare as he towers over you, but there’s a flutter of unease in your chest when he grabs your arm. His expression is taut, annoyed. “Don’t be a bitch. Just tryin’ to have a good time.”

“Let go.” You glance around warily, a familiar bitterness and panic sparking at the lack of attention this is receiving from nearby clubbers. Of course.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder.

“Just take it easy.” His purred tone makes your face twist up in disgust.

You’re preparing to throw the elbow of a lifetime when he suddenly splutters beside you, and is yanked from your side.

"Think you're looking for a good time in the wrong place."

Your head snaps up to see a tall, dark-haired man with your assailant's arm in a vice grip. He's covered in purplish scars that react strangely to the flashing red, blue, and greens of the club lights.

His eyes seem to pierce right through you as he spares you a glance, before he winks and turns his attention away. You stare; his eyes are so shockingly blue.

"What the hell, fuck off man." The other man struggles, but you watch him stiffen as the newcomer grips him tighter and whispers something in his ear.

His face pales, looking stricken, and he stumbles back as the newcomer throws him forward. He pushes through the crowd of people without looking back, ignoring their exclamations of irritation.

The newcomer watches him go, and you take a moment to just look him over. He doesn't exactly look like all the other clubbers. He's in a high collared, long black overcoat that's seen better days, black jeans and loose white t-shirt. But he doesn't seem out of place either; it's like he belongs here.

You don't realize you're staring until he turns to peer at you, and you look down, a sudden wave of self consciousness washing over you.

"Uh, thanks. Thank you," you manage after a moment, peeking up to see him giving you an amused look.

He gets closer, a grin widening across his cheeks. It looks uncomfortable to you, pulling at the staples holding his skin together. He speaks loudly, combating the music. "What was that? Can't hear you, babydoll."

You raise your voice as he steps closer, ready to repeat yourself, but your mind switches tracks. Despite his scars, you can’t deny that he’s incredibly handsome in his own way. You’re entranced by his roguish smile. "Dance with me."

Sapphire eyes gleam approvingly as his fingers close around your waist. He tugs you closer, guiding you to grind back on him in time with the pounding music.

You can hear him much clearer low, a low throaty rasp in your ear.

"Been watching you all night, little mouse. You sure do know how to tell a guy no. Can we have a little fun? Or are you gonna tell me no too?"

His words bring a shudder up your spine. There’s just something about him that draws you in. He feels wild, and dangerous, and you want to be swept up in it. Even if it’s just for a night.

Before you can answer, you can hear your friends calling your name. He peers over your head at the trio of girls standing a few feet away, all of them looking at you expectantly.

You look at them, giving them a reassuring look. “I’ll catch up with you guys, okay?”

Your best friend glances at him then at you, a knowing smile on her face as she tugs the other two back towards the bar.

Once they’re gone you lean your head back into his shoulder, pressing your hips back against him more firmly, letting him feel your agreement.

He makes an approving sound in his throat. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Name's Dabi by the way, babydoll.”

The way his voice is warm and hot in your ear makes it that much easier to melt into him, silencing any nerves as his long fingers toy with the hem of the dress you wore out tonight.

It’s painstaking how he inches the already enticingly short hem up your legs as you sway to the music. You can feel the telltale bulge against your ass as he hooks his chin over your shoulder, his fingers kneading the flesh of your exposed thighs. At this rate, if anyone nearby were to look too close, the lacy front of your panties would be clear to see.

Normally you would be an anxious wreck at the thought, but with his tall form pressed right up behind you practically molded to your backside, and his arms wrapped around your waist—you can’t even think beyond the sparks of anticipation. Your body feels moments away from igniting.

You feel more than hear Dabi’s approving moan as he slips a couple fingers between the apex of your thighs, pressing the rapidly dampening fabric deeper into your slit. “Shit, you’re soaked.”

His teeth meet your ear. “Let’s take this somewhere else.”

Dabi pulls you off the dancefloor, towards one of the dark hallways that leads off towards the bathrooms.

Your squeal gets cut off as he presses you against the wall, his lips on yours. He kisses fiercely, his tongue insistently bullying past your lips, but the way he drags his hands down your body is almost reverant, palming at your tits, smoothing them down your hips like he wants to rip your dress from your body to get what’s beneath it.

Then he breaks off, leaving you both panting as he retreats to the other wall, beckoning you towards him.

“On your knees, little mouse. I wanna see what else you can do.”

He’s undoing his jeans, and that little tingle runs up your spine, a strange rush to earn his approval.

You delicately settle on your knees as he pulls his cock out, and don’t hesitate to reach for it, closing your hand around the girthy shaft, your lips already pressed to the dripping, pink tip.

“Open up, there you go,” Dabi groans as you close your lips around him, swirling your tongue around the sensitive glands on the underside of his cock.

After that you stop thinking, letting yourself feel the way he pulses on your tongue as you hollow your cheeks, the salty taste of his precum almost getting lost in the way you are shameless salivating over his cock.

The ring of a cellphone, heavily muted by the club music, hits your ears.

"Keep going, babydoll—don't you stop," Dabi hisses out, fishing his phone out of his pocket with a growl, glancing at the dimly glowing screen. "Shit."

He bites out a low curse as you swallow around him, fingers fumbling to answer the call. "Shigaraki, kinda busy."

You look up through teary eyes as you bob on his pulsing length. That name sounds almost familiar, but you're far too focused on the task at hand to spare it another thought. A moan sounds in your throat as he tangles his fingers in your hair, forcing you deeper.

"Look I know what I'm—fuck—fucking here to do, okay? I'll get your man. Hngh—he's ashes, I promise."

Dabi listens for a moment, breathing hard as he stares down at the way his cock disappears and reappears from your mouth. Then he scoffs, voice shaking under the strain of swallowing another moan. "Fuck off, I'll do what I want in my free time. Gotta go, slut’s really good."

You whine as he hangs up and pulls you off of him.

"Quiet, babydoll, gotta return the favor before I forget and fuck you stupid," Dabi drawls, shoving his phone in his pocket and yanking you to your feet.

Dabi’s head swivels before he pulls you into a nearby bathroom. His touches are fervent as he paws at your body, his lips sloppy against yours as he pushes you up on the counter. He urges you up onto the marble, peeling the bottom half of your dress up; the countertop is cool against your flushed skin.

His palms are hot as they spread your thighs, opening a space for him to kneel between them. Dabi peers up at you through his lashes with a devilish look in his eyes before dragging his tongue over your pantyclad pussy. “These are cute.”

The casual comment makes your face burn, turning your face as he chuckles.

“Kind of in the way though.”

You squeak, eyes snapping down at the sudden feel of heat, to see him holding the singed fabric between his fingers. You really liked that pair. Before you could complain however, Dabi’s tongue slips between your folds. You gasp at the warmth of him, your eyelashes fluttering when he hums, and flicks his tongue over your clit.

“Just don’t be too loud, you know.”

You fucking know that, but you have never had to remind yourself to not moan so freely than now—the way his tongue disappears into your cunt, so slick and warm and agile. Either his tongue is way too fucking long, or he has found some magical angle that makes your thighs quiver, but between that and the way his nose nudges at your clit repeatedly, you feel yourself racing towards an orgasm.

He’s relentless, messy; your juices spilling down his chin. For once, you are getting as good as you gave. You bite back a moan as the knot in your stomach twists, threatening to snap.

Then Dabi pulls back.

“Should I let you cum now?” He sounds so condescending, contemplative as he toys with your clit, eyes glowing at the way you shake desperately under his touch. “I mean you haven’t made me cum, I’m not sure you deserve it.”

“Dabi, please—please, hah, please I need it.”

Your voice is shaky at best, words broken by panting as he drags the flat of his tongue over your dripping hole just once with a lazy precision, before resting his head against your thigh. His nonchalant grin doesn’t change as he keeps drawing featherlight shapes on your throbbing bud, so you desperately try again, trying to convince him.

“Someone m-might see, please.”

“Oh?” Dabi’s grin sharpens. “Well in that case.”

You cry out in loss as he stands, abandoning your clit. Your body aches at the denial, and Dabi chuckles at the broken-hearted pout on your face.

“Poor slut, look at you. But you said someone might see, so we need to hurry this up, right?” Your eyes instinctively flash down as he adjusts his jeans further down his thighs, stroking his cock. It looks especially pink and pretty in his hold, contrasting with the purplish skin on the back of his hand. “I didn’t even lock the door. So you want it or not?”

“Yes,” you breathe, captivated as he thumbs over the slit of his cock, spreading his precum down the shaft.

“Get over here then, babydoll.”

You don’t need to be told twice, easing off the counter and into his arms, where he smirks and allows a quick, sloppy swap of tongue before he spins you around and places your palms against the mirror on the wall.

It’s a little embarrassing, seeing for the first time how taken apart you look. Your makeup is smudged and running, your dress hiked up your hips, and your eyes are misty and desperate looking. As you meet his eyes in the mirror, it’s obvious that he sees all the same things you do, and revels in it.

Dabi smirks as he puts his hands on your hips, forcing them to jut out as he slots himself behind you. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it? How ruined you look when I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You jolt as he taps his length against your inner thigh, sliding leisurely through your folds. “I asked you a question, doll.”

“Y-yes…”

“Yes, what?” Dabi coos, the thick mushroom tip catching on your clit now, making you mewl.

“I look like a pathetic slut,” you whine, arching your hips into his touch, desperate to feel him inside you.

“Very good,” Dabi rasps, the head of his cock catching on your eager hole. With a low moan he pushes in. “That deserves a reward.”

Your fingers bend against the glass as he thrusts home, the force of it threatening your balance. The intrusion is sudden, but your slick walls are accommodating, throbbing and ready to take as much as he’ll give you.

Every time Dabi drives into you, his cock slides against that stiff patch of nerves that makes moan after moan tumble from your lips. It doesn’t take long for that rolling wave of pleasure to begin cresting in you again, especially when he pulls the top of your dress down, groping at your tits as they spill out.

Your arms shake with the effort to keep yourself upright for the both of you as he rolls both of your tits between his fingers, pulling on them. As the tension pulls tight and snaps, your arms fail.

Dabi’s pace stutters as you fall against the mirror, your pussy spasming and creaming on his length, but after a quick adjustment, he returns to that hard and agonizingly steady tempo.

“Aw, babydoll, did you just cum? Poor thing, just from that?” Sympathy drips from his tongue as you whimper and nod—smudging the glass in the process—but when his thrusts get harder, you know it doesn’t run that deep. “Well I’m not quite done with this pussy yet, so just hang on for me.”

“Ah, ah, fuck!”

Your eyes go glassy as he continues to drill into you, your walls hot and sensitive, quivering in a way that would be embarrassing if you could think beyond how painfully good his cock feels.

“Fuck, squeeze me like that again. Gonna make me cum right in this pussy.”

Your whole body ripples at his words, causing Dabi to chuckle breathlessly. “Wait, did you like that? Hmm? Little slut, you really want to be knocked up by a guy you don’t even know?”

You look over your shoulder, your eyes teary, expression so fucked out as you nod at him that Dabi stiffens, his release suddenly much closer than it had been. “Damn.”

You fall into bliss so suddenly your moan is loud and unfiltered, rocketing off the bathroom walls and snapping the coil in his gut so fast that he snarls as his release takes hold of him.

“Oh fuck, babydoll, fine. You want me to stuff a brat in you? Then take it, take it—oh f-fuck, there you go, all for you, doll.”

His groan rumbles against your back as he presses you hard against the glass, his cock throbbing as he empties himself into your cunt.

Dabi leans into you heavily, relaxing against your body as the fading spasms of your pussy milk whatever he has left, before sighing and pulling out. With nothing to stop it, his cum spills out down your thighs.

You moan as you feel his fingers pushing his spilt cum back up into you.

“When you see those two lines, just come back here and ask around for me. I’ll find ya, doll.”

[startanewdream]

I've always wanted to write a scene of mutual agreement and support (friendship is a strong word) between Ginny and Romilda Vane, so here's around 1600 words of something that might have happened during Year 7.

*****

They wait until after dinner to round on her.

Ginny is mildly surprised; she'd guessed they would question her as soon as she got off the train, but perhaps they thought that Snape's speech—not the Headmaster's, she'd never consider him so—might terrify her enough to make her betray everything she has ever believed on. If so, they were very mistaken; seeing Snape in the middle of the staff table, with Death Eaters by his side, only infused her Gryffindor spirit.

"Weasley," calls Alecto Carrow. She has a mind to pretend to ignore her, but the mass of students climbing the stairs seems to freeze with that call, and Ginny has no choice but to answer it, all eyes on her as she walks to Alecto Carrow.

"Yes, Professor." She puts as much spite in that word as she can. Neville and Luna suddenly materialize next to her, and Ginny almost wishes they would stay away, as if there is any protection to be found this year.

Alecto looks her up and down. "That's it?" Her voice is mocking. "That's Potter's girlfriend?"

By her side, Crabble and Goyle nod; their gazes are not as unappreciative as Alecto's. With a shudder, Ginny thinks she will favour disdain any day.

"I thought Potter had better taste."

She buries her nails into her palm. Don't answer, she tells herself, and tries to keep a look of disinterest.

"Where is your boyfriend?"

Her rehearsed answer comes in a bored tone. "I would know if I had any." It feels more than ever that everyone is staring at her.

Alecto doesn't seem convinced, nor do her cronies.

"They were dating," says Goyle, in a whisper that everyone can hear. "Everyone saw it, they were snogging all around the place."

"It's what happens when you are dating someone," snaps Ginny. "We've broken up." She hesitates for a tiny beat. "He dumped me."

This time her rehearsed line doesn't sound credible, despite being the truth. Everyone's gaze seems to burn, evaluating her answer, and, for a moment, Ginny waits for someone to question this, to raise the absurdity of her words: they were in love. As Goyle had noted, anyone could see how they felt about each other; Harry had been beaming the whole time they were together, all those few weeks of sunshine and happiness and hope. Harry wouldn't just dump her—

And then Alecto Carrow laughs.

"I guess Potter already got what he was after, then?" She mocks. "Blood traitors aren't a good value if..."

"Perhaps the girl is lying," another voice pops in, and Ginny turns to see Amycus Carrow joining his sister. His gaze upon her makes Ginny shiver; she remembers all too well duelling him. "Perhaps she knows more than she's letting on—"

"I wouldn't think so," Luna says, her voice as dreaming as ever. "If she knew, she wouldn't be here."

"Harry always kept his secrets," Neville adds, crossing his arms.

Amycus and Alecto share a look before Amycus takes a step forward.

"I will be the judge of that. If we have Potter's precious girlfriend—"

"I am not even his girlfriend anymore!"

It doesn't seem to matter, though. Terror floods her, not so much for herself; there isn't anything that she can share with them, but if somehow Harry finds out that they've got her—their breakup will be for nothing—he is too stupid and too noble to do something reckless—

Amycus grabs her arm; Ginny dives her hand into her pocket, but before she can take out her wand, many things happen. Professor McGonagall appears, Neville points his wand at Amycus, and Romilda Vane laughs nervously.

"Please," she says. "Weasley was his girlfriend, so what?”

That makes everyone draw their eyes to her. Romilda tosses her hair out of her face, seemingly enjoying the attention, but Ginny can see a thin layer of sweat breaking through the girl's careful makeup.

"Harry was always smiling at me, flirting unashamedly, even when he was dating her. I wasn’t the only one either. Everyone knew he wasn't good business. A ladies' man, that one."

Ginny blinks; she is not alone. The year before, when Harry was at the height of his popularity at Hogwarts, everyone's favourite Chosen One, he had drawn many eyes. Ginny had found it bothersome, but she could understand what everyone was seeing: that gorgeous young man with messy dark hair and green eyes, tall and fit, with the added benefit of seeming oblivious to his own charm, almost shy. It had been endearing.

That also was one of the reasons why, when Harry and Ginny started dating, everyone wanted to talk about it. It had been huge news for Hogwarts' standard.

There was no way anyone would believe that Romilda was telling the truth.

"Potter never had any other girlfriend," Crabbe mumbles.

Romilda laughs derisively. "I wasn't his girlfriend, haven't you heard what I just said? He just liked to flirt." She nudges her friend. "Do you remember, Lisa? I told you Harry never took his eyes off me."

Lisa looks terrified, but she nods. "Yes," she confirms in a small voice. "And you—you shared chocolate once."

"Harry dated Cho," someone from the Ravenclaw crowd says, and there's a murmur of agreement.

"I went with Harry to a Christmas party last year," notes Luna. She skips the part where they went as friends.

"I think I saw him snogging a girl behind the greenhouses," Hannah Abbott says.

At her side, a boy nods. "I saw something in the library once."

People start adding comments, their voices mingling in a cacophony. The weirdest part is that Ginny knows no one is lying; people are telling about the times they saw Harry with a girl — only she was this girl, this only girl, but no one specifies that.

"Quiet, quiet!" Alecto sounds annoyed. She looks at Crabbe and Goyle. "Is this true?"

They shrug, lost.

"I saw Potter with Chang at Madam Puddifoot's," Pansy Parkinson confirms, distasteful. "And he went with Loony Lovegood to Slughorn's party."

"That would be Professor Slughorn, Miss Parkinson," chides Professor McGonagall, taking a definite step ahead and placing herself between the Carrows and Ginny. She raises her arm and, almost without a second glance, lowers Neville's still extended arm. "I do not see why a student's romantic life is under scrutiny at this hour of the night, especially a student who is not even here at the moment, but the others have class tomorrow morning."

"This is more important than classes," Amycus spats.

"I remind you this is still a school," Professor McGonagall says coldly.

Amycus' answer is cut by a bored voice. "What is this?" Snape walks, easily opening his way between the students gathered at the door.

"We are trying to interrogate the Weasley girl," Alecto says. "To find out the whereabouts of Potter. She was his girlfriend."

Snape rolls his eyes. "You heard the others. Potter was a lover-boy; that is not surprising considering how his father behaved with his fans." He regards Ginny coldly. "Weasley is not special. I doubted Potter ever shared anything more than a snog with her."

There's an underlying truth in his words that stung her, but before she can react, Snape is already addressing Professor McGonagall.

"Take your students to bed, Minerva. It would not be advisable to be out of the bed at this hour."

Professor McGonagall, who had been frowning at Snape as if trying to figure out something, bristles; there's nothing but repulse in her eyes as she nods.

"Of course, Severus." She turns to Ginny and the others. "Go to the Common Room, now."

And she casts a warning glance at Ginny, who runs to meddle between the other Gryffindor students climbing up the stairs. Her heart doesn't stop beating painfully until she enters the Common Room, and only then she looks back; the Carrows aren't in sight. She doubts this is the last time they will try to question her, but for now, she can breathe easily and give Neville a feeble smile when he looks at her.

"We will watch your back," he whispers.

"It will be fine," she says, with a confidence she doesn't feel. Nothing about her experience at Hogwarts so far gives her any faith that things will turn out well.

And then she catches a mop of black hair.

"Romilda," she calls. Romilda pauses on her way to the stairs.

"Yeah?"

Ginny waits until they are alone to whisper: "Thank you."

Romilda nods. There’s a moment of silence, during which Romilda eyes the stairs as if considering fleeing the scene before she asks: "Did he really break up with you?"

Ginny gulps. "Yeah."

"Oh, I thought—"

"No, it was true."

She waits for some remark; Romilda was truly determined to get Harry the year before, and she had pestered Ginny when she was dating Harry.

"He never actually flirted with me," Romilda says in a rushed whisper. "And you were special to him, I—I spent a lot of time watching him and trying to get his attention, but he never glanced at me... because he was too busy ogling at you."

Warmth spreads inside Ginny; she cannot help her smile. "Harry didn't ogle."

"Yes, all the time. He had it hard for you. Still has, I'd bet." Romilda smiles awkwardly. "Not very womanizer of him."

Ginny's eyes wide. "About that—if anyone finds out that you were exaggerating—"

"I'll talk to my friends. No one is going to say anything."

"I know. I trust you." They look at each other; it suddenly occurs to Ginny that Romilda has no idea, not really, of what could happen if anyone suspects her lie. Romilda never faced a Death Eater. Ginny hopes she never does. "It will be fine."

It's the same thing she told Neville before, but now there's a promise in her voice.

Romilda nods one last time. "Night, Ginny."

"Night, Romilda."

[nicoliharu]

Good morning! First time interacting with this blog. I was wondering of you have any Headcanons for Idia Shroud?? Like, if you draw him, do you have anything you always include in the design or leave out? By the way, LOVED seeing your Ruggie Bucchi design.

Hi dear! WELCOME! 🥺💗💗💗

I'm glad you liked my Ruggie Bucchi design, it was very simple but I don't have very elaborate headcanons, the same goes for Idia, I would just change the values a little, I think he's very vibrant/clear? I don't know how to express myself correctly about this in English.

⚠️ My headcanons Idia Shroud:

I don't know what it's like for everyone, but I wanted his pale skin to be a little darker to make the shine in his hair more evident. It's been 3 years since I drew Idia and I looked at my old drawings to understand what I liked to do when I was his stan… Yes, that was real 🤡

💀 Slightly ''pointy'' ears: I like this little distortion, I didn't make it obvious in the drawing, but it's not like Malleus and Lilia's ears for example, it would be extremely subtle. I know Hades is a God but let me imagine Idia's ears are slightly ''pointed''. 💀 Marked pigmented dark circles: Let's take into account that Idia hasn't been well since he was a child and I imagine how he must have problems with insomnia and hyperfocus without rest. Then I see him with obvious circles under his eyes from tiredness. 💀 Bitten nails: He has anxiety, I put my hand on his head during a bad game to confirm this, so one of his habits is biting his nails. 💀 Mouth/teeth: For me, his lips are also injured due to the habit of biting them during a crisis, stress, or discomfort. It's not a detail that is also in the drawing but I imagine like this. 💀 Hair: In the official art it would be straight with the movement of the flames? but since 2021 I noticed that I like to think his hair is flaming wavy. He doesn't take care of it properly, so loose, tied up, and tied however he likes it is fine. 💀 About the earring: This is personal for me but I don't think Idia cares about accessories to the point of piercing and wearing it but I like to think that Ortho gives him some clip-on accessories, earrings, piercings, and necklaces, he will use them if Ortho insist a lot. 💀 Body: Bad posture, I don’t need to explain why, right? It's not because he's intelligent, skilled, and rich that he'll remember to be straight enough 24 hours a day to not ruin his own spine. I bet your posture is also wrong, straighten up!

Forgive me for the grammar mistakes, I hope I managed to express myself correctly. My headcanons for Idia are simple and more behavioral, I personally really like his design and would change small things if I drew him very often. But who knows, maybe in the future I will change more? I guess that's the fun of headcanons 💗💗💗

Thank you very much for your ask dear, it's been a long time since I last drew Idia and I hope you liked it 💌💟❣️

[cheolism-archive]

jealous

✿ — chwe hansol x reader ❀ — summary: hansol wants to fuck you until you can't remember anything but his name and when the man who inspires jealousy in him just so happens to call you, hansol can't help but take advantage. ✿ — word count is approx 2k ❀ — tags: jealousy and possessiveness, rough sex. biting and spitting, cursing and praise. ✿ — warnings: possessive vernon, jealous vernon. spit kink, bruises. pet names (baby, sweetheart). over stimulation, crying kink (mentioned). vernon has a dirty mouth!! ❀ — request: Dude dirty talk with vernon is driving me crazy, his deep voice ahhhh bruh just imagine he got jealous of y/n's guyfriend (I don't think he's a type who gets jealous but just IMAGINE) and during your SEGZY time, y/n's friend called her and vernon made her take the call. He had one goal, to make that guy know y/n belonged to vernon(not in a toxic way, ofc) so he slowly fucks her and whispers all the dirty things he'd do to her later, which makes y/n so weak and just moan into the call. He just smirks and cuts the call 😩

Hansol wasn't usually rough with you.

So when he grabbed your hips and shoved you onto the bed, mouth attaching to your neck and biting, you were surprised. Not a bad surprised, of course -- his hands elected moans from you as they shoved into your pants, nails digging into your ass, soft little whimpers escaped your mouth as his teeth sunk into your neck, marking you, claiming you.

Hansol worked quickly, shoving your pants and underwear to your ankles, forcing your hoodie up and above your head, phone tumbling out onto the bed beside you. Urgency roughened his touch, hands constantly moving against you, touching and claiming you.

"Sol," you breathed, arching into him. He shoved his knee between your thighs, mouth trailing to your breasts. You were powerless against him, grinding your cunt down onto his knee, wetting it and smearing your juices along his skin. "Hansol --"

"Don't worry, baby," he murmured. His tongue laved over your pebbled nipple. His breath was hot against your skin, the contrast between the cold of his spit against your skin drawing a shiver from you. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna treat you good, yeah?"

Two of his fingers went to your cunt. He slid his fingers along your pussy, collecting the juices. "Fuck -- so wet for me, baby. You're fucking soaked."

His fingers massaged against your hole, rubbing and taunting. Your arousal gushed out of you, hips twisting up into his hands in a futile attempt to guide his fingers in.

"God -- can smell your cunt all the way up here," he hissed, pulling back from your chest. Bruises and bite marks littered your skin, marks of him. "Your fucking cunt's eager, yeah? So eager for me."

You nodded, whining loudly in your throat as his thumb brushed over your cunt. It wasn't enough to do anything, just mindless contact. But it was enough to drive you insane, for your mind to clear of all thoughts other than Hansol, other than the desire, the yearning, for relief.

"Want you," you agreed weakly, hands sinking into his hair. You pulled at the locks, tugging and twisting, sweet pants and moans escaping Hansol's mouth at your efforts. "Fucking want you, Hansol, want you so fucking bad."

He swore, pulling away. Hansol hooked his arms around your legs, lifting and baring your cunt to the room. He ducked his head, and you tensed in anticipation.

A wad of spit shot from his lips, landing on your cunt. You groaned, eyes screwing shut. You could hear as he spat again, imagined his saliva mixing with your arousal on your cunt.

Hansol released your legs, withdrawing from you. Your eyes flew open, protests immediately leaving your mouth.

"God you're so desperate, aren't you?" Hansol crawled up the bed, reaching to the bed table on his side. He grabbed the lube bottle, popping off the clear cap and letting it fall to the floor.

Ignoring the mess already between your thighs, how the inner skin of your thighs was already soaked with the combination of your own arousal and his saliva, Hansol pumped liberal amount over your cunt.

"You're a fucking mess," he moaned, lips twisting into a mean little smirk. "So fucking messy, baby."

He threw the lube to the side of the bed, the both of you ignoring it as it rolled off and onto the floor. Hansol stuck his hands into his pants, shoving them down to his knees.

His hands settled on the back of your thighs, pushing them up once more. Hansol crowded close, releasing one of your thighs to grab his dick. He tugged at it, hissing and huffing with every pull.

He rubbed the head of his dick along your cunt, gathering the crude mix of your arousal, his spit, and lube. Curses poured out of his mouth, praise intermixed. "Fucking perfect, your sweet little cunt. Shit, baby, fucking soaking my dick, fucking goddamn perfect --"

The tip of his cock pressed against your hole, and immediately you were bucking up into him in a poor attempt to force it in. "Please, Hansol, please, I need you to fuck me, want -- want your cock, please --"

He laughed, a deep thing that made your cunt clench in arousal. "Fucking desperate, baby. So eager for me, aren't you? Can't think about anything other than my fat dick, can you?"

Then Hansol was pushing in. You tossed your head back, eyes pressing shut. The stretch burned, your cunt squeezing and tightening around his dick with every centimeter he pressed into you. Hansol cursed, and the hand not holding your thigh went to your cunt. His thumb pressed into your pussy, orbiting around your clit, skin brushing against the bundle of nerves but never touching it head-on.

The action had you whining, body relaxing and bucking up into him, desperate for more. "Solie! Hansol, fuck -- please, Hansol, please --"

Once his cock was fully sheathed inside of you, Hansol stopped torturing your clit. He withdrew his hand, wet from your cunt, slipping it to your thigh. He went to his knees, pressing down on your thighs.

Hansol began to withdraw, his cock dragging against your walls. Your toes curled, hands grasping at the sheets. Pleas poured from your mouth, wanting more and more.

Then the sound of wind chimes filled the room, startling the both of you. You scrambled, throwing your arm out in an attempt to find your phone. Hansol refused to help, holding your thighs still, keeping you impaled on his dick.

You took one look at your phone and then you were throwing it to the side, not caring. Hansol lifted a brow at you. You rolled your eyes, wiggling your hips down on his cock in an attempt to coax him back. "Just Jaehyung. Ignore it."

Hansol's face turned to stone, grip on your thighs tightening. He couldn't help but think back to that photo on Instagram that had ignited the little spark of passion (and jealousy) inside of him. Jaehyung, a friend of a friend, had posted a handful of photos of the get-together you had attended last night. And one of them featured you and Jaehyung, his shoulders pressed against your side, arm around your waist.

Hansol was not a jealous person. But immediately he had felt the seeds of jealousy sprout in his gut. Jaehyung had been yearning for you for as long as Hansol knew you, no matter that you and Hansol had been dating for nearly just as long.

Get-togethers that Hansol managed to attend were spent awkwardly with Jaehyung constantly aiming for your attention; stealing Hansol's spot, speaking over him. You never paid it any attention, thinking Jaehyhung merely as a friend of a friend; no one important.

It reassured Hansol that you were so willing to cast Jaehyung aside, but he couldn't stop the little monster inside of him.

"Answer," he commanded, fingers digging into your thighs. "Answer him, baby."

Your eyes widened. "Hansol, I don't --"

"Answer him or I'll pull out right now," Hansol threatened. He didn't really mean it. He'd fuck you regardless, but he still liked the desperate look you got on your face at his reply, liked the spike of pride it gave.

You grabbed your phone. Your eyes flicked up to Hansol's, and then you were answering the phone. "H-hey, Jaehyung."

"Speaker, sweetheart," Hansol said. You did as he demanded, and then you were setting your phone on the bed. "Good baby."

Hansol finished pulling his cock out of your cunt, until the tip was catching on your hole. You bit down on your lip, eyes darting down to where the two of you were joined, trying to pay attention to the phone call enough to answer Jaehyung.

" -- so much fun last night," Jaehyung was saying, his voice quiet due to the phone volume. "Such a shame your boyfriend couldn't make it. Why couldn't he, again?"

Hansol grinned, raising his brows at you and prompting an answer. You huffed a sigh. "He had to meet with some producers."

Your answer prompted a little nod from Hansol, and then he was thrusting back into you. You moaned, high and needy, back arching up and into him.

"Y/n? You okay?"

You bit down on your lip before replying, cunt fluttering around Hansol's cock. He withdrew all the way again, until his head was resting on your hole. "Y-yeah! Just -- just lost my place in my game."

Hansol looked down, eyes watchign as his cock sheathed in you once again. In dramatic contrast to the urgency that had taken over his movements earlier, Hansol slowly moved his hips against your cunt. He paid half attention to your conversation with Jaehyung, the other man's voice nothing but background noise to him. Your voice, however, had Hansol grinning.

Your voice wavered with every slow thrust into your cunt, biting back moans and groans of pleasure. Your face was contorted with effort, hands pulling at the sheets. You barely spoke other than to offer affirmation that you were paying attention, trying to concentrate on not letting on what you were really doing.

Hansol moved against you fluidly, never stopping his movements. He only paused long enough to release your thighs, bending over you and caging you underneath him.

He next thrust was well-aimed, hitting that spongy spot dead-on. You bit down on your lip, but that did little to muffle your whine. Hansol huffed a laugh, and then he was driving his hips forward, thighs meeting your ass in a brutal slap.

"Doing so good," he said, grinning meanly. "Do you think he knows, baby? Knows I'm fucking you so good?"

You let out a shuddering breath, tensing in his hold. "Sol --"

"Feel so good wrapped around my cock," he murmured. He drove into you relentlessly, little strangled noises escaping your mouth. "Gonna fuck you until you're dumb, baby. How's that? Fucking you on my fat dick until you can't say nothing but my name, 'til you're sobbing and crying for me to stop 'cause you can't take it."

"Hansol," you sobbed, and it was like the threads holding him together snapped.

Hansol grabbed you, pulling his cock out. He roughly flipped you over, hand pressing down on your back and forcing you to stick your ass up into the air, face pressed into the sheets next to your phone.

"Y/n? Are you okay? What's going on?"

In one swift movement Hansol was impaling you back on his cock, a loud moan ripping from your mouth in response. He jack-rabbited into you, his hands gripping your hips and waist so tightly that Hansol knew he'd leave bruises. The sound of his hips and balls slapping against your thighs filled the room, a crude sort of music to his ears.

"So fucking good," he cursed, watching as your ass cheeks bounced. He released his grip on you just to slap his hand down on your ass, roughly grabbing the flesh and massaging the sting. "So fucking tight around my cock, baby. Fucking soaking it. Getting my dick wet so well."

Hansol glanced at your phone. The screen was blank; Jaehyung had hung up.

Hansol smirked, and then he was ducking his head. A fat wad of spit dropped from his mouth, hitting the curve of your ass. You sobbed as an orgasm traveled through you, Hansol continuing to ram into you as if you were his own little plaything.

"Hansol, please, fuck," you screamed, hips in constant torment, both pulling away and grinding closer. "Hansol, god, so much --"

He chuckled, breathless. He hooked an arm around your waist, pressing down against your back. "Gotta cry for me first, baby," he panted, nipping at your back. "We ain't stopping 'til you're fucking sobbing for me to stop."

[rogueddie]

Nancys torn shirt was a poor excuse for a bandage and Steve should have changed it as soon as they got out of the Upside Down. He should have cleaned it, best he could, and rewrapped his sides in clean bandages.

But he didn't do that. He'd forgotten all about his injuries as soon as Nancys eyes rolled back in her head.

It didn't feel important after that. They had stopped hurting during the bike ride to Eddies. If the cloth tied around his waist wasn't covered in dry blood and rubbing uncomfortably against his skin anytime he moved, he would have forgotten all about the bites.

After losing Max... and Eddie... he couldn't bring himself to care. He was still on his feet. He still felt fine. He mostly felt guilty, still high on the adrenaline that always comes with a fight with the Upside Down.

It was Robin who told a nurse that Steve was also injured and needed seeing.

But the bites were... good. They were easy to clean and no where near as deep as Steve remembers them being.

"You're lucky here," the nurse told him. "You need to keep wounds clean, no matter how small. If these got infected, you could be in big trouble."

It was only a week later that he started to feel it. And he knew he should tell the others. Robin, Nancy, Will, anyone. He knows the signs. He knows what it could mean.

He feels cold.

There's a buzzing building in the back of his head.

The portals cutting through the town call to him.

He's hungry.

"I just don't feel well," he lies. "I'll sleep it off, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

He can hear Robin frowning through the phone. It almost makes him ache, knowing how much it must be upsetting her that he's drawing back.

"I'm sure," he says. "I'll call you, the second I feel better."

"Not good enough, Harrington. I want a call every single day, I don't care if you're too sick to talk. Breathe at me or something."

"I'll try." Another lie.

"I miss you, Stevie."

"Miss you too, Bobbie. So much."

He hangs up, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

There's a crack at the bottom of his pool. He can feel exactly where it leads and, without Robins voice in his ear tethering him, he can't think of a reason not to.

It's too tempting. Too easy.

Crawling into the Upside Down, all he feels is relief. It's like he can finally breathe again. The spores make his lungs finally feel clear.

"Wh- Steve?!" Someone yelps.

Sat at the edge of his pool, legs dangling off the edge and covered in blood-

"Eddie?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" He says, sliding down into the pool. The vines move to help him. "You gotta go back, man, you can't be here."

"You're alive?"

"Not really, but that's not important. Harrington, you have to leave. Whatever this hive shit wants you for, it's not good."

"Hive? What?"

"Yeah, the... Jesus, dude, what did you think was drawing you in here?"

"I don't know... I didn't really... I couldn't..."

"Hey, Steve, snap-"

Eddie steps forward, trying to scare Steve back by getting in his face, but he freezes mid sentence when they're barely a step apart.

Before Steve can ask, Eddie is pulling his head to the side by his hair, nose almost pressed to his neck. Sniffing him.

"What the hell?" Steve chokes out, once Eddie draws back.

He doesn't step back though, one hand still clutching his jacket and the other resting on the side of his neck. He looks scared.

"They weren't drawing you in. They were calling you home."

[feyascorner]

6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don���t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it. 

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back.  Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot. 

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom @iamlowkeycrying @deezus-roy @spiritraves @mariposakitten @dinobae-replyacc @whisperingwillowxox @bdudette @misscrissfemmefatale @atropapurpurea @cosywinterevenings @phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @aelieknox @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @bitterbeanren Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added!

[evilminji]

You know what? HAVE we tried Yoda's "younglings fix everything" tactic on Skywalker?

New SI-OC Time!

Smol, adorable, has a bug out bag and enough credits stashed for their life on the run! Already learned how to tie the hover prams together in like .001 seconds flat and (SUPER gently) toss the babies into um. Knows where the baby food is. Conveniently, has helped ORGANIZE said baby food. (Some of which was "organized" straight into bug out bags)

The whole works.

But like.....?

Better part of a cure? Is prevention you know? And the Tragedy Of Anikin Skywalker? Is that he WAS a GOOD MAN.

And she's standing there, with her Fully Grown ADULT SOUL, looking at this KID who thinks he's a man... this TEENAGER who's been GROOMED by a Sith Lord, a fully grown adult he TRUSTED in a position of power and authority over him, the FORMER SLAVE, and she just...?

How can she look upon his soul? So brightly burning with light and emotion and a sense of JUSTICE? A young man who CARES so much he can barely function some days. Who's heart's ambition is to Free The Slaves so NO ONE will ever again suffer as he and his mother did? Who looks at his partner like she's the most wonderful person to ever draw breathe?

So bright. So GOOD. Struggling and trying and fighting a battle he doesn't even know he's IN, against a Sith Lord he thinks is his FRIEND?

How can she look upon that young man... and just? Abandon him. Decide he's too much effort to save. To even TRY. That his fate is a forgone conclusion and he is destined to Fall. Such things are a CHOICE. And Anikin Skywalker? Has had precious few of those in his life. Between Duty and his youth, lives on the line and Master's that owned.

This is HIS Soul. HIS future. And Palpatine is trying to chip away at his ability to think clearly. Trying to pressure and rush rush RUSH! So he chooses in fear and desperation, like the bad sell it is. Knowing he'll feel he's "too far gone" to back out. Letting him spiral. Ever tightening that noose.

But? Like... the man DOES want to be a dad. Have a family. The thought HAS to be there.

"I should practice taking care of Force Sensitive younglings..."

You know... in case he in Padme... I mean, he's not SUGGESTING anything! But, I mean? If she WANTED too? And he knows they're young and all... and it would complicate everything... but? But!

They'd be KIDS. His kids. HER kids. THEIR KIDS! A... a family. He can barely imagine it.

A problem though? Is how LOUD he is. He can't help it. No more then one can help their hair or eye color. Reminders to "remember his shields" are a great deal like hearing "your breathing is upsetting people. Kindly stop." Like? What do you want him to DO, exactly? Cease existing?

Yes, he COULD be shielding better. If you met him at WHERE HE IS. Not continued to try and make him conform to a mold he'll forever be too big to fit. He's not an IDIOT. He is AWARE that babies are hypersensitive to the Force, since they are so new and rely off it for basicly everything. He KNOWS he's overwhelming to even ADULTS sometimes.

Obi-Wan can handle him because HIS shields are basicly High Council levels. He could TEACH classes to knights and masters. Everyone else? They feel a bit... projected at. It's RUDE™. Very "getting all up in my personal space and shouting". you know?

Babies can't handle that!

That UPSETS babies! Younglings too, they just don't have the words for it.

Knight Skywalker is just "So Much". It's upsetting and alienating. Force Sensitives are basicly MADE to connect to each other. Are THE most social of their various personality types, races, and various cultures. It's just?? A "ducks trying to raise a swan" scenario.

Anikin has subtly different needs. Is gonna grow to be bigger then them. What works for THEM may very well be wildly unnatural for HIM and that's OKAY. Neither of them is wrong! The PROBLEM here? Is rigidity. Refusal to meet a youngling where they ARE, out of fear of change. Clinging to tradition rather then ADMIT to ignorance... thus? Never treating that ignorance with the healing hands of Knowledge, as is the Jedi WAY.

The Sith have been at work for a long, long time.

But OC does not have to play part in their games. Bow to their rules. To hell with tradition and fear. Paths upon paths that MAY, conceivably, lead to SOMEWHERE. Did you not SAY, Master Yoda? That the Future is always in motion? Attachments may lead to darkness, but they also lead to light. They LEAD to everything. Because they are part of being ALIVE.

OBSESSION and CONTROL are the Darkside. But mere Emotions are the flowing of tides.

She prescribes hugs.

An adorable youngling, herself of course, following Skywalker around the Temple like a duckling and flopping against him every chance she gets. Asking bright eyed youngling questions of her Super Cool Esteemed Knight Elder that he'll have to look up. Or look up WITH her. Sometimes indulgent listen to HER ramble about.

Or? If he's sand blasting the soul of everyone around him? Welp, time to brace for it! Once more into the breach! She is small and squishy. Warm, huggable, and filled with light. Can hum and hug his head. Smell like Baby. Itty bitty lil light and heart beat and body. Not a threat. Cares about him. Fellow Jedi. Safe safe safe.... calm...

Does she feel a bit... rubbed raw? Soul wise, afterwards? Fuck yeah. Ouch, her everything stings. But that's not his fault. AND! He's getting better.

QUICKLY.

Cause there's nothing QUITE like an adorable wittle baby child, whom you BLASTED IN THE SOUL FACE with abrasive anger-sand hard enough to probably scour them to the BONES, wincing but smiling up at you and asking if you feel better now... to make you just a LIL bit "fuck asking Master's, I'm gonna tear the Archives apart until I can solve this on my own" hysterical. Ha ha....

Oh Force he MAIMED A CHILD! (Soul bruised, at BEST. And not intentionally.) (THATS NOT BETTEEEEEER!!! *hysterics in Skywalker*) Padme! Put me down like THE ANIMAL I'VE BECOME! AaaaaaAAAAAAA-!!! (He says, showing up at a senators apartment, holding a youngling she's never met like a teddybear. The MAN SHE MARRIED, everybody! He's so lucky she loves him. Ffs Ani.)

But like?? Shielding? Leads to SO MUCH better emotional regulation and stability? Plus an immediately increase difficulty scale for Certain Sith Lord's.

Especially! If the technique Anikin has to use? Is OLD AS FUCK. Like... Pre-Rebulic old. Considered a wildly overly complex and exhausting way to Shield for most people who just don't have the midi-chlorians count to NEED it.

A case of "the side effect of THIS medicine can actually address THAT crippling symptom!? Huh." So Anikin? Starts? INTENTIONALLY Projecting. Yeah... wild right? After so long trying NOT too! He starts learning to? PROJECT a "bubble" into the Force around him.

So that he'll only sense himself. So he can FOCUS on projecting and politely not project AT people. Kinda like elevator music where normally there is just nature noises. Very clearly artificially made? But not? "Every thought you have shouted at me" intrusive.

Kinda pleasant actually! Especially here on Coruscant. Where everything is so discordant and murky. Suddenly? There's this walking Air Filter/Lovely Ambiant Noise Machine walking around and???

Anikin has NEVER been so popular?? O:

Padme. Padme! The Crechelings FELL ASLEEP ON ME! Just?? Clambered RIGHT on up, dumped themselves in my lap, and fell asleep! Everyone wants to meditate near me! There were ARGUMENTS! Obi-Wan! OBI-WAN feel asleep on me the other day! Just?? Slumped over against my shoulder and started to CUDDLE!!! (/ T^T)/ hold me Padme! Everything is Beautiful and nothing hurts! I should have done this YEARS ago!

Also! Did you know it's Totally Cool for us to get married? We just have to get JEDI married! Wanna help me lie to the council? (Totally, you even got to ask?) O/ \O *highfive!*

Palpatine would HATE it. Fucking LOATH it. But the thing is? You can plan for actors on the stage, plan approximately for players to come, but? NO ONE can plan for a SI-OC. And even then? Any plan accounting for what children will do? Usually discounts how intelligent truely really are.

The Sith Did Not PLAN for "smart baby knows what you are up too and decides to stop you".

Because WHO WOULD PLAN FOR THAT?

Well....? Maybe don't be SUCH a dick? That the Actual Force Itself decides to fuck with your plans by introducing Chaotic elements? Ever thought of THAT??? Anyway... THAT is how the Big MEAN Sith Lord was unveiled targeting an INNOCENT and TOTALLY not provoking him, itty bitty child! Oh no! Anikin! Save meeeee! The scary bad man wants to HURT ME!

A CHILD! Who you gonna pick? Me, the crying lil girl you basicly adopted with your wife, or the man you THOUGHT was you friend... before he ATTACKED A CHILD! With a RED LIGHTSABER! And lightning! Someone's throwing around mention of SLAVE CHIPS and he's suggestinghe can "save you wife"!!!

Real CONVENIENT. Since Anikin's wife is both completely FINE and under the care of Jedi healers, yet he's been having MYSTERIOUS DREAMS about her DYING HORRIBLY. Dreams that Don't Feel Right. Like they DONT come from his head! So? How do YOU know about those dreams, HUH? SHEEV??

*Chosen One INTENSIFIES*

[morganas-pendragons]

ease | celebrimbor

honest to god, I got this concept in the shower and it would not leave me alone. the prompt was found in the depths of the celebrimbor x reader tag (disclaimer: I am not a Tolkien reader, but I did grow up watching the movies and have done some research into the Silmarillion as I've been watching ROP) and this was born.

I've just found out some of the fates of these characters and I kid you not... I have a full fledged idea for a Celebrimbor/OC fic if my brain keeps this up

set during s2 of ROP, light spoilers ahead

prompt is here / this reader is a half-elven female who is gifted with magic. like I said, I am new to writing for this verse, so please be gentle.

***

You don't remember much about how you ended up in Middle Earth. There are glimpses, sweet fragments of memories that surface every now and again, but that is simply all they are. Glimpses of a time that has long come and gone.

Glimpses of who you were gone with it, like the receding tides of the ocean drifting further and further away.

The one thing you do remember with astounding clarity is your arrival to Eregion. You remember the front gates and how tired you were, and more importantly, you remember Celebrimbor. His complete and utter astonishment at your arrival was puzzling.

You didn't figure out why until later.

"Forgive me, but my healer tells me you have difficulties with remembering where you came from," He's standing in front of you where you sit in the healer's chambers of Eregion. You're surprised that they even let you in. Maybe he took pity on you. "Your injuries are minimal given how long he believes you were out in such conditions. Given your physical attributes, I would say you are at least Elvish. That would explain some of this. Do you remember your name?"

You didn't. The only things you had to remind you of who you were was the cloak around your shoulders and the circlet in your hair. A fine thing, crafted from what Celebrimbor later told you was pure silver.

"No...." You shake your head and wrap your arms tightly around yourself. He can't help but soften. You seem very lost. Celebrimbor is not one to take in lost souls, but there is something about you that draws in rapt fascination, and he is not willing to turn you away.

"You are no threat upon us. Now come. Let me introduce you to the great kingdom of the Elven smiths."

He extended his arm to you hesitantly. You found yourself taking it, staring up at him through a curious gaze as he dove into the histories of Eregion.

Weeks passed. You noticed the longer you were present in Eregion and in the forges that Celebrimbor was very particular about who was allowed to remain in his presence for long. There were his smiths, and his servants, but there were very few who were truly allowed to know him on a more intimate and vulnerable level.

You found yourself wondering why.

On a quieter day in Eregion's forges, you venture out of your room in search of Celebrimbor. Most of the staff is familiar with your presence by now. You've heard the whispers. They wonder how a forsaken Elf has managed to find her way into their King's good graces after such a short amount of time.

"Ah, I was wondering when you'd arrive. Come. I have something to show you." Celebrimbor greeted. You followed him around the edge of the forge to a table in the center of the room where a familiar silver circlet sat. Your eyes widened. You had been wondering where it went. "I was given enough moonstone from a recent discovery to restore your circlet and add a singular gem to the center. What do you think?"

Again the eyes and ears are drawn to the pair of you. You can feel their questions burning through the air: Why her? Why is she in his good graces? What does a forsaken elf have to give to the Lord of Eregion and the Master Smith?

"Might we have a moment in private?" You ask. There is no hesitation in his response. Celebrimbor dismisses his smiths, and in mere minutes, the two of you are alone. He seems perfectly content to be with you where no other eyes can see. "I don't understand. We've only just met, and I don't even know who I am, but here you are reforging and creating something so beautiful for a stranger," You pick up the circlet with delicate fingers, turning it over to gaze at the gem in the center. It's a very delicate design that incorporates much of the Elvish culture within it. "Why?"

There's a beat of silence that you interpret as apprehension. Answering this question requires a certain sense of vulnerability that he so often shies away from.

What he does instead surprises you.

''Because," Celebrimbor's voice drops to a whisper as he settles the delicate circlet in your hair, and you can't help but smile at how gentle it is. "You are.. different."

That's all he leaves you with. You're left to wonder what about you is different. What about you puts him so at ease.

***

Celebrimbor had not told anyone outside of Galadriel, Elrond and The High King what was known of your origins. What little the two of you could come up with about them. All the five of you are aware of is that you hold a great power with magic that brings the skill of healing and persuasion of any life form, and that you fell to Middle Earth within its vast oceans and found yourself destitute mere miles away from Eregion.

"It's almost like your coming was a sign."

Your visions turn out to be correct, much to your horror.

After Gil-Galad and Elrond’s departure, you find yourself lingering in your chambers with your circlet poised in your hands as you internally fight through all the evidence you have lingering in your head. Celebrimbor doesn't know what to make of it, and neither do you.

That turns out not to be your concern once you see him trudging past your bedroom, muttering to himself in Sindarin as he attempts to massage his shoulder with his hand.

"Celebrimbor?" You call, mindful to call quietly so that his smiths and the staff do not hear you. He always hears you. Always has, always will. "Are you alright?"

His aspect says one thing, but his eyes say another. "There is always tension that builds within the muscles and tendons of the body after working vigorously in the forge. I am just stiff. It is not a concern you need to bother yourself with-"

You raise a brow at his veiled attempt to console you. It doesn't work. Glancing over your shoulder, you quickly follow on his heels to his chambers where you slip inside just before he can shut the door.

He freezes. The two of you are alone. Properly alone.

"This is quite.." You falter in search of the right word. "If anyone knew I was in here, it would arouse suspicion. I can tell you're in pain. We both know that you cannot alleviate that on your own." You pause to interject, "Only if you truly want the help. I would be happy to serve."

Realization dawns in his eyes. Neither of you are properly aware of how close you really are to each other, much less the fact that your hand is pressed against his heart. It flutters under your touch.

He's nervous.

Your creased brow softens when Celebrimbor winces again at the turn of his head, and your eyes focus on his neck. "I am in a great amount of pain," He confesses quietly. It's quite a feat for him to be so willing to be vulnerable with you. Especially when you have yet to see him ask for help from anyone else, including Galadriel or Gil-Galad. "And I would be much appreciative of the help."

Celebrimbor would never admit it out loud, but something swelled within him at the sight of your smile as you rushed back to your chambers to gather the oils you had stored there. He had come to care for you a great deal. That was dangerous. There was too much at stake with his House and his past... A past that he would rather never speak aloud for fear of having to truly relive it.

"You'd be more at least if you lie down," You remark softly, laughing as his eyes snap open in alarm. "The oils only work with skin contact. Are you okay with that?"

It takes him a moment to realize what you're doing: You're both asking for his consent, and you're giving him the opportunity to say no. It's just another thing that draws him to you.

You turn away to grant Celebrimbor a modicum of privacy while you prepare yourself and the oils you brought. By the time you turn around, you nearly drop the vials. You should have assumed he'd have scars. That there would be old burns and far more muscle that he could hide under those robes.

The only piece of clothing he was wearing covered very little.

"Celebrimbor," You whisper. He cannot help the shiver that runs down his body when your fingers come into contact with his spine. It has been centuries since he had last allowed himself to be touched, and to be touched in such an intimate and positive way was foreign. "Are you in pain?"

You already know the answer to this question. He lays down on the bed and tucks his hands under his forehead. There's several moments of silence that pass before you hear him murmur, "I have been in pain for quite a long time, nin tinu. There has only been one thing that alleviates it."

The Sindarin that rolls off his tongue rings clear in your head. My star.

"What eases your pain, My Lord?"

Your oiled fingertips, doused in lavender oil, have just made contact with his shoulders when he answers: "You. It has been you from the moment you entered my gates, and it will be you for however long you remain here, if you wish to remain here in Eregion with me."

You mull over his words as your fingers travel his skin. You mark your touch with firm yet gentle presses against the valleys of his back, dragging your fingers across raised scars that arouse much curiosity within you. Celebrimbor melts into the bed beneath you as he allows himself to absorb a touch he had not realized he craved so deeply for an entire lifetime.

"You have introduced me to such a peace since I have been here. A peace that comes from being in the presence of people who truly care about you, of people who truly want the best for you. That's why you have not told anyone of my heritage. That is why you keep me so close to your side. To protect me.” Your ministrations have had their desired effect, because the moment you dig your fingers into where he'd been trying to massage earlier, it elicits a low groan from his chest. "Never has this destitute elf felt such peace as I have learning and living with and from you. I would be honored and privileged to remain in Eregion."

He's thankful in that moment that his face is hidden. Celebrimbor grimaces as tears prick the back of his eyes, blurring the sight of the blankets beneath him. He'd never experienced something as trivial as being loved in such a gentle, genuine manner.

"Dorth... nev na nin."

Again it rang clear as day. You were realizing the longer that Celebrimbor spoke in the Sindarin tongue that you were most definitely familiar with it.

He's asking you to stay with him. Permanently.

"Roll onto your back," You whisper. He complies with ease, showing you a stunning shade of hazel in the eyes that look back at you. "I-"

It's right there on the tip of your tongue as fingers stained with lavender oil linger right at the hair on his temples. You know you have been drawn to him since you arrived. It's not the hesitation in confession, it's in his response.

His lips part of their own accord as you bend your head to press your forehead against his own. You both want to kiss the other, and badly, but this act alone is intimate enough. It is too soon.

"Don't say it. Not yet." His breath fans over your face as he shudders, eyes flickering upward to meet yours through the hair that veils your face. "Just let me..."

Celebrimbor parts your hair to tuck it behind your ear and lifts his head just enough to graze his lips against your cheek. It's barely a kiss, more the ghost of a kiss then anything, but the way it puts your body at such ease speaks more then a real kiss could've.

His heart is pounding when he meets your eyes.

You're laughing when you part. He doesn't know why. What Celebrimbor does know is that the stiffness in his muscles is gone, replaced by an inexplicable warmth he's never quite felt before.

The shade of your eyes has been illuminated by a silver the same color of the jewel in your circlet, which is now glowing from where it sits upon your head.

He'll have to question that later.

"Why are you laughing? It's quite inappropriate to laugh in such a circumstance-"

You press your fingers to his lips. Celebrimbor is blushing so hard you're sure that his cheeks will stay that color for the rest of the night.

"If you wanted to get unclothed in front of me to have me touch you, all you had to do was ask."

[meo-eiru]

Breaking my lurker status (forgive my english I don't speak the devils tongue/j)

1.-I LOVE YOUR BLOG SO SO SO MUCH PLSSS-- you write so good and you draw even better it's so fun to see a notification pop up bc it also means I can see the silly people that also like your characters just as much as I do! I find it so cute to see all the different ways people live this characters I love it💥💥

2.- I beg of thee, to spare a crumb if One Eyed monster once again (when you have time bc remember to rest, eat and drink aguita💥), I've been OBSESSED with that one since I saw your first post about him, I just find him so endearing!

Like imagine scene! He is just so head over heels over by us but be doesn't have the courage to come talk to us, but oh! What's this? We are going out of our way to talk to him? HE MUST BE DREAMING! And we are just gushing over how cute he looks with his hair covering his face bc it makes him look so tiny and sweet that we can't help but reach to touch his face and in his daze we move just a little bit of his hair and he only notices that we have seen his full face when he can see more clearer (bc having so much hair in front of your only eye must never tough) and he just PANICS-- like just completely and utterly scared that he takes off running already crying and thinking that we will never wanna see him again and that we are disgusted by him, he only stops in an alley far away to catch his breath.

But in his break down he fails to notice how we ran after him, yelling for him to stop, following him to the alley and seeing in a front row seat how he is just completely broken saying between sobs how we'll hate him now.

But we never had hated him to begin with, we found him cute at the start so we got close to him, and when we saw that big doe-eye it was like staring at the most beautiful star in the sky, we would never hate him after all.

He doesn't hear our steps towards him, he only reacts when he feels our hand lightly touch the top of his hair, his head snapping up to see who it was, his heart almost jumping out of his chest when he sees it's us, both with joy and sorrow, I mean, we are probably there to mock him right? To tell him how ugly his one eye is and to tell him we never wanna see him again, after all,

¿If not for that why else would the one person he loves more than everything be there before him after seeing his one eye?

When he only manages to babble a weak - why? Here? You...Huh...? -

But we don't say anything, we just kneel down and hug him, holding him close, letting him cry in our shoulder, with one of our hand rubbing comforting circles on his back and the other petting his hair, waiting for his cries to stop.

When they do all we say is a simple couple of words, almost got loud enough but just for him to hear, leaving his once broken heart renewed and beating so fast he feels he might have a heart attack.

- You are even more beautiful than I could ever imagine... -

Something so little to anyone else, but something so big for him that he doesn't think his fragile heart could take anything else.

But he doesn't need anything else, he only needs this,

He only needs you

(I propose the name Jade for him, ¿why?, bc when I first saw him I related him with one of my favorite gemstones💥)

-Yummy-

Oh my god this healed my soul, improved my grades, my eyes and skin are shining, world peace is happening, global warming ended and there’s no longer world hunger.

It just means so much to him, he’s so different from everyone else, he’s a monster. There’s no way you could love a creature like him who can’t even talk to you directly without exploding from nerves. He’s not handsome, he’s not charismatic, he’s not funny, he’s just a stalker who’s too pathetic to breath the same air as you.

Only thing bringing a bit of solace to him is the fantasies he has about you. Holding hands, going on dates, watching movies and cuddling, you saying you love him even if he’s a monster… Yes fantasies, such a thing can only happen in his fantasies.

So what’s happening right now? Is he dreaming? You’re so warm he can’t think straight. You think he’s beautiful? This can’t be real surely he misheard you. He can’t talk from the tears rolling down his eye. Please forgive him for getting your shoulder wet. He’s so just so, so happy right now. All he can do is hug you back and sob as he prays this is not just a dream.