#i love clothes. clothes and self harm are like the only things I have

[secriden]

Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, I'm so grateful for the journey Fadel is forced to take in episode 9. In previous meta posts, I shared my thoughts on how precious discussions about 'love': for eg in Episode 4 was really a promise of safety (which tragically becomes unfounded) and Episode 5 was really an exploration of trust and trust betrayed -- but I think Episode 9 is finally when we are dealing with love in a head-on collision between Style's unflinching commitment to stay by Fadel's side and Fadel's anger and fear of loving; a conflict which utterly demolished the last of Fadel's crumbling walls.

Because, while Episode 8 did give us this beautifully tender moment of shared camaraderie -- one where they were both filled with wonder at witnessing the way love can overcome hurt and anger, the way forgiveness can make a pathway to happiness; and a moment they were both aware of and wordlessly acknowledged to each other -- it was, unfortunately, also almost immediately tainted by this:

You can see the resignation and cynicism in the way Fadel is holding himself. This wasn't a betrayal from Style, but it was a harsh reminder for Fadel that love can be deceptive and harmful no matter the guise. Even when it (love) isn't aimed at him, he winds up betrayed (deceived) and in danger, and literally hurting (it's the first time Fadel overtly shows how much pain his broken arm is causing him), and it makes sense why we see Fadel harden once again after this point.

And as frustrating as it was for us to watch, I'm also glad that the show made room for Fadel's retreat behind the last of his walls. Because at the core of Fadel's fear is the experience he’s had that love, and more importantly loving, has always brought him pain: the traumatic and sudden loss of his parents and the cruelty of a lover who (maybe? I have my suspicions...) chose not to stay with him were both lessons Fadel has deeply rooted in his heart; a fear which his desire and now love for Style is constantly at war with.

Which is why we see Fadel so firmly choosing resistance at this point. Everything about his demeanour and the harshness of his words depicts a cornered animal with his hackles raised in self-defence. You can almost see the bared teeth behind his words. He doubles down on the assurance that he will see this decision through, that Style is destined for death by his hands. It's interesting because in Episode 9, Fadel seems to have mostly given up on denying that he has any feelings for Style whenever it's brought up (partly because Style has already made it clear he doesn't believe Fadel when he does), but has instead decided to claim that those feelings aren't strong enough to save Style from Fadel's decision to kill him.

So I kind of love that the narrative immediately forces Fadel face the reality of his claims. For what better retribution could there be than Style dying by becoming tangled up in the very thing he was supposed to put Fadel in jail for? What could be more fitting then to see Style destroyed by the very aspect of Fadel's life that caused Style's betrayal?

And even more, I love that the writers chose to have Style become injured like this. Because of course the boyfriend of a hitman who is on the run from the law was going to be shot -- the trope practically demands it -- but it is just deliciously dramatic that Style gets injured precisely dressed in the clothes he'd picked out so he could "at least die in something that's actually my style" and in the place Fadel said Style would haunt only minutes prior. It forces Fadel to face not only the thought of losing Style, but puts front and centre what it means for Fadel to be the cause of that loss.

Because the thing is, Style only needs to be bait at all because Fadel forgot to bring the extra bullets for his gun; because he does not have a plan when Style asks what they should do. I love that all of Fadel's training, his fastidious and careful nature, is being so fundamentally compromised because his mind has been too preoccupied with his complicated feelings for Style. Fadel is being forced to face the consequences choosing to fight against his heart about Style and that directly puts both their lives in peril. And all Fadel can do is look at Style with a wordless plea to stay safe, even as he watches Style run directly towards danger.

And I love that Style's immediate instinct is to throw himself into the situation to help. There's no hesitation, no momentary pause where Style considers running away and leaving Fadel to handle the gunman alone. Style fully embodies the promise he made to stay by Fadel's side and moreover it shows that, on an instinctive level, Style trusts his life in Fadel's hands (even though we get verbal confirmation later in the episode that Style actually was only about 50% sure that Fadel wasn't actually going to kill him in the end!! That's! Fucking incredible!?!).

Which is also why I think Fadel's anger redirects itself once they get to the island. He's at the end of his rope, a mess of emotions, arm probably still aching and then he sees Kant -- the source of not only the very real threat of Fadel and Bison being caught by the police, but also the reason why Style became entangled with Fadel in the first place. Fadel cannot help but lash out at him despite it making no sense to deny Style an additional pair of helping hands and, moreover, the comfort of a true friend that he trusts and who cares about him. Fadel is not thinking clearly, but it's also a sign that the choices he is making are still fuelled more by his anger and hurt then his love.

And again, this makes a certain amount of sense. For Fadel, anger is a familiar friend; something almost comforting, that gives him a sense of control, because he understands what to do with his anger. He understands how to direct his rage in ways that are productive and help to keep the things he cares about safe.

Until, that is, Style puts his life on the line next to Kant's and suddenly the gun in his hand becomes a danger to someone he has already been forced to acknowledge (in the conversation with Bison) that he cannot kill. I adore Style so much for immediately bringing this point up, because it means that Fadel has to actually consider why he didn't just let Style die. If Style had bled out and died from the wound, it wouldn't have technically been Fadel's fault; Style was simply caught in the crossfire. It was, in some ways, a relatively guilt-free way of getting rid of Style. But everything in Fadel rebelled at the thought of letting Style die and Fadel is once again forced to confront why he held Style's hand so tightly in both of his own, why he told Bison to be gentle and careful with Style, why hearing Style yell in pain was agony to Fadel too.

And this beautiful moment of friendship also gives both us, the audience, and Fadel this incredible understanding of Style's loyalty. To Style, the thought of dying next to Kant is not something he resents, but something that merely makes him wistful. And for Fadel, this puts into perspective what it meant for Style to promise to stay by his side; the full weight of Style's devotion is laid out for him to witness, and it's enough to shake Fadel lose from the hold his anger has on him.

But even then, even now, there's still something holding Fadel back and I think it boils down to the fact that Fadel has gone down this path with someone else before, and found only betrayal at the end of the road. He has loved and thought he was loved in return; he was ready to give up his job (his security, his sense of control, his “family”) for someone who he thought he could hide his darkness from and live in happiness whilst keeping the lie between them. It's so interesting to me that Fadel was about to do the exact same thing to Style (try to get out of the hitman life without ever telling Style about it), without knowing that the possibility of it was never on the table for him.

Because Style is the very antithesis of Fadel's ex: not only does Style find out his secret well before love truly blossomed between them, Style has no fear in him (anymore) of it. This gesture is legitimately insane, but it also illustrates how thoroughly Style embraces this aspect of Fadel's past and character. Fadel has just learned a very tangible lesson about Style's loyalty to the people he cares about, so this gesture carries the weight of knowing this matters to Style, despite the carefree manner of his expression. Style gives Fadel the security of knowing that he is making his commitment to Fadel whilst also giving Fadel permission to stay the way he is. Style's love isn't for what Fadel could someday become, but for who he already is, and that's encompasses a level of acceptance that is as crazy as one would expect from a person who is in love with a hitman.

And it's just so great that they actually addressed the whole "dated me for a car" thing, because Style is right. Fadel is grasping at the last embers of his anger but all of it is directed at a Style who doesn't even exist anymore. I don't even think Style was avoiding telling Fadel about this; it just genuinely was a non-issue to Style because getting to know Fadel changed so much about Style's motivations (he said as much as early as episode three), that this wasn't even a factor that Style was aware needed to be addressed. But I also appreciate why Fadel insisted on coming back to this -- because I've said before that I think the biggest part of Fadel's hurt and betrayal comes from the thought that Style's interest in him was a lie, so this was important for Fadel to vocalise, especially because it took a certain amount of vulnerability to even admit that this bothered him that much. So as silly as I personally found this plot point to be, I'm glad the show actually decided to have our boys talk explicitly about it.

But my absolutely favourite part is that the final hurdle, the thing that ultimately makes Fadel completely let go of his anger and resentment is Style threatening to drown himself (or at least make his wound become infected). Partly because it was the exact kind of hilariously overdramatic gesture that feels fitting for Style, but mostly because this gesture opens the door for Fadel to finally (literally) take steps towards Style. Fadel's previous actions in this episode -- making sure Style was stitched up after he was shot and letting Kant live after he threatened to kill him --- were both incredibly significant, but largely leaves the relationship between them at a stalemate because for the most part Fadel is reacting to the circumstances whilst still maintaining the emotional distance between them. But what Style wants, ultimately, is not just to survive this very lethal roadtrip but to actually bring about a mending of their relationship and for Fadel show that it's what he wants too.

And I've seen some call this manipulative, but I think Style actually does understand Fadel well enough to be accurate in this claim. I've mentioned before that Style seems to have an almost instinctive understanding of when to push Fadel and when to back off (in this meta post on ep 5), and I think we're finally seeing a moment when Style could tell Fadel needed a little nudge. And the reality is that Style wasn't in any real danger, but it shows us just how much of Fadel's walls have been dismantled that Fadel's concern for Style overwrote his logic and reason.

And I just find it so lovely how it cumulates in Fadel kissing Style because it's an expression of his own desire. If Fadel had kissed Style at any point between the confrontation by the empty pool and before this moment, I think it would have, at least somewhat, felt like Fadel was giving into Style. But this moment is different because it's Fadel giving into himself, giving up on the war he's been waging against his own heart this entire time.

And this journey was so important, so necessary because it's the reason why Fadel is able to be so completely transformed by the end of episode 9. We see him become almost carefree in his affection, everything about it is open and honest and loud in a way Fadel has never been able to be before this point, and it was only possible -- only realistic from a narrative standpoint -- because the show took the time and made space in the story for Fadel to have to face the truth of his love for Style over and over again.

Because this vulnerability, this clear comfort he feels around Style, this ability to rest in Style's arms, was only possible because Fadel was forced to grapple with the full depth of his love for Style, and in so doing, found forgiveness and happiness and peace in letting go of the last of his fear of being in love — and in so doing, proved the truth of Styles words in episode 4: “It’s okay to (be in) love”.

[toughtttz]

Why r all the online thrifting sites so shit in the US.. the finds were so good and cheap but nooooo none will ship to my country </33

[nyatbinary-81]

@vulpixisananimal sifstem art jumpscare!! more specifically i got bored and decided to mess around with sif and mal's outfits.

[catdia]

Sevika with a Chubby S/o pt.2

Sevika is a very jealous and prideful individual. she doesn’t take kindly to others that try to take you away from her

when Finn tried to get you close to him, she killed half his goons as a warning

teaches you basic self defense, how to use your body as an advantage in combat

ended with both of you making out on the practice mats

gave you a knife and handgun as a birthday present

all your clothing is automatically hers as well. loves wearing your shirts and hoodies when running errands

Sevika has MASSIVE hips, she doesn’t like them that much because pants never fit her waist right. but you love them!

and you also don’t like when pants highlight your underbelly. if she sees your belly in any capacity she’s grabbing that thing like a vice

uses your stuff before you ever get to. that new Piltovan skin care you got? Sevika gives it 10/10

eats all your snacks, even the healthy ones that taste “like cardboard”

the scar on her temple gets sensitive with the cold, uses your tummy as a heating pad when cuddling

one of Sevika’s love languages is bringing you fresh vegetables and fruit she smuggled from overseas

seeing your eyes sparkle in delight as you eat the sweet fruits makes her love her shitty job a little more

she got your nickname “peach” because of your love of fruit (and your fat ass)

if there is a place on earth that can be considered hell is when your periods sync up. Both in pain and grumpy.

when it’s just you, she gives you princess treatment (more than usual). even going as far as making homemade soup

i believe Sevika doesn’t get her period as frequently as she used to. mainly thanks to the amount of Shimmer she uses

Shimmer is the reason you almost had a terrible fall out. it was doing your woman more harm than good. making her extremely aggressive to the point where she threw and broke the matching clay mugs you gave her as an anniversary present. you spent almost two months making them

all of this because you threw away her last Shimmer supply. you just couldn’t she her like that anymore

you sobbed as you collected the pieces of the floor. so preciously putting them on your lap as she just watched in horror. Sevika had never seen you so broken. What had she done?

Sevika kneeled in front of you trying to make everything right. picking up little colorful shards of the floor. but you pushed her onto her feet. you pointed at the door.

“Get out…”

“Peach, please I—“

“Get the fuck out Sevika!”

she spend the next few weeks crashing in Silco’s office. drinking her sorrows away. while going cold turkey off Shimmer

remembering your soft cheeks stained with tears and trembling shoulders. she never had seen you so angry

once she had the courage (and by that I mean Silco and Jinx kicking her out for beign love sick) to come back home, she didn’t grasp how much she actually needed your love

it was a positive sign that you let her in. like a silent “prove me wrong”

you made her sleep on the couch for weeks. ignoring all Sevika’s attempts of affection. walking away when she got too close, not drinking the coffee she made for you in the mornings, covering your body quickly whenever she walked into the bathroom after your showers

Janna, did she miss having your body on hers. having you cuddle her to sleep. now she is stuck in this ratty couch. she missed how you moaned, what you tasted like. Sevika was unbelievably horny

but she needed to wait for you to make the first move out of respect for the pain she caused

when she was sleeping on the sofa you woke her up by grinding your cunt on her thigh. only wearing your night robe. open in the middle, nipples hard and belly creasing on your pelvis. you placed her mechanical arm on your temple. cradling her metal palm with your lips

“Fuck me like you mean it, ‘vika! Make me your woman again.”

Sevika saw the fire in your eyes, and the burn was a prize she was willing to take

you kissed each other hard, clawing at clothing and skin. teeth clashing. every touch was personal. sensual. like a withered plant in water

even if the sun never warmed the underground it didn’t matter to her. because the sun couldn’t ever bring her life like you did

Sevika had never made love before. only saw sex as carnal lust. but having you vulnerable in front of her and having given her forgiveness was the best gift she could have asked for. the gift of hope and chance. she touched you like a lover, a soulmate.

you laid naked on her chest, blissed out in pleasure. in the afterglow of sex. Sevika groping the flesh of your ass. as she blew cigarette smoke into the air. you were going to complain about the smell in the morning.

“I quit Shimmer.”

you smiled into her exposed skin. Sevika was a blunt woman, and you appreciated that part of her.

“Good.”

“Love you, doll.”

“Mmmm — me too Sevika.”

and you definitely made her go to one of those pottery couples classes to replace the mugs she broke

Sevika wasn’t getting off thaaattt easy

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

some Chrollo things i found/realized on my rewatch + reread of hxh

- he has REALLY bad posture. in the PT base during yorknew, when Chrollo is reading a book, he is literally hunched over and his back is at like a 45 degree angle🥺

- he’s very smug and cocky. after his fight against Zeno and Silva, he asks with a smirk to Zeno “if we were in a fight, who would win, you or me?” and chuckles knowingly when Zeno replies. during Chrollo vs Hisoka, Chrollo says that he is “100% sure that i am going to win”

- his personality switches depending on who he’s with. with the troupe, he’s logical and stoic—never losing his temper. when he’s with Hisoka, he’s much more relaxed and friendly + smiles much more often. when he’s with someone older, he’s respectful.

- he doesn’t seem to mind celebrations/parties. he’s seen drinking with the troupe in a manga panel after the auction.

- he seems very self aware of his handsome appearance, as he lured Neon in + most of the abilities in his book are from women.

- in terms of physical strength, Chrollo is 7th in the Troupe —above Bonolenov, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Pakunoda, Shizuku, and Kortopi, making him MUCH MUCH MUCH stronger than even superhumans such as Gon and Killua. (I love this fact for some reason)

- he had many similarities to Gon and Kurapika as a kid. (read Ch. 395-397, which is the Troupe backstory. it has a lot of cute baby Troupe member scenes🥺)

- he has a habit of covering his mouth with his hand whenever he is thinking deeply about something or connecting the lines.

- he knows a shocking amount about the Kakin Empire (in the manga), even more so than some of the Princes of the Kakin Empire.

- he seems to have a habit of smirking whenever something is going according to plan or when something went according to plan. he also just seems to enjoy smirking in general.

- his favorite color seems to be purple due to much of his outfits being some sort of variation of purple.

- in official arts + mobage cards, he seems to have dark circles under his eyes. in the yorknew city arc, he is also the only troupe member who didn’t sleep during the entire arc, meaning that he seems to have some sort of insomnia.

- in mobage cards, Chrollo seems to have a habit of fidgeting with his clothes. (pulling off his tie during the Christmas mobage card, playing with his hat, etc,.)

- he is very athletic, considering how at the end of yorknew city when he was left nen-less on those plateaus, he managed to climb down and find shelter all by himself.

- he is also very rich, since on average, every Zoldyck assassination costs around 1 billion—Chrollo managed to afford to assassinate the 10 Dons, meaning 10 billion Jenny.

- Chrollo doesn’t seem to care whenever someone is being disrespectful towards him or the troupe.

- Chrollo seems to have a particular fondness for suits, as he is often seen wearing a suit in official arts

- Chrollo often wears clothing that covers much of his body

- Chrollo seems to have the traditional values of a chivalrous man, meaning that he respects women quite a lot and makes sures to keep them safe. Chrollo made sure to catch Neon in the most respectful way when she “fell” (he literally could have just grabbed her by the arm and it would have been fine), he made sure to keep Pakunoda + Machi + Shizuku in the same team during yorknew (there were no men in their team), and during the Chrollo vs Hisoka battle, none of the female spectators (or even the commentator) were harmed.

———

AUGHHHHHH CHROLLO ILYSM PLEASE LIVE UNTIL THE END OF THE SERIES😭🥺😫❤️CHROLLOOOO UR MY BBY AND ILYSMMMMM😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️😫😫😫💕💕💕

[mattscoquette]

how do you think matt would react if he found his girl sh-ing? (u should make a one shot on this <3) would chris react the same as matt?

matt finding out his girl is sh

. detailed mentions of self harm and anxiety !! pls read with caution <3 this is also in no way romanticizing sh ! remember u are loved :)

you shakily pried open the back of your phone case, carefully removing the small blade you’d taken from your shower razor. standing over the sink as water poured from faucet, you slid up the sleeves of your sweater, an array of both fresh and healed scars adorning your skin. you felt tears prick your eyes as you began to slide the blade against your skin, slashing new cuts into your wrists.

as hard as you tried, you just couldn’t stop yourself from hurting yourself. it had become your way of coping with your anxiety, and your solution to every situation that arose. and matt, poor matt, was so observant in your change of behavior. the way you only wore long sleeves, how you seemed to panic whenever he held your hand. you two stopped having sex months ago. and you noticed how it affected your relationship. you noticed how everything that you did affected your relationship. and that only made you want to hurt yourself even more.

matt deserved a better girlfriend. or so you thought. in your head, you were ruining matt’s life. you were barely there anymore, feeling like you were a ghost watching your life from the outside. and you loved matt so much, so much that it hurt, and all you wanted was for him to be happy. but to you, if you weren’t happy, matt couldn’t be happy.

lost in your thoughts, you didn’t realize the mess of blood you were making in the sink, and matt knocking on the door softly. “baby are you good? i’m home with food.”

you cursed underneath your breath, hurriedly turning off the sink and holding a fist over your cuts, trying to stop the flow of blood. i’m okay was all you could unconvincingly rasp out.

“are you sure? can i come in?” matt called out, his voice as sweet and caring as ever. because why wouldn’t it be. you were matt’s entire world, the only thing that mattered to him was you.

“i’ll be right out, i’m okay.” you spoke, trying your best to stop your voice from shaking. you looked down at your cloth covered wrists, dark stains seeping through the sleeves where your hand was clamped around them.

but, matt knew you. he knew something was wrong, and he knew you weren’t okay. so, matt being matt, pushed his thumb against the lock, twisting it as it unlocked. slowly, he turned the doorknob, opening the bathroom door where he saw you standing inside, a panicked expression on your face as you held a hand over your wrists.

matt’s eyes scanned around the bathroom, his face falling as he realized what you were doing. the blade on the counter, the blood in the sink, the way you were drawing your arms into your body. and suddenly, the last few months made sense. "sweetheart.” he couldn’t even manage a whisper.

matt swiftly made his way to you, wrapping his arms around your body as he held you tight. you couldn’t stop the sobs that racked your body, crying hard into matt’s chest while he just cradled you. he kissed the side of your head repeatedly, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he pulled you both down onto the tiled floor, letting you climb up into his lap.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffled, burying your face into his shoulder, “i’m sorry i’m so messy.”

matt pulled away, his expression as if you had just personally offended him. his ran a thumb across your tear stricken cheek, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “don’t be sorry, i’m not upset.”

he continued to comfort you, rocking you back and forth in his arms on the bathroom floor.

“i’m always gonna be here for you.” he mumbled into your hair, feeling his own eyes begin to well with tears. “no matter what.”

“always?”

“always.”

© mattscoquette | taglist

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ i kinda wanna start trying to write more angsty stuff like this, ty for this request ! can’t lie i lowk cried writing this but i feel like it lowk helped me in a way bc i used to struggle w this. anyway i hope u guys like <3 and if anyone needs someone to talk to im here !!

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Chapter 4

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

ANGST, very bad self image, some sort of non graphic self-harm (if you squint), Rhys is kinda an asshole, vomiting

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

There wasn’t so much as a scratch on his son. 

Not a hair on his head was harmed. 

Nothing. 

Feyre cleaned him with shaky hands, running a rag wet with warm water over his skin. Nyx was babbling in response, shaken but clearly…alright. 

Nyx. His son. 

The sudden weight that was lifted off Rhys' shoulders, as he crossed the room in three long strides...it felt like he could breathe again…as he pressed a kiss to Nyx’s head breathing in that scent that was unmistakenly his and then doing the same with Feyre. 

Her scent was thick with misery, shaking against him…Lilac and Pears, usually so perfect...

“Eira’s blood is all over him,” Feyre whispered. “I’ll wipe it off and I just find more.” 

Elain was sitting across from them, silently drinking tea, eyes concentrating on something far away. He wondered if she saw anything…any vision at all? But she didn't say anything. 

Feyre hung onto his hand and he cast out his mind, feeling Madja’s determination, as she…she tried to…

Save her. 

Save her from dying because she had thrown her own body between death and his son. 

For years, Rhys had believed the second-born Archeron sister to be... 

She had just been there. 

Existed in his periphery. 

She had been the only one who had at least tried to make Feyre’s life easier, the one who had cooked and cleaned and hacked up wood and washed the blood out of Feyre’s clothing and mended it when she had taken a tumble…Eira had at least tried. He still didn’t think that it had been enough but she had that going for her. 

Privately, Rhys had thought that the only thing that was fierce about Eira Archeron was her ability to love. 

The one and only time she had outright argued with any of them… had been about her sister… about Nesta and their intervention. 

She had argued harshly and fiercely about how they had no right to do this, about how it wasn’t fair…about how she would pay back that money if it meant that they would leave Nesta in peace. 

It had not only surprised him but also Amren and even Feyre…and even when they hadn’t listened to her…

It didn’t matter what Nesta threw at her head, her sister was still there every week, waiting for him to bring her up to the House of Wind. 

Every week. Like a clockwork, she had been there. 

Rhys easily admitted that he hadn’t been particularly understanding to her at that time.

And now, that ability to love had been…it was going to be the one thing killing her, wouldn’t it?

He hadn’t said it. He had only said that it looked bad…but he could feel how Madja was slowly reaching the limits of what she could do for her. 

Everything that was…

Eira Archeron, the one cauldron-born sister with no great ability. The one that had seemingly adapted well enough to being fae…never complained, never said anything. If she had suffered, she had done so silently. 

The quiet one, the one that liked the background…the one that had pined away silently over his brother, when her twin sister had been the object of his desires. 

Rhys had half expected that to end in a brawl, but once again…Eira hadn’t…nothing had been said. She had been willing to silently pine away.  

And then the mating bond had snapped for Az and that had been…

Quite frankly, the last fucking thing Rhys had expected. 

Every…every other female would have somehow made more sense in his mind. 

“Where’s she?” Nesta stormed into the room, Cassian hot on her heels. 

“Upstairs,“ Feyre answered. “Nesta, let Madja work,” his mate tried but Nesta fixed her with one look. 

“She’s our sister. If she dies, I am not letting her die alone!” Nesta snapped out, stomping upstairs. 

And that was that. 

Nobody tried to stop her. 

“She won’t die. It’s Eira,” Elain said, her voice strangely detached. Like that was written in stone, with all the trust in the world and Rhys wished, he had some of her confidence. Nobody else had it. 

Mor sat on one chair, knees hugged to her chest. His normally always so bright, colourful cousin curled together in one miserable ball. Feyre shook next to him and he reached out for her hand, gently squeezing it, before he let her go. 

He could feel the very foundations of his brother's mental shields wobble. 

His eyes snapped to Azriel.

To Azriel who stood there, hands still covered in Eira‘s blood, red streaks on scarred skin. 

Outwardly there was only a flurry of shadows trailing around him, worriedly. No other signs. 

But his eyes…his stare was empty. 

*Cassian. Don’t let him leave your sight,* he told his other brother sharply, mind to mind. *And try and get him to clean his hands,* he added as an afterthought. Maybe that…Maybe that would help…maybe…

*Rhys,* Caddian whispered into his mind. *If she dies…I don’t know if we’ll be enough.* Cassian didn’t say anything that Rhys wasn’t thinking. Nothing that he wasn’t dreading. *You know how he…he spent centuries waiting. He never talks about it but we both know how much he wanted a mate. How much he just wants to be loved…and…*

And the mating bond had just snapped. And if Rhys hadn’t pushed for Azriel to wait, they wouldn't even be in this fucking situation. 

Azriel’s mate’s blood…Feyre’s sister’s blood…Eira’s blood…it was on his hands. On Rhys’ hands. 

*I know.*

*If she dies, I don’t know what he’ll do.*

Neither did Rhys. 

“Madja is the best. If anybody can save her it will be her,” Cassian said aloud, probably for Azriel’s benefit, crossing over to Az, gently reaching out to touch their brother’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up,” he said quietly, gently pushing Azriel from the room, probably in search of a bathroom. 

Rhys pressed a kiss to Nyx's head, who was looking around the room wide-eyed, not understanding a thing what was going on. There seemed to be no sign of their son being exhausted from the magic he had expelled. Nothing. 

A problem for another day maybe. As long as he seemed fine... 

 “Mor?” he said quietly as he kneeled at his cousin’s side, reaching out for her, hand hovering…Mor looked at him, brown eyes wide and tearful. 

His cousin. He had killed Keir with nary a thought. 

“I never thought he would…do this,” Mor whispered, reaching out for his hand. “I thought…”

There was a tiny part of Mor that still believed that her family could change…that had still loved her parents…hadn’t wanted them dead. And he had taken that from her. 

“I know,” he whispered and she squeezed his hand in response. 

*I am sorry…* he said nonetheless in her mind and he could feel her surprise and then her acceptance. Mor wasn’t angry. Even when she had every right to it...Right to hate him for killing her father, even when Rhys had every right to do that as well. Hate could fester easily under such circumstances. 

*I am not,* Mor disagreed. *He got what he had coming…* A pause. Then she pushed a memory at him…Eira’s still body…the grey pallor of her usually pale skin…the way she had been limb and cold in Mor’s grasped as she had winnowed them to the River House and then fetched Madja…all in the span of seconds.

The blood…the dagger to the heart she had taken…Azriel’s magic pulsing around her, the shadows that hovered…all of it…it looked like the scene out of a nightmare. 

*It’s not looking good, Rhys,* Mor whispered. *Az doesn’t deserve this.* No, he didn’t. But neither did the female laying up there and fighting for her fucking life. 

All of it just because of…

He had pulled it all out of Keir’s head before he had killed him. The whole hare-brained plan, if one could call it like that. 

Nyx’s wings an obvious sign of his “half-breed” status…and with that, not something that Keir could stomach the thought of bowing to one day. Kill the heir, destablise the whole Night Court…Hope that Rhys could be baited. And then Keir would have made his move and the Night Court would be reunited under the glorious reign of Keir. 

And because of that, of the obsession of one male…his son had nearly died. 

He looked up sharply as he heard the steps. “Madja.” 

“I removed the knife. I stopped the bleeding,” Madja said, the dress she wore blood-flecked. “I did all I could.” 

He didn’t doubt that. The question was just if that was going to be enough. 

“She’s alive. For the moment,” Madja cautioned them quietly. “She’s…She’s fighting. The poison they dunked that knife in was…particularly nasty. It stops the blood from clotting…makes the pain feel much worse than it is.” 

She didn’t need to spell it out. It was torture. “Is…Is there an antidote?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“None that her body would be able to absorb without killing her right now,” Madja said carefully. “She’s…magically exhausted. She expelled…most, if not all of her magic.” 

��She never had much in the first place,” Mor choked out. “She probably tried to winnow and…”

And that hadn’t worked. It had failed. 

“What…what can we do?” Feyre asked, her voice shaking. 

“We wait,” Madja answered calmly. “I gave her every potion I could…I healed as much as I could… If she pulls through the night…I would be cautiously optimistic,” she told Feyre, her voice gentle. “Infection has already set in. She’s feverish. Lady Nesta is with her.“

And Rhys didn’t doubt for one moment that Nesta would stay right at her side…she was stubborn like that. 

“Is she…is she in pain?” Feyre asked, her hands tightening on Nyx, who was sucking on his thumb. 

Madja hummed softly. “She will be for days, High Lady,” she told Feyre, not unkindly. 

*Rhys…Could you…Please, I don’t want her to be in pain. Even if she doesn’t…even if she dies, Eira shouldn’t be in pain.* 

No, she shouldn’t be. 

*Of course, Feyre Darling,* he agreed quietly. As much pain as he could take from her, he would. 

“Mor?” he said aloud, and his cousin looked up, unfurling from her little ball. 

“I’ll deal with the fallout,“ she said, her voice only shaking around the edges. “Amren and I will manage." 

“She should be back soon,” he said aloud.  *She’s dealing with…the carnage,* he said into Mor’s mind and his cousin just nodded. It was better that…most people didn’t know what had happened...they didn't need to deal with the bodies…especially when they themselves didn’t even know how it had happened yet. 

Instead, he pressed another kiss to Nyx’s head and then, even when he didn’t want to leave him…he walked up the stairs to Eira’s bedroom. 

She had taken over a room on the third level of the house…away from both the master bedroom and also the room Elain had chosen, overlooking the garden. 

Eira’s room overlooked the River. It wasn’t the biggest bedroom either, with sloped ceilings that made it look smaller than it was…and the usual furniture that Feyre had picked for every room in the house. 

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but maybe he had expected the room to have gotten a little bit more personality in the over 2 years that Eira now lived there. Something. Anything. 

The only thing that made it obvious that it was her room, was a box of thread spilling over her desk. 

Eira was on her bed and Nesta was sitting at her side, glaring at him as he opened the door. “Out!” Nesta snapped. “I do not want you to see her like that.” 

“See her like what?” Rhys asked, eyebrows climbing into his hairline. Half dead? Her skin was still grey, breath raspy…as he stepped closer to the bed, he could see the sweat beading at her hairline…

Nesta glared at him as she tugged a sheet around her, covering her.  

“In a state of undress,” she told him sharply. 

He blinked twice. 

He really couldn’t care less about it. Besides, she was still wearing a dress, even when Madja had cut it open to make it easier for her to reach the wound on her ribcage. And he had seen her in less…when she had been thrown into that cauldron and spat out again, the white cotton of her nightgown had become translucent. 

He hadn’t cared, because the only female he even wanted to look at anymore was Feyre, and her sisters were his now…

“I really don’t care about that,” he assured Nesta, who just glared at him. 

“She would,” Nesta spat out. “Eira would care, Rhysand.  She saved your son at the expense of her own life. The least you could give her is some fucking respect and her modesty.”

Right. 

“Is there ever going to come a day where you don’t expect the worst of me?” he asked with a sigh, moving to her desk to pick up the chair and bring it over to her side. 

He watched with surprise as shadows started to cover her body…becoming nearly solid in places, obscuring her torso from view, only leaving out her face and her limbs. 

Nesta stared at them for a moment but then seemed to think that they couldn’t possibly make it any worse. 

“Why are you here?” Nesta demanded from him. 

“I am a daemati,” he gave back drily as he sat down in the chair, mustering Eira’s prone form. Fine-boned, pale skin with a smattering of freckles just like Feyre. Not fragile, but…delicate.

“You are not poking around in her head,” Nesta seethed. 

“Even if it would take away her pain?” he offered lightly. Nesta harrumphed.  

“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

 Rhys took that as the only agreement he was going to get.

He reached out with his mind, expecting to carefully brush up against Eira’s mental shields…It seemed to be the only magical thing that she had easily caught on to. 

He had always left her mind alone, no reason why he should delve any deeper than surface sweeps he did on instincts…not when Eira’s mind had always been…soft in a sense. More worried about how other people felt than herself…

Now…unconscious. Ravaged by fever…there were no shields. Her mind bloomed under his touch, suddenly, harshly... She dragged him inside and he tumbled right into her memories. 

One quick snapshot after another. So quickly…too quickly. 

***

Wooden Ruler to her knuckles. Pain biting. Hard. Crying. Do not lie to me. 

She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t. The letters had truly changed places in front of her. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t…

***

A hand grasping underneath her chin, so tightly that it hurt. Steel grey eyes. Her eyes. She inherited them. 

Your resemblance to a mole rat is rather unfortunate. But don’t worry. I am sure you’ll make a proper wife someday. To a farmer maybe. 

That was alright. She could be a wife. She wanted to be a wife. Even to a farmer…she…She wanted to be a wife. She wanted to have children…a baby…

***

Molten ore being poured into her veins. Humanity burned away. Fury. So much fury poured over her body. Your sister stole from me… And she paid the price. In blood and pain and drowning. 

Heat and Cold and burning alive and freezing…

She hit the floor, her whole body not her own…not anymore. 

Not her body. Never her body. Never again. 

***

Again. And Again. And Again. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

A quiet moan as she pulled at her ears, too long, too pointy, not hers, not hers, she never wanted these, but they were there sprouting from her head and they heard too much and she saw too much and she…

Back and Forth and Back and Forth…Iron taste in her mouth, too sharp teeth biting into her lip. 

She didn’t care. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth and maybe she would fall asleep and she wouldn’t hear heartbeats and she wouldn’t hear voices and she wouldn’t be heard, sat in that closet, in that tight and dark little place, because everything else felt too much. 

Back and Forth and Back and Forth and Back and Forth…

***

Peace. For the first time…in a long time. Peace. Just her hands, stitching on that button, one after another…the notes building in her throat. A children’s lullaby. Feyre had loved it. 

Stop your screeching, girl, I am getting a headache.

Said the scary one. 

The words stuck in her throat. 

She didn’t do it again. Not where anybody could hear it. 

She should make no noises. She wasn’t allowed to make any noises. Not allowed to take up any space. 

***

Screams muffled by pillows, shaking and crying and weeping and she didn’t know how she could stand it…Griefing and crying and she wanted to shout and scream and she couldn’t…she couldn’t…she couldn’t…

***

She was a failure. She always was a failure. Never enough. It didn’t matter what she did. She was dumb, she was stupid, she wasn’t good enough. 

As far as cauldron-made goes, she is pretty much useless.

So pretty. So beautiful…so blonde, with golden hair. So powerful. Everything she wasn’t. 

Everything she shouldn’t be.

Laughter. 

It was the truth. She was useless. 

She couldn’t do what came so easily to everybody else. No winnowing. No anything. Not good enough. Regardless of how hard she tried. 

***

Please. Please. Please. Just once…Just one time…

Garden. Wrought Iron table and chairs…broad wings sunning in the sun…a quiet conversation…a male’s laugh. So beautiful…so handsome…so kind. 

Her sister turned…he smiled. 

So beautiful.  So handsome. So kind. Hazel green eyes…dark curly hair. 

She wanted him. 

But he didn’t want her. 

So in love. With Elain. 

Not with her. Never with her. Never would be. 

Nobody would ever want her. He wouldn’t ever want her. 

***

Her sister. Her sister. Regardless of anything. 

Don’t come crying to me if she bites off your head. I warned you.

She wouldn’t. Her tears didn’t matter. To anybody. She would deal with them herself. It was her own fault. She didn’t listen. 

She couldn’t listen. Her sister. Her sister. 

Her fault. 

She should know better. 

***

Don’t you have anything better to do? Like make another ugly dress?

Silver embroidery floss, red silk. 

Black thread. 

Little hands painstakingly stitching, only for the dress to be just as painstakingly wrapped up and put in the chest at the bottom of her bed, never to be seen again. It was better that way. 

Never would be worn by a bride on her wedding day…or a Valkyrie on the day of her mating ceremony. 

Ugly Dresses. Not pretty enough. Not good enough. Never good enough. Not for Nesta. Not for anybody. 

***

Her own fault. Shouldn’t eavesdrop. They never heard anything good about themselves. 

We don’t need Eira. Quite frankly, it’s better if she doesn’t go. Elain is the prettier one, anyway.

Nobody needed her. Better if she didn’t bother anybody. Elain was prettier. Always was. Always would be. She was the ugly one. She wasn’t needed. She was worth nothing. 

***

Delicate tea. Ginger Cookies. Her sister’s favourite. Sun outside in the garden, dancing on the wooden floor…

Eira, find somewhere else to be. I really have more important things to do. 

Of course. She was a bother. She shouldn’t. She should know better. Others were more important. Shouldn’t bother. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. 

***

Quiet. Don’t bother anybody. Make yourself useful. 

Nyx. 

So beautiful. 

Just like Feyre. 

Sing. Softly. So nobody could hear. 

So nobody… just Nyx. Hers and not hers. Feyre’s. 

Envy. So much envy, because she wished she had what her sister had. She wished she had a husband and a baby and somebody that loved her. 

Somebody who didn’t hate her. But she didn’t. 

So she sang. Another human lullaby for the future High Lord. 

Again and Again and again and her broken heart broke even more. 

***

Blue velvet box. Winter solstice. 

Pearl Earrings. Beautiful. So beautiful. 

But for her…for her useless. Her ears weren’t pierced. 

He hadn’t even noticed that. It hurt worse than even his smiles at her sister. 

He had brought her a gift…but it wasn’t a gift that she could use, no gift that…no gift that was special to her…no thought behind it… just an item on a list to be checked off. 

Something for Eira. Beautiful and Impersonal and…

No attention paid to her. 

She didn’t deserve his attention. Never. 

But she wanted it. Just once…

Please, Please, Please, Please…

***

She wanted to help. She always wanted to help. 

At least I found two males in my life willing to marry me. The one you have your ridiculous puppy crush on is never even going to look at you!

Her sister. Her sister. Her sister. 

She wished to cease existing. She didn’t care anymore. 

She could disappear and she would do them all a favour. 

Especially him. 

***

Fledgeling happiness shattered like a glass bottle on a stone floor. 

Could you at least try to get over him? It’s…it would be better for…this court.

Her feelings. An inconvenience. Should get over them. Now. Before they make trouble. 

Even when she never told anybody. Kept that secret close to her heart….

Of course. She would never tell him. 

She would never say a word. She would close her eyes and wish herself far, far away. 

Better that way. 

Wasn’t good enough. Useless. Stupid to think that she had a chance. She didn’t. Ugly. Not Enough. Worthless. Do not take up space. Melt into the background. Cease to exist. 

***

Rhys snapped himself from her brain, and then promptly wretched, vomiting onto the floor. 

[johannesviii]

Nearly every time I've rewatched Infinity Train Book 3 since I first saw it in February, I saw more parallels and narrative echos, and infodumping my friends about them isn't enough anymore

I figured I should do a post about this one because I don't think I've seen a post about that specific thing yet, and I love this show's writing, and. idk. I just need to praise it I guess

So, the most obvious part first:

Grace became everything she hated about her parents

When Grace mentions her mother in the Debutante Ball Car, it's made pretty clear she's trying to distance herself from her mother as much as possible, and at this point, we realise retrospectively that Grace's room in the Mall Car in episode one was full of sports clothes - it seems she tries to avoid things reminding her of her life before the train. And of her mother. And yet-

She tries to control everyone and everything around her, and makes people do what she doesn't want to do

And she decides what's cool and what isn't

She makes people kneel in her presence, like her mother towers over her in her mind's eye

Obviously she constantly lies to get what she wants, and her dad does that in her tape

When her younger self looks up, she looks right through adult Grace, and it's actually her parents she's looking at! Her younger self is metaphorically seeing her parents where her adult self is standing!! I still can't get over this shot

Also I feel the need to mention her mother has the same voice actor as her in her tape and even if it might be to cut corners in the budget, that feels significant (and to be fair, sometimes you can cut corners while making meaningful choices at the same time)

Now you might think I'd have nothing to say about Simon on that matter, since we don't see any flashback of his life before the Train, and we know next to nothing about his parents. But I think it's very telling that the only actual backstory we get for him is his backstory with The Cat.

Because-

Simon became everything he hated about The Cat

Ok I never see anyone mentioning this, but hear me out

First, we have no idea if Simon knew The Cat was routinely invading people's privacy through their memory tapes, but he sure has no issue doing the exact same thing

But that doesn't stop there. He also collects things obsessively

And makes kids collect things for him as well, by the way

He thinks he's above others, but he immediately switches to victim mode when it comes back to bite him

HE. ABANDONS. A CHILD. WHO WAS UNDER HIS CARE!!

And. Uh. They both dig their heels instead of trying to change, too

Don't get me wrong, on some level I would have liked to know what Simon's parents were like too. I would have liked that a lot. But there's a good chance it wouldn't change anything, because everything we need to know about his background to understand why he's Like That™ is already in the show

But yeah, Grace and Simon both pretend they found freedom on the Train, and both distance themselves from parental figures who are at the source of their trauma, claiming they're different and better than them - and yet they are both subconsciously repeating patterns that caused at least part of their problems and/or trauma in the first place

And since they decided that making numbers go up was good, as long as they stick to that idea, they are bound to never escape from that self-perpetuating loop of harm and trauma

And I love it

And I hate it

[koolaidoverwriting]

GENERAL DATING HEADCANONS

CHARACTERS: Eyeless Jack, Jeff the Killer, Gender Neutral Reader

Request. I wasn't sure if you meant Jack x Jeff. I stuck to separate SFW and NSFW headcanons. But you can send another ask to clarify! :)

CW: Explicit Sexual Content, But Also Romantic Fluffy Stuff, Blood, Self-Harm, Cannibalism, Biting, Not Graphic

NSFW UNDER CUT! MINORS DNI!

EYELESS JACK

SFW:

Jack doesn't feel as much empathy or sympathy as other people. It definitely takes a long time for him to warm up to you, let alone get comfortable enough to date you.

Jack is an outlier in the mansion. He likes being alone, doing his own thing. Plus, a lot of people don't like his bluntness and sarcasm.

His tar spills faster when he's upset, but it's pretty much gone when he's happy. That's why he hardly cries tar around you.

He has a hard time showing affection through his words, but you know he loves you. Sometimes, he just pops up and holds your hand, or wraps his arms around you.

When you're hurt, he tends to your wounds, cooks you warm meals, and stays by your side. It's a mutual silence where you're just enjoying each others' presence.

Jack is a bookworm. You spot the books he reads and you check them out. Jack is over the moon when you randomly reference his favourite book. "Did you really read that for me?"

Surprisingly, Jack talks a lot. He rants about his interests in gardening and science.

Speaking of gardening, he'll most definitely grow your favourite flowers for you. He'd give you handmade bouquets and flower crowns, as well as perfumes and scented candles.

Jack isn't against light–hearted teasing. He says flirty things just to catch you off guard since you aren't used to it. Most of these "flirty things" are phrases he heard from TV shows.

He does try to get you to try kidneys. If you refuse it because it's raw, he'll cook it for you. If you refuse it because it's gross, he'll shrug a shoulder and eat it himself.

NSFW:

Jack is gentle with you. He knows how much smaller you are in comparison, so he makes sure he doesn't bruise you.

If you allow it, he'll bite you enough to draw blood, but nothing more.

His ears are sensitive! Licking or biting them gets him all worked up.

Jack has three tongues that overlap in his mouth, meaning he's a fucking demon with oral sex. His tongues squirm inside of you, hitting all the right spots. He could eat you out for hours before substituting his tongues for his cock.

When he sees you're close, he only fucks you harder.

Jack's cock doesn't fit inside you all the way. Your senses leave you, and you're a drooling, blubbering mess as he rams into your entrance.

After you're done, he'll clean up any blood that spilled and kiss your bite marks. While cuddling, he asks you what you want to eat. He'll cook anything for you.

JEFF THE KILLER

SFW:

Jeff lives in the mansion and has been living there since he was 17. Before that, he lived with a blind old woman who thought he was her grandson.

Dating him means you're going to have to get used to his angry outbursts until he learns how to control them better. He tends to lash out and then apologise later. You're sure with enough patience, things might get better. Especially because you know he's trying his best.

He loves emo music. In fact, he collects merchandise from the concerts he sneaks into. At night, you get to cuddle with Jeff while some emo song blasts on his speaker.

He also plays the electric guitar and would love to teach you how to play. And if you already know how to play, he'll get really excited about duetting with you.

Jeff has had self-esteem issues since the incident. He tries everything to make himself "beautiful", taking extensive care of his skin, hair and clothes.

He believes the scar makes him look better, maybe because it distracts from other parts of his face he's insecure about. He refreshes his cut every month.

You have to remind him that he's beautiful just the way he is. There are nights where you argue over it, but you try everything you can to help him overcome his insecurities — or at least accept his flaws.

He has a knife collection. He paints the handles of his knives all different colours. Some days, you could sit and talk with Jeff while you paint knife handles together.

"Can I test the sharpness on you?" "What?" "...I'm joking."

Jeff isn't a good cook. He never put time into learning how to cook. You, knowing he has to learn at some point, convince him you're on a "cooking date" whenever you want to teach him how to make a meal.

NSFW:

I already have a NSFW post for Jeff, but these are softer alternatives for when he's in a relationship.

Known fact: Jeff will use his knife during sex. He enjoys grazing it across your skin, smiling at your "cute" reactions.

The tip of the knife scratches your thighs. Your legs twitch as he looks into your eyes with a needy look.

Jeff likes seeing your desperation. He loves it when you grind against him, begging for his cock. He'll keep his hands off you, forcing you to grind helplessly. "Horny little bitch... Yeah, tell me how much you want me."

He fucks you at a rough, unstable rhythm as he tries to reach his peak. When he's in the zone, it's only his orgasm that matters to him.

Jeff mutters profanities under his breath with almost every thrust. It's a mixture of praise and degradation. "Fuck... D–Damn slut... You feel so fucking good..."

For aftercare, he doesn't do much. Just small things like giving you water and cuddling with you in bed. It's simple and it's nice.

!!! i'm very sorry if you meant "jack x jeff"! feel free to let me know in another ask, though!

[meo-eiru]

heyy!! here I am with some more thoughts, this time about Elias.

honestly, for some reason, he seems like a very lonely person to me. you mentioned his will to change himself (and go to extreme lengths in that); also his almost paranoid fear of darling leaving him, (delete all of your contacts except for him, etc) – usually such level of jealousy is a sign of very low self-esteem. dunno if it's true, I just had a feeling that he's super insecure deep down. (he's afraid to look bad in our eyes, remember? to an unhealthy extent.)

and he's so empty. so beautiful on the outside, but so so empty. he loves you, he exists for you, isn't that enough? it isn't. you can't feel genuine affection for someone just because they look good. and Elias knows that! he's actually self conscious (unlike some elf with big tatas), but he can't offer you anything else, which must make him feel even more insecure, because deep down he knows that he won't be able to keep you by his side forever.

actually that will of his to go to extreme lengths for us is pretty frightening. how toxic it can be? depends on the darling! because if you are a normal person, you'd be patient with him, change him, and have a happy ever after and all those boring things. but what if Elias happens to fall in love with an unreasonable and possessive monster?

I feel like he'd go very well with a darling who's yandere for him too. and a stereotypical one at that, who'd want to keep him by their side like a pretty doll. get it? not a life partner, not even a human. a doll, a pretty thing to take care of. they would choose pretty clothes for him, brush his hair, but at the end of the day, he's nothing more but a pretty thing, an object.

I really like the doll metaphor for Elias. (I'm a huge doll lover, I ever have one of that super expensive bjd) dolls are beautiful, but aren't alive. they can't be someone you'd open your heart to; under their shiny porcelain skin, they're hollow.

unlike Silas, Elias is a more tragic character in my eyes. he's willing to carve his bones to whatever shape you desire, because if he isn't validated and noticed by you, he has no value. and you (if you are a normal person) will grow tired and bored of him, sooner or later. he wants to be loved, when there's pretty much nothing to love in him.

unlike Silas, his love can ruin only himself.

(I swear it's not like I want to see him suffer in particular. I'm open to all kinds of despair, pain and sadness, whether it yan's or darling's!)

(also I tried to find his colour scheme, but all I found was you mention his hair, so it's just how I think he looks like.)

DHDKDHDKYS NOT ONLY IS YOUR ANALYZES AMAZING YOU ALSO DREW ELIAS??? AND HOW DID YOU GET HIS COLOR SCHEME SO RIGHT???

I love you thank you god I love asks like yours.

You’re very on point, Elias is like a pretty doll. Beautiful on the outside but completely empty inside, and that beauty is the only thing that gives him any kind of worth. He’s aware of this more than anyone.

He’s not rich, he doesn’t have an amazingly successful career, no hobbies, no specialities, no interests. He’s extremely pathetic and all he can do is pitifully attempt to pull you down to his level.

That’s why committing self harm comes so easily to him even if he doesn’t yearn for it. Endangering himself, his only value, his body, is the only way he can keep you with him. He doesn’t have any power over you he can use against you. He only has this disgustingly and pathetically beautiful body.

He wants to be loved by you, he wants you to be obsessed with him as much as he is with you, but deep down he knows he doesn’t have any qualities that could deserve such love. That is why he leans into his appearance so hard, since the moment he was born that face of his was the only thing that gave him any sort of value.

If you find any part of him ugly he’ll have no choice but to try to fix it even if it completely ruins him. Because he thinks that’s the only way for him to keep your eyes on him. He’s just through and through pathetic. Extremely pitiful.

He would indeed roll well with a yandere reader who treats him like a living doll. Because Elias wants to be values by you, even if it means getting stripped of the little sense of identity he had. He wants you to keep your eyes on him and see him as an object who exists for your satisfaction. Because at the end of the day that is what he is. An empty shell who was unfortunate enough to be born with the ability to love.

Elias’ existence can’t handle his own love. He’ll start breaking from inside out like a doll under pressure. That’s why he needs your reassurance, he needs you to reaffirm his worth. He can’t exist for himself so he needs to exist for you. He might be a beautiful shell of a human but he too can have some sort of value if he’s being used like a tool by you.

But watching you also makes him feel extremely jealous and frustrated. Because you have everything he doesn’t have. You have hobbies, things you enjoy, things you do for yourself, people who stay with you not for your outer shell but for who you are inside. Everything Elias never had and never will.

That’s why he tries so hard to ruin your relationships and threaten you to stay with him, to keep you at his level like a pathetic bug. Because you’re not like him. You can abandon him any day of the week and continue your life like you lost nothing, but Elias isn’t like that. If he loses you he truly will have nothing left.

So please love him, ruin him, break him, treat him right, use him, make him feel alive, give him some sort of value. Please be kind to Elias. He needs you more than anyone on this world

[amaranthine-apollo]

i was wondering if you could do some sort of jinx x reader in which the reader somehow gets hurt and possibly dies due to the injury infront of jinx?? (sorry im not specific and im a sucker for angst lol)

thanks!

“ᴛɪʟʟ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴅᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ”- ᴊɪɴx

-——————————𒅌——————————-

•How Jinx would react to her lovers sudden death and the effects it would have on her- {GN reader}

Fandom: Arcane

Genre: Angst/ Bullet points

Warning(s): Death, violence, gore, self harm

-——————————𒅌——————————-

⌖ Immediately she freezes in her tracks whilst all hell continues to break out around her. Time does not stop for her as she stares at your corpse, gunshot wounds inflicted by the guns enforcers wield littering your body with holes that weeped copious amounts of blood. It’s like the gears in her mind stop and her own legs nearly give in at the sight until the weight of someone crashing into her side snaps her out of her disbelief. And as the chaos goes on her first action is to rush over to your body, frantically struggling to pick you up while signaling towards Sevika to guard her as she rushes you back into Zaun.

⌖ All of her previous plans are eradicated from her mind as she runs through the narrow alleyways back to where she hides out a majority of the time. There was no time for her to call for help so that maybe you’d have a sliver of a chance of saliva. No, she could feel just how frigid your skin had become the moment she’d picked you up. You were dead on the spot, and you had the wounds on your chest and sides to prove that.

⌖ She’s hyperventilating as she clutches onto your stained clothes with a desperation she hasn’t felt in a while. The fabric is damp with crimson and when she bunches it up within her fists your blood is what flows out and drips onto the flooring. And as her eyes wearily drop downward to stare at her bloodied hands she finally lets out a guttural, broken scream. Next thing she knows she sobbing against your neck, blubbering out incoherent apologies against your skin until her voice is going hoarse.

⌖ She lays there with your body in her arms for hours upon hours, even after her voice gives away and her heart stops pounding painfully against her ribs. She simply cradles you in her hold, subconsciously petting your hair as her mind plays back the events leading to your death in her head over and over like a broken record.

⌖ After she pries herself away from you she begins to get your body ready to lay down to rest. Her hands are still trembling violently despite how she seems calmer now on the outside. Tears well up in the corners of her eyes that threaten to spill whenever she blinks but she tries her hardest to not break down again. If not for her own sake then for yours. She grabs various items of yours: some clothing, jewelry, and other trinkets belonging to you. She adorns your body with some of your necklaces and rings and shrugs on the jacket she crafted you herself by hand onto your shoulders. The rest of the things she’s gotten lay on your chest as she secured them with a piece of fabric so that they wouldn’t slip off.

⌖ Your burial is nothing special admittedly; but then again how would it be in Zaun? Whilst the filthy rich over in Piltover bury their loved ones in casket’s gloriously crafted with a tombstone where they lay the blue haired girl is left to place your corpse in one of the spots you and her would frequently visited or was your favorite and just.. place you there. If your death is after Silco’s and you had a strong enough bond with the man she may dip you into the very same water she’d taken Silco to.

⌖ Jinx’s hallucinations only worsen, especially on holidays you used to celebrate with her or towards certain anniversaries like when you both first got together and so on. It gets to a point to where it cripples her mentally and she finds herself in a deep depression that she struggles to get out of. All she sees and hears is you in front of her, berating and belittling her for doing this to you- for causing your death. Your lifeless eyes digging into her with such a hatred she ends up on the ground in a fetal position with her nails clawing deep red lines into her arms until she’s bleeding.

⌖ Her hatred towards Piltover spirals only further as a result of your absence and after staying hidden drowning in her own sorrows she’s planning attack after attack on them. It’s like a suicide mission more times than not with how violent her schemes get, and a part of her isn’t against the fact she may die fighting. She feels a sense of pride at the damage she causes, knowing that shes taking from the very people who stole everything from her.

⌖ Sevika often sees her struggle and after a while she suggests for her to get something made in your name to lessen how much your death still affects her mentally. So, she gives herself a tattoo that was symbolic of you. It’s right on her chest where her heart is, and sometimes when shes by herself she’ll run her hand over it and imagine it’s you she’s running her hand over. Your clothes are apart of hers now, taking a few of the rugged pieces to sew together on her own clothes in patches. She’ll also make a doll resembling you with two buttons the same color of your eyes. All of these things are what hold her together, and even though she’ll never get over your death and the love she felt towards you she’ll be damned if the memory of you ever dies.

[laurorne]

༊*·˚ CRAVING YOUR WARMTH | aegon ii targaryen x targaryen bastard sister!reader

summary: two dragons who seek to move closer for warmth during their grief must remain apart, as they can only hurt one another with their sharp teeth and barely contained flames. though they both share the intentions of a close relationship, they're unable, for reasons they cannot avoid.

content: targaryen incest, angst, allusion of self-mutilation/harm, bastardphobia in westeros, night after intimacy suggested, self-hatred, blood, wonky metaphors and personification, no beta we die like vizzy t, badly written angst, that damn necklace

word count: 1.5k

a/n: let me tell you that i struggle writing angst, but god do i love reading it. i'm like my own self entertaining paradoxical concept and it astounds me

A gentle hand smoothing over his back is what stirs him from the throes of sleep, nails skating along his marked skin softly enough to tickle. He shifts as the hand moves from the expanse of his back up to his hair, rubbing circles into the crown of his head. Twirling bits of hair between deft fingers as she presses a kiss to the slope of his shoulder.

He hums, limbs stretching out clumsily as he rolls onto his side, fingers weak as his hand dances along the goose-down duvet until it reaches her. Her, and her softness, and her warmth.

“Wife.” He’s barely awake, even with the exasperated sigh that comes from his older sister.

“We are not wed, Aegon.” A gentle reminder from soft lips, her eyes taking in his tired demeanour, the curve of his brow.

She brushes the strand of choppy hair from his face, thumb dragging along the apple of his cheek.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, lids finally fluttering open as he stares up at her with those watery eyes. The ones he knew made her weak to suggestion. He lets his hand creep up her calf –where he can still feel the divets of scars from their childhood running through the gardens– until it finds home on the hand she has in her lap, he threads his fingers with hers. The number of rings adorning her fingers was thanks to him: he and his obsession with keeping his older sister glamoured. 

Imported Dornish rings that gleamed with the heat of the sun, Essosi ornate cloth and dresses that were far from the modesty of Court, hair pins adorned with pearls from the Summer Isles, and an intricate necklace crafted from the smelted metal of a Valyrian sword, inlaid with gemstones he had pulled from the Red Keeps vaults.

She was wearing it now, the stones gleaming under the sun that spotted through the lace curtains of her room. The engraved details scatter the few beams of light they catch like dew drops upon spider silk. The stones dangle between the valley her breasts create, the smallest of them twirls some intricate dance as she shifts. Like molten silver, it fits her without any of the stiffness metal should have. 

“We should be.” He glances down at his hand intertwined with hers and watches her thumb rub over his —in the way she always has ever since childhood— it makes him all the more rueful.

He’s hopeful, far beyond it. His bones ache and his head throbs from a swelling hangover, and he feels his throat ache something terrible at its use. His eyes trail from their hands to her face, he wants anything aside from sorrow to be there.

It’s worse. 

Her brows are furrowed as she stares down at him with pity, oh how he wishes it wasn’t pity.

“Oh, sweet boy.” She pulls her hand from his grasp and holds his face in her gentle hands with all the care he needs. “Some things, they just can’t be.”

His lip curls, a pathetic smile covering his visage as he cups the backs of her hands in his own. “But they could. Helaena would not care, she loathes our marriage. As do I. We could take Valyrian vows on Dragonstone. Just as our sister and uncle have. We could leave.”

“Aegon.” A wistful breath of his name, pained and twisted with grief of things that never were and never will.

“We don’t need to stay. Just you and I, riding atop Sunfyre. Across the Narrow Sea.” He moves onto his knees, staring into her wet doe-like eyes as he speaks. He doesn’t leave her an opportunity to doubt him. Doesn’t allow her to pull away as he keeps her hands on his jaw.

Her lips twitch and so do her fingers against his. “Aegon, don’t be foolish.”

���You mustn’t know what you mean to m-”

“Aegon, please.” She tries to pull away now, but he winds his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck and presses forward. Wine-stained lips crushing against the curve of her nose, fluttering across her brow like the gentle wings of a cotton moth as it devours silks and linen allied— devourer of all things beautiful and plain. 

He drags his lips to hers finally, soaking her up in a way only someone as depraved as he could. It’s like stretching out upon a rock after not feeling the son for years, like stripping yourself of shackles you’ve worn since birth. Her lips are chapped, a split in her lips from all the worrying she does to the poor thing scratches along his upper. He surges forward, pulling her so fully against him that it fills some empty part of him, like a puzzle piece that’s never been slotted into place. But oh —how it has— and how it always disappears just as quickly as it comes to him. He licks at her bottom lip, sucks it into his mouth and shudders out a breath as she reciprocates. Her lashes fluttering against his cheeks as they finally shut, as she cups his neck and presses her butterfly kisses onto him, licks into his mouth as she breathes hotly across his face in a way only Aegon can enjoy.

He nips at her tongue accidentally, overexcited and eager as he is. And that seems to bring her back from whatever hole he had dragged her into. But he persists, hand drifting down to the smooth metal of her necklace as he thumbs at a jewel. He tries to savour her presence even as her face scrunches and her fingers fist the hairs behind his ears. It nearly pains Aegon, with the way his head tilts away from her just slightly, Adams apple jumping against pale skin as he stares oh-so adoringly, heady breaths stinking of wine fanning her bruised lips.

“We could start a family in Essos. As many children as you want.” He desperately reaches for her again.

“Aegon.” 

“A home in Braavos, on the beach. Where we could lo-”

A hiccuped sob that withers in her throat is what stops him, punches the wind from his lungs.

Her lips are pursed and her hands have loosed upon his hair and move to cup his ruddy cheeks. Nails pressing into the flesh of his face hazardously. His eyes are dark and his lips part as he stares up at her, he sees the tears edging along her waterline. That deep frown she has when she’s trying not to cry, whether it's about something he had done or when she’s ordered by their Grandsire to stop her hysterics.

“Aegon,” It’s a sullen whisper as she lets his face go entirely, fingers slipping down his chest before they land in her lap again. “I am not a trueborn daughter. I will never be. I am not right in the mind. I will birth lunatics and monsters and wailing death. You can’t love me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, for once he has no sharp-tongued quip or comment. He pushed her from a height, just when she had finally reached the top of her spire. He retracts, fingers loosening from the grip he had on her pale hair, and lets her fall back onto the plush of her bed as she stares up at him like he’s burnt her. Like he’s dragged a dagger across the soft of her flesh and told her he never loved her. She pushes herself away, curling in on herself as tears cut through the flush of her cheeks. A wobbly exhale, and another as he drags a hand through her hair.

Her fingers dance down her neck and across the skin of her arms where they find home on the pale scars marring the upper parts of her arms. He can see her fingertips quivering with the urge to dig. To pull at chords of muscle beneath her skin and scratch at her bones. She had told him about things she saw. Things that hunted at the edge of her vision and scattered when she went looking. Dreams that came to the waking world with her. A pale man with the stench of darkness seeping from his pores.

“I love yo-” He leans forward to comfort her. 

“You don’t.”

“I know that I love you.”

“You know nothing, Aegon.” She pulls herself to the edge of the bed and drags herself to stand, the silk bedsheets slip away and her goosebumps raise upon her bruise-marred skin, she’s as bare as the day she was born. Her throat is too tight and her necklace feels heavy as she stumbles to the secret passage, she slips from the room unbidden and leaves a smudge of blood on the wooden grain of the bookcase as Aegon sits in her bed. Salty tears of his own roll down his face as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

[fenrysmoonbeamswife]

Some rando tiktok comment that made my eye twitch: "I love Feyre and Lucien's friendship and want them to be best friends forever. He's not to blame for her suffering but he should have done more, she would've done anything to help him."

*deeeeeeeep breath*

All of this is disproven in the text. Lucien was willing to die for Feyre, multiple times, while Feyre literally has a quote ignoring all of that and only praising Rhysand, you know, the guy who abused/s her.

Lucien was also a victim of Tamlin yet he still stood up to him for Feyre while she actively used him as a pawn and put him in harms way with Tamlin.

Lucien stuck with her and even went through the Autumn Court knowing he could be killed. Then when they finally got to the Night Court, Feyre left him tired and hungry and in soiled clothes so she could *checks notes* have sex.

She gets him to come to Solstice twice and doesn't get him a gift either time, but he brings one for them both times

For whatever reason he is supposed to put her first always, go to extreme lengths for her, stand up to their abuser, and more. And even when he does do all of this, it's dismissed and ignored. Nevermind that she never once considers him, considers if he is okay after UTM, considers him as a victim or that he might be suffering too. I actually do like Feyre but she can be extremely self centered and frequently fails to consider anyone outside of herself or the Inner Circle throughout the series (Lucien and Nesta being huge examples)

The only thing I can think of that she has done for him was hurting Ianthe and even at that it was implied that she only intervened after thinking of how Rhysand was hurt in a similar way, not because of Lucien

She allows everyone else to treat him like dirt and violate his thoughts without even blinking, and for some reason it's perfectly okay that she found new friends but it's not for him? After she basically abandoned him he managed to find these new friends and her response was to mock him and bully him?

But sure, Lucien could do more and Feyre is the perfect friend. Please.

It's also crazy that in ACOMAF Feyre calls Lucien out for "not doing more to stand up to her abuser" yet she's in the exact same position now with Rhysand and the Inner Circle. Except with Lucien she was blaming a fellow victim, now she's in a worse position stuck with her abuser and his lackeys and she doesn't even seem to notice

And don't get me wrong. I don't expect Feyre to be a better friend, I don't even expect them to stay friends or particularly care if they do because I think Lucien deserves better. And Feyre doesn't owe him any specific behaviour or treatment but to say that she's a better friend or would do anything for him is a complete and utter joke

[yaut-jaknowit]

Back again with yet another idea -🥤

So this could be with any of the beans but I was thinking that the reader got caught by some bad bloods or human and experimented on. One of those being something that slowly transforms them into a yautja. The reader might try to hide this from their mate (like the scales slowly appearing, how sensitive your senses are becoming) but the reader can’t hide much from an experienced yautja

The Wrong Secret to Hold

Pairings: Ahtaal (Male Yautja) x GN!Reader

Warnings: mentions of self harm (needing to rip off skin) (?)

Word Count: 2334

Summary: Ahtaal may no be an enforcer but when he found out you were stolen right off of his ship, he became one. Just for that reason. He tracked you down through the stars until he was able to pinpoint your location. From there, he tore apart the bad bloods who stole you. But it was already too late. The bad bloods had already planted a seed.

Author Note: I love the fact you called them beans! I'm going to refer to them like that for now on. It's always great to see from you Cup Anon!

Masterlist

Ao3

Three weeks has passed since Athaal saved you from a cunning duo of Bad Bloods. He may not be an enforcer but he took upon himself to kill them after they kidnapped you. Right from the safety of his spacecraft. A mistake he has since learned from, increasing the security of the ship’s systems. He had almost lost you, his mate.

After he retrieved you, gaining the two skulls of those who wronged you. Both of them hang nicely above your shared bed. A bed you were curled up in, even after being awake for at least three hours. Three hours of rest you desperately needed. In the end, they were lost.

The nest like bed built into the floor was usually comfort, perfect to curl up in and nap. Everything was too much. The room was too cold. The air too dry. The blankets too scratchy. Then, there was the noise of the engines. They caused a raging headache to pound in your skull, driving away every rational thought in your mind.

Everything was too much.

This had progressed ever since Ahtaal saved you from those Bad Bloods. Your memory of your time with them was foggy, blurry of what they might have done to you. It wasn’t long they held you but they had changed something in you. You blamed it on the trauma they had put you through, part of the reason why you couldn’t recall what happened to you.

Athaal saw an uptick in your heartbeats. Not by much, only ten on average, but called it normal. Fear of a prey animal only reacting. That was that.

Then, the oversensitivity began to grow. Even the clothes Athaal had stolen for you from earth were too much to put on. Yet, your mind warred on the fact being naked was bad or being driving into insanity when you could feel your own skin. You had to reframe yourself from scratching your skin off every time you breathed.

All the blankets had been pushed of out the massive concave bed. They had been touching you, grazing your skin. The feel of them made you want crawl out of your own body and throw yourself into a pit of lava.

As this progressed as well, you refrained from telling Athaal. He’s been stressed since you’ve been napped right from underneath his mandibles. He’s been working hard on the ship, ensuring the same thing never happens to you again. Plus, with the killing, he also had to make a case against his clan’s court about the legal execution of the Bad Bloods. Not that the seem to disagree but it all revolve around the honor code. To keep the balances and checks in their strict system.

The last thing that Athaal needed added to his plate was whatever was affecting you. It would pass. It was just trauma. Your scenes overworking to keep you safe after such an attack.

Until you wondered into the bathroom to relieve yourself only to find… scales?! Your hands grasped the porcelain sink, heart beating at a thousand miles per second. You felt lightheaded, legs ready to give out at any moment. There were scales starting to grow on your chest.

Your fingertips gingerly touched the rough patches and winced since they were sensitive too. Tears burned your eyes, right on the edge of falling. Why was this happening to you? What was happening to you?! There’s no scientific reason for something like this to occur. You didn’t know of any disease in the universe that could cause this to appear.

What strength you had left, you stumbled back to the bed and collapsed onto it. The softness of the bed irritated your skin and made it feel like hot pokers were digging into where the cushion touched you. With an annoyed growl, you climbed back out and laid on your back.

The floor was unforgiving, cool to the touch. Yet, it was an improvement to the bed that made you want to desperately claw at your own skin. You huffed and curled up into a ball, hands covering your head as if protecting you from an attack. Your scenes were still on fire, driving you up the nearest wall. But, the energy to move was gone. Then, you were asleep. A fitful, restless sleep.

Raging hungry stirred you from your wasteful nap. A growl sounded from the back of your throat, sounding deep and dangerous. You stretched out only to bump into something warm. You froze. Then, slowly, you creeped your gaze over your shoulder to find the red form of Ahtaal sleeping at your back, chest facing you. Fear creeped into your heart, pumping into your veins. The lump in your throat was swallowed down thought. He wasn’t awake.

One of his arms was draped over your torso and kept you securely pressed against his body. At any other time, you would’ve enjoyed this soft moment with him. His loving embrace. But his heat, the texture of the scales on his chest. It was overwhelming.

Despite the love for him telling you to endure this discomfort, you grasped his wrist and held it up. It weighed a lot due to the muscles that cord it. But, you were able to roll out from underneath him. You climbed out of the bed then stopped and turned to look down at him for a fleeting moment. He was still, breathing normal, eyes closed. He hadn’t woken up.

A soft sigh of relief left you. You about faced again and snuck away towards the kitchen. Anything to quell this pang of hunger that curled and boiled deep inside of you. In all of your years, you’ve never felt like before. Even if you hadn’t ate the day before, and you had.

The open kitchen was dark as you worked inside of it, not needing light on to see. You worked diligently. Two bowls of fruits and a plate of dried meat was your preparing meal. Even that seemed not to be enough for you in the sight of your eyes.

Unease crawled up your spine. Instinct roared its head. A growl rumbled from the depths of your chest as you leaned over your prepare food, eyes darting out to the open space. Your teeth bared.

Ahtaal stood in the doorway of the kitchen, posture lax but eyes watchful. Your growl lessened until he took a step towards you. One of your hands slammed down on the counter. Part of the warnings that ranged from you not to step an inch closer. This was your food. No one would take it from you.

Through the darkness of the ship, you saw the way his head jerked back and he didn’t move any closer. The whisper of your name rolled off of his forked tongue. Questioning. Your piercing gaze refused to move away from the threat that could take away your nourishment. Food you were desperate to consume but not with him there. Eating would be an opportunity for attack.

His dark form stepped back and eased the pressure his presence seemed to caused to you. Your growled lightened slightly but your eyes didn’t wander. They were pinned strictly on him. His brows furrowed before he slowly knelt down. Anything to appear he wasn’t a threat to you, his mate. Submissive as the position seemed, he did it for you.

Your name fell from his tongue again. That’s when your scenes, this primal instinct started to clear. You shook your head, eyes flickering down to the floor. All of your thoughts scrambled as you attempted to make sense of what you just did.

One of your hands covered your mouth. What was that? Terror overtook every emotion inside of you. Your gaze met his again but as the prey you were. The exit was blocked by his kneeling body. Your heart pounded like a bird desperate for escape. You back away from him and the food, back meeting the wall opposite to him.

“Little one?” he softly called out to you.

Those Bad Bloods. They had done something terrible to you. There was something terrible wrong with you now. Your terrified gaze met his again. Then, you bolted.

Strong arms ensnared around your torso before you could escape. Heat pressed against your back. Your nails raked down thick scales, failing to cause any damage. Your legs kicked and hits his thighs and stomach but did nothing to deter him. Ahtaal traps your back to his chest and stand. Now, you were up in the air as he pinned you to him.

The restless sleep and everyday waking up more tired than the day before caught up to you. The adrenaline couldn’t keep up. You slowly go limp in his hold, chest heaving for breaths.

Ahtaal sets you back down on the ground and spins you around to face him. Those dark eyes of his are scanning every inch of your face and body. They narrowed down on your eyes. His hand pinched your jaw and dragged your head up. “Your eyes… they’re lightly glowing,” he grounded out. You felt his claws digging into the flesh of your cheeks for a moment.

His gaze continued until it notices the rough patch on your chest. The red giant pushes you back until your shoulder blades touched a wall. A hand softly encircling your throat to keep you pinned. He leaned down. His free hand running over the textured skin. You hissed and squirmed in his hold. “Stop, that hurts,” you whined, voice grumbler than usual.

Next, he moved his mouth to the crook of your neck. You felt his tongue rung across the skin there. Ahtaal tensed and growled shortly.

“You smell like a Yautja.” Instantly, you thought he was thinking you were somehow cheating on him or the Bad Bloods scent still lingered on your skin. He pulled back to look you in the eye again. “But it’s your scent.” The words were softly spoken, as if in disbelief.

The hand trapping your neck drifted up to cup your cheek. “What did they do to you?” he snarled but the anger was directed at the two who stole you from him. The question was meant mainly for himself but opened for you to answer.

You swallowed hard, chest still heaving to calm your racing heart. “I-I don’t know,” you cried, tears beginning to fall down your cheeks. “Something’s wrong with me. Everything’s too loud. Everything’s too much. The air is too dry. It’s cold. My skin… I can feel everything!” Even his hand touching you was starting to drive you insane. The texture was rough against your sensitive skin.

Everything went still. But you could easily hear the engines rumbling, his heart pounding. You could smell his concern, his confusion, his anger. You could read him the same way he could read you.

His furrow deepened before his hand softly left your cheek. It was instant relief. Less contact. Less touch. Less everything.

“I keep the ship colder for you. I lessen the humidity for you,” he muttered and returned to his full height, gaze blank. He was working overtime in his mind. The gears spinning quickly to come up with a solution. You stood leaning against the wall, fingers twitching with the need to rip your own skin off again. “And… you can see in the dark, can’tcha?” Your weak sigh answered him, eyes closing to block out everything.

He took a couple of steps back and shakes his head, trying to deny this. Internally, he was attempting to put the pieces together. To figure out what they have done to his mate. Yet, none of it made sense. The site he found you at… those Bad Bloods, they- his mind stopped there. Pausing as the realization dawned upon his form. Experimented. On you. His mate. They had injected something into you to change you from his perfect mate.

A deafening growled tumbled from his chest. Your hands slammed over your ears at the sound. A pained cry leaving your chapped lips. He stopped immediately and even flinched himself. Pauk.

Instantly, his first mission was to find a way to fix this. To fix you. To save you. To help you. A firm, stern gaze passed over his features. He reached out and tilted your head back. Your eyes sliding open to find the dark gaze of your mate on you. “I will find a way to help you. I will scour this entire universe for a cure,” he grounded out, voice low to help ease the pain it may cause to you.

The Yautja was beyond pissed. He wished to go back when he slaughtered those two Bad Bloods and made their death even longer. For all the pain they have caused you that’s currently injuring you. His mandibles clicked against one another in a harsh way.

You believed him. You knew he would. He’s been through thick and thin with you. You are his as much as he is yours. The corresponding marks etched into the backs of your shoulders was physical proof enough. He grunted with a nod then glanced over at forgotten food. “It seems like you have a Yautja appetite,” he stated and pulled away from you. You dipped your head and also gazed at the dishes.

“Come,” he called and strolled over to the plates. Ahtaal picked up all three skillfully and brought them over to the table. “Eat. Eat everything you desire. It will take you time to grow accustom to this new side of you. But I will help you in every step of the way.” If it didn’t hurt, you would’ve hugged and kiss the alien to death.

Slowly, you moved over and gingerly sat down in a seat he designed for your smaller statue. Until your hunger was satisfied, he fed you whatever you wanted and needed. In that moment, you knew you could never want or need anyone else besides him.

[pavosnoctua]

cw: yandere, isolation, forced imprisonment, kidnapping mentions, mdni. diluc and his complex. mentions of phys. harm but not from diluc. dubcon ment. pregnancy ment. afab reader. slight ooc on dilucs end.

blank blogs and minors dni

not my best work but the plot bunnies were working (part two might come)

You don't sleep often anymore and it worries him - you pace late at night, mumbling to yourself like some madwoman and he thinks of hiring the best physicians to see if you are okay. But the last time he did that, that had you upset and telling him to fuck off. He'd saved you, he tells himself, from the people who hit and made you cry.

Diluc misses your energy now - your spark, the thing that vindicated him and irritated him and...the only reminder you were still alive.

"Beloved, it is late." he tells you, unable to avert his eyes from your bosom, swallowing heavily as a familiar hunger overtakes him. Indecently dressed - no, appropriately dressed for bed time. But yet...he makes a mental note to have the maids get rid of all these outfits that show off too much.

Nobody else is allowed to see you in such clothes if you insist on pacing the halls like some poltergeist. You do not respond, only stepping past him to continue your nightly, hours long path.

"Bed, my beloved. You will see the sun in the morning."

"I can't sleep." you tell him, bluntly. "I cannot go outside, you have me under lock and key - I simply wish to move about."

"I allow you to help Adelinde with the chores indoors." he argues and draws in a deep breath. No - no, he won't fall for your bait. The bait that has you feeling self righteous and angrier, ammo for arguments later. "Is that not enough?"

"No! It's barely anything! Dusting here and there, organize the shelves. You never have me do tasks that could cause even just a bruise!" You're tired, sleep deprived. Energetic, yet feeling sluggish and exhausted.

And Diluc stares at you. It's a disconnected thought.

"Come back to bed with me love, we'll figure it out." There's distrust in your eyes but you obey, because arguing while you're tired gives him an advantage. Archons, forgive him because you won't.

When your head hits the pillow after you accept a drink from him - resigned, accepting, incapable of fighting at this time - he's relieved to find that you're even more tired.

"Love, I know a way to...get what we both want." Archons, forgive him.

"If - if we have sex," you murmur, understanding in your tired state. "Will I earn more privileges?"

"Yes." It's half a lie.

And he repeats, Archons forgive him.

Diluc marvels at your wet heat at first penetration - he wants to stay like this but can't. If this goes on too long, you will get upset. At least, for now, he has you.

Your privileges come with how much you're willing to agree to - and outside is precious, so you agree to a lot. You still barely sleep, but your pacing as stopped and he has you in his arms every night.

Your mouth is always soft and warm, and the perfumes from your baths are always enticing for him - his favorite scents. How he adores you.

Red marks on your neck - you complain he bites too much. You complain about him cumming inside. But you moan sweetly for him. Nicely. Desperately. Your breasts are starting to swell and there's all the telltale signs.

And yet -

All good things come to an end - when you are in tears as your growing belly, all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Diluc is elated. He's always wanted children.

He ignores your little no's as he kisses you more - after all, your freedom has come at a price and he is not a man who breaks promises.

[repulsiveliquidation]

Scars || Alexia Putellas

Summary : you finally let Alexia be intimate with you. A little detail slips your mind but she soon uncovers the truth behind your hesitation to let her love you how she wants to.

warnings : smut in the beginning but nothing too explicit. angst. mentions of self-harm and bullying.

“Mm, amor you smell so good…” Alexia moans, kissing your neck. You smile and arch your back into her, biting your lip. She leaves wet sloppy kisses along your collarbones, nipping at them slightly. You giggle and tell her to stop tickling you with her blonde brunette hair, your hands tucking the loose strands behind her ears.

You hear her take a sharp inhale of your scent and feel your core throb at the deep sigh she lets out. Your hands cradle her head as she looks up at you, eyes darting down to your lips as she licks her own.

“Used that body wash you like,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss her. She kisses back immediately and you feel her melt, large hands pulling your waist closer to her.

“So beautiful,” Alexia whispers only for you to hear, the random assortment of rings on her hands leave cold shocks on your exposed skin.

 Her hands roam your build with determination as her lips nip and nibble on your chest. She pulls the tank top off you and takes a breast into your mouth, suckling gently. You shudder and moan her name unashamedly, chasing the feeling she left on your chest as she moved to the other breast. She kneaded the other and you could feel the groan in the back of her throat, strong thighs keeping yours wide open how she wanted.

The cold air in the room kept your nipple taut and hard, her fingers rolling them around as she rushed forward to kiss you.

“May I?” she asked politely, pupils dilated and full of lust.

“Please,” you beg and you see the look in her eyes darken.

But all this fun was about to be cut short.

You forgot one tiny thing.

But you couldn’t warn her before she pulled your sweats off.

“Cariño, what is all this?”

You take a split second to understand what she meant and when you finally realize it, she had seen most of it.

“No!” you yell, pulling the sweats back over your thighs and bounding for the bathroom almost tripping over yourself.

Your teenage years were not easy. Abandoned by your father and neglected by your mother, you ran away from home at age 7 hoping for a better chance at life. Two months on the streets, you were left cold and hungry, when a kind slightly elderly couple took you in. Sharon and Thomas gave you a roof over your head, hot food, and clothes; most importantly, a home.

They were both school teachers; Thomas taught PE and Sharon taught English. They were kind and gave you free reign in life.

Thomas taught you how to play football and while you were good, English was your passion. Writing came so naturally to you, Sharon was the one who suggested you write your first book. So you did. Poems came so easily to you, the words filling pages so fast, Thomas could barely keep up with buying you new ones.

Being an accomplished writer at 15 was unheard of, which gained you some local fame.

But with fame, came a price you wished you didn’t have to pay.

A local rival publishing team that had rejected your book was vengeful of the success it gained and did a little digging. They found your parents and your past, learning about your brief stint at homelessness and how you ran away from home at 7.

The headlines the next day were the topic of bullying from a group of mean kids at school. You didn’t remember their names now, years later but their words rang fresh in your mind if you allowed yourself to spiral.

Each word was one stroke of the blade over your perfect skin.

Each bloom of blood was the pain fading away.

Or so you thought.

Somehow the next day, their fresh set of insults doubled the pain. It made your chest tight, your head pound, your grades drop and your passion for writing evaporate.

“Nothing new in your notebook, peanut?” Sharon asked so sweetly, finding you sipping on tea in the sunroom. She brushed your hair back sweetly, leaving a kiss on your forehead.

“Nothing,” you lied. There were new things. They weren’t particularly parent-friendly.

“Tom and I are heading to a school meeting, dinner’s in the oven for you, okay?” she walks away, a knowing expression on her face. She can sense the pain like she was your own mother but kept her mouth shut.

“I love you,” she added and you looked at her, close to tears. If she could tell, she made no move to let you know she did but smiled when you said it back to her with a forced one. It broke her heart but she did not know that yours broke more.

You sat in your bathroom, hands clammy and shaking. The blade glimmered back at you like it was taunting you.

“It’ll take the pain away,” you convinced yourself, pressing the cold object over your mangled skin on your thigh.

The blood washed away but more pricked to the surface with each cut. Soon the water turned a dark red, and your head dully thudded against the glass wall, the pain fading into numbing nothingness.

The beeping of the monitors around you was what roused you. There were too many lights and lots of voices at once, but your mother’s sobs were instantly recognizable.

“Where did we go wrong, Tom?” she asked your father, “how did we not know?”

“I don’t know, Shar,” he said, sounding sad, “I don’t know.”

His next words broke you more than any bully's words could.

“I’m sorry we failed you, kiddo. Dad’s sorry.”

“You didn’t fail me, Dad. You saved me,” you mumbled, tears filling your eyes as they pulled away from one another and rushed to your bedside. Mom hugged you tight and thanked her stars you were okay while your father held your hand and kissed it over and over.

“There’s my little girl,” he said, looking teary himself.

“You saved me, both of you. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner,” you apologized but they were not hearing none of it.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to us, peanut. The best.”

You don’t know when you started to build the dam in your heart but it broke the moment your parents held you in their arms. The safety of their arms was something you didn’t know you craved. But when they gave it to you, all your pain went away.

You never felt that safety from anyone else. Until you met Alexia.

You were merely a fan in the stands, dragged to a Barcelona game by your friends at work who happened to have an extra ticket to a Liga F game. She caught your eye and you hers, shy smiles and a hastily bought jersey from the stands outside got you her signature and her number written below it.

It took two coffees and a single baked good to know you were marrying this woman. She was funny, kind, loyal, inspirational, and simply devoted to you.

But most importantly, her arms were a safe haven. For you and your thoughts that still lingered to this day.  

You explained every one of the scars on your legs after she had begged for you to let her into the bathroom. One thing about your relationship with Alexia was that you were sure she was too good to be true.

Part of you wanted her so badly, but the other part convinced you that she would leave the moment she saw the scars. the mangled skin from years of reopening wounds. The bumps and ridges that cheap blades from the corner store got you on a teenager’s allowance.

And when she didn’t leave, you hated that you felt her pity. This world-class football player felt bad for the girl she met in the stands at one of her games. But she didn’t. She sat with you and listened, eyes and mind solely focused on you.

“Show me your scars,” she asked.

“But why?” you answered, albeit through sobs.

“I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn’t there.”

It wasn’t long before you were back in her arms again, safe and sound, ready to be fiercely loved by her for the rest of your life.