#it's a really cool story you won't regret reading it

[drysauce]

mutuals this is your timely reminder to read omniscient reader's viewpoint because it's so so soooo cool

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (7)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: sex content, loss of virginity, smut, angst, mention and description of rape, mention of trauma ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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He didn't know what made him follow her out then, after supper, when his father was carried back to his chamber. He felt fear, uncertainty and tension when he saw her leave without even giving him a single glance, as if what she had just said meant nothing to her.

My place is with you, uncle.

He drank with a deep gulp the remainder of the wine that was left in his goblet and put it down with a loud clink of steel, rising from his chair, avoiding the figure of his mother, who was saying something to him quickly, surely wanting to know how he could have done this to her.

He figured that the last time he had done something just for himself he had lost his eye, and that evening he was not going to lose anything else.

She didn't seem surprised that he had followed her out − she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder when she heard his footsteps.

He was trying to decide what he saw in her gaze, tired, sad, disappointed in him and the way he was acting, who he had become.

Still, it seemed to him that their unanimity at the table had reassured them both, that they had obviously proved something to each other.

Neither of them could end it.

He gulped, looking away from her, folding his hands behind his back.

"Your mother will return to the Red Keep in a few days at my mother's request. To discuss our nuptials." He said dispassionately, hoping she understood what he was trying to imply.

There was no need for her to return with them.

Since she wanted it so much, he could take his time with her, speak with her about whatever it was she had wanted over the years.

His expression that he was able to control his aggressive, violent nature.

She nodded and surprised him by moving ahead again, as if she didn't care what he had to say. He pressed his lips together, furious at himself for the desperation he felt, at the fact that part of him not only wanted to prove something to her, but feared that once she left, she would be gone forever.

"She stole you away from me then, but I won't let it happen this time. You are to stay. You'll return to Dragonstone in a few days, with her." He growled with pain, regret, dispassion, at the very thought of the memory of the night, the first in many months that he had spent alone, crying in despair, listening for when she would come to him.

It was obvious she would come to him, he thought then, trying to calm the convulsions that shook his body.

As soon as her mother was asleep she would slip out of her chamber again, as she always did, sneak up to him, embrace him and soothe his pain and fear.

He waited and listened for her footsteps, that distinctive, quiet creak of wood that always brought him relief.

But she didn't come, then or for many nights afterwards.

He saw her stop again and look at him surprised, as if she didn't believe those words had really left his mouth; something in her eyes had changed, her brow arched in pain.

She lowered her gaze, as if pondering his words, as if she had allowed them into her heart, and he thought in disbelief, trying to calm his breathing, that it had worked.

She hesitated.

She lifted her eyes to him and swallowed loudly, sighing quietly.

"I will stay, but only until my mother returns. Then I will travel back to Dragonstone with her and stay there until our nuptials." She said quietly, looking him straight in the eye.

"Yes. It will be appropriate." He replied at once, forcing himself to be indifferent, feeling his heart pounding hard, his body shuddering with satisfaction and contentment.

He thought with some kind of pride that she remained as she had been years ago, that she, unlike Aegon, could converse.

His brother understood only violence, only force; he could not count the number of times he had dragged him out of the brothels, the number of times he had had to hit him to revive him, the number of times he had yelled at him to make him come to his senses.

With his mother he didn't speak but prayed, with Helaena he didn't speak but stayed in her company, with his grandfather he didn't speak but exchanged dry facts.

He didn't speak with his father, because he hardly saw him.

He did speak with Criston, but he always told him what he wanted to hear.

She, however, understood perfectly the nuances and beauty of conversation, could explain what she herself felt, and could also listen to the other side, accept a sensible argument, take another opinion into consideration.

He thought with shame that he hadn't even noticed when he had become a brutal, silent stone that rammed everything in its path.

He let her go when she replied that she needed to ask her mother's permission and hid in the library, knowing that he had nothing to return to his chamber for.

He knew that his mother had certainly made sure that the guards at his and her door ensured that neither of them crossed the threshold of their quarters.

He sat down in the candlelight at one of the oak tables, taking earlier from the bookcase a book devoted to the complex grammar of the language of Old Valyria that he had been analysing and studying alone for several years, trying not to think about what had happened.

About how, despite what he tried to tell himself, the sight of her, her presence, her voice, her touch did not repulse him.

You desire me, but you're not in love with me.

He heard her words in his head and swallowed loudly, closing his eye, feeling a tightness in his throat, figuring that perhaps the few days they would spend together would calm the chaos in her and his head.

They had met years later at a time when things were happening that amplified his frustration, and although he was furious that Luke got what he wanted again, he promised himself that he wouldn't broach the subject with her.

That he would make an effort not to make things worse.

He shuddered when he heard the creak of the wooden door, and was surprised to find that he felt a warmth in his abdomen when she had in fact come to him, without any word or prior arrangement, as if she knew perfectly well that he would be waiting for her.

She looked around the hall, which she hadn't seen for years, walking slowly towards him, coming up to a bookcase filled to the brim with thick, slightly dusty volumes.

She smiled, pulling out with difficulty a large tome that had a leather, gold-decorated binding, which he recognised immediately, and watched silently as she moved towards him with The Great History of Aegon the Conqueror.

Memory after memory struck his mind as she placed the book in front of him, just to his right, exactly as it was then.

"What are you reading, uncle? Are you looking at our family tree again?" She asked lightly, and he felt a pleasant shudder, tightening his lips, hearing in her voice that she was teasing him, exactly as she had been then.

He crossed his legs and readjusted himself in his seat, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, at her figure and how much she had changed, at her breasts that just yesterday he were caressing with his hands.

"No." He replied lowly, unable to take his eyes off her chest encased in the material of her gown, her bare shoulders glistening in the candlelight.

She approached him, exactly as she had done then, leaning in so that their cheeks were right next to each other. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to pretend he didn't feel what was happening in his breeches, in his manhood which, with its intense throbbing, betrayed what he thought of her long, dark hair and lashes, her bright eyes, the scent of vanilla that filled his lungs again.

"The language of Old Valyria? I might have expected that from my future husband's love of our family's traditions." She said softly, as if with some kind of admiration, and he felt a pleasant shiver run along his spine when she called him her future husband.

He knew she was trying to soften his violent nature, to soothe and calm him, to say and do what he wanted.

"Will you teach me, uncle? I promise to be a diligent and attentive pupil." She said with a quiet click of her tongue, looking down at him, waiting for his reaction.

He knew she was taunting him, wanting him to break, to touch her first, to tell her his thoughts, his desires.

"Mmm." He hummed, turning the page, going back to reading again, trying not to think about the fact that his cock pulsed hard under the thick volume he held in his hands.

He heard her quiet sigh of disapproval, out of the corner of his eye he saw her push back the chair to his right and sit down on it, just as she had then, delving into the story of Aegon the Conqueror again.

He could feel the tension between them, knew they were fighting for dominance, for who would break first.

He pressed his lips together, feeling hundreds of questions rush to his tongue, unable to focus on what he was reading.

What was between her and Daemon?

Did she really believe what she had said at supper?

Did she forgive him, or did she want revenge on him for the years of silence on his part?

He was dismayed that he didn't know what he thought of it all himself, once feeling relieved, once anxious, still coming back to the same conclusion.

He didn't trust her.

He closed his eye, trying to calm himself, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

When he opened it, he met her familiar worried gaze, her eyebrows arched in concern, in a warm, characteristic willingness to understand him, to listen to him.

He felt a sense of discomfort when he realised that once he had felt he recognised her, that she was someone close to him, someone he desired so much, only to decide a moment later that she was a stranger, someone distant, someone different than she had been before.

"You and Daemon." He began, recognising that he could not avoid her if she was to become his wife, that he had to understand what was in her mind, who was the woman who sat at his side. "What's between you two?"

She blinked, looking at him with wide eyes, as if she didn't understand what he was asking her.

"What do you mean?" She asked softly, without any fear or discomfort that might betray that his question frightened her. He licked his lower lip, playing between his fingers with a page from the book lying on his thighs.

"You two are delightfully close." He stated coolly and noticed that she twitched, swallowing loudly, as if she only now realised what his imagination was suggesting.

"Not in this way. Gods, uncle, you're the first one who…" She stammered, they both averted their gazes, embarrassed; he could see out of the corner of his eye her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"And you?" She asked suddenly and this time he threw her a surprised look, frowning his eyebrows; she looked at him fearfully, as if she was afraid of his answer.

He turned away from her, breathing loudly through his nose, feeling his heart pound at the memory of the woman Aegon had taken him to when he was only thirteen, the discomfort and tightness in his throat, that cruel, dark, overpowering shame.

He didn't want to remember it, the touch of that shapely red-haired girl much older than he was, her hand clenched over what was hidden beneath his breeches, his feeling of terror, even though she was telling him to relax.

He didn't want it, he felt it was wrong, his beloved had never touched him in such a way, in such a place.

He felt his lips clench so tightly that they turned blue, so that a squeaky sound of despair did not come from his throat.

"Aegon took me to some whore when I was thirteen. Time to get it wet − he announced then." He said, forcing himself to be indifferent, trying to distance himself from those memories, from the images that flashed involuntarily before his eyes, her body climbing over him, her hands untying his breeches, her whisper with which she tried to soothe him before he began to mutter that he did not want this.

"Prince Aegon paid me for your fulfillment." She answered him then, before she sank down on top of him, forcing him to feel her warm walls; for some reason he felt like he was about to vomit, something akin to a whine escaping his lips.

Seeing his state, tears streaming down his cheeks she stopped, desperate bringing him to fulfilment with mechanical, determined movements of her hand.

Her plump fingers squeezing him, up and down, up and down, as he shuddered and pressed his lips together, as tear after tear dripped down either side of his face onto that strange-smelling, scratchy bedding.

His purity had been taken from him once and for all, even though he had bathed for an hour after what had happened, he could still smell her suffocating scent on him.

That night he took all her letters out of his drawer and laid them down beside him, despairing to find that still when he concentrated very hard he was able to smell her scent, which had seeped into the parchment.

The smell of vanilla.

He shuddered at that memory and returned to the room he was sitting in, glancing at her quickly, unsure if he had done the right thing in telling her.

He swallowed loudly seeing that she was looking at him in disbelief, pained and resentful, apparently thinking that, like Aegon, he had indulged himself that night in the pleasures that a woman's body could give him.

Somehow he liked that look of distress and jealousy, the thought that she wanted him for herself, that she despaired at the thought that he could ever desire another woman.

He grunted, not wanting to mislead her, at the same time not knowing how to explain it to her and not come off as a weak, pathetic man who cried when a woman tried to ride him.

It seemed to him that it should come naturally to him, and the fact that it didn't was endearing to him as her future husband and lover.

"Fear not. I didn't lie in bed with her. I didn't want to bring another disappointment and cause of embarrassment to my mother." He hummed, feigning light-heartedness, spreading himself out comfortably in his chair, looking wearily at his fingers, thinking with relief that he had excelled himself perfectly while not going so far as to lie completely.

It was true that his mother's opinion of him was extremely important to him.

He heard her let out a quiet breath, fiddling in a nervous gesture with the fingers of her hands lying on the book open in front of her, gathering herself apparently to say something.

He looked at her indifferently, at her pleasing figure, her pale face framed by long black lashes and full pink lips, and thought with pain that whoever his future wife was, she was beautiful.

"Will you drink wine with me, uncle?" She asked in a quiet, trembling voice, as if she could not bear this discussion with a sober mind.

He sighed and nodded, recognising that he needed the alcohol in his veins no less than she did.

Criston Cole looked at them distrustfully, watching them closely when one of the servants brought them a jug and two goblets, placing them on the table in front of them; she wanted to pour them some wine, however, his niece pre-empted her, saying she would do it.

"You can leave, Cole." He said, taking his cup from her, which she half-filled first.

His mother's sworn protector stood before them with his hands folded in front of him, clenching his lips, an expression of disapproval and condemnation in his eyes that aroused his frustration.

"My Prince, your mother insists that you…"

"That we don't visit each other in our chambers at night. We are having a conversation in the library. You may leave." He added with emphasis not withstanding the objection, looking up at him from below with a look that did not accept the refusal.

Cole bowed, casting one warning glance at his betrothed, then headed for the entrance with a loud clang of his armour.

His niece sat again to his right, spreading herself comfortably in the chair, raising her cup to her lips.

"Has he been trying to father you for a long time?" She asked without thinking, as if the question came naturally to her.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with his chalice standing on the table in front of him, and sighed heavily, recognising that so far their honesty had only brought them closer together, and helped to calm him down.

"Unfortunately." He muttered, lifting the vessel to his lips and tilting it, taking a deep sip from it, the slightly tart, sweet and at the same time sour taste of grapes and alcohol spilling over his palate.

He heard her huff softly, glancing up at him with a slight, childlike smile; he felt hot in his chest at the thought that she still had it inside her, that amused twinkle in her eye, indicative of her brightness, of the fact that she was about to say something that would surely turn out to be true and an accurate statement.

"He's afraid you'll make his mistake." She said raising her eyebrows, however there was no mockery or challenge to be heard in her voice, he could hear her tongue hitting her palate with a quiet click as she uttered it softly, cheerfully, as if she thought it was a funny coincidence.

He looked at her impassively, knowing perfectly well what she was alluding to. He had heard, even as a young child, the conversations of servants who said that Criston Cole had broken his vows of chastity and lain in bed with Rhaenyra, who, however, later refused to run away with him and become his wife.

He wondered, what did he expect?

He answered nothing, taking another sip from his cup, looking thoughtfully ahead, remembering how he had repeatedly promised her that he would take her to Essos once he was a dragon rider.

"You also promised me a journey to Essos, uncle. I hope my future husband will not prove unfaithful to his words." She said lightly startling him completely − he looked at her wide-eyed having the impression that she was sitting inside his head.

Her head leaned against the back of her chair, her body spread out on it relaxed and soft, her beautiful dark hair framed her pale face on either side like the night itself.

She was smiling.

It was not a broad smile, almost imperceptible, at the corner of her mouth, her gaze, warm and assured, confirmed the sincerity of that grimace.

He felt a tightness in his throat at this sight; involuntarily the pointing finger of his hand outstretched on his armrest touched her bare skin. He felt her twitch, her lips parted slightly, her eyelids half open.

They began to play with each other's fingers, their tips rubbing against each other in the air illuminated by the warm light of fire and candles.

He had a lot of questions, a lot of doubts that made him furious − he thought about them as he watched their fingertips brushing against each other in the air, so innocent, tender, her skin so indecently soft.

Did she really think anyone would agree to Jace, that fucking bastard, being heir to the throne?

That a war wouldn't break out?

That after his father's death he would remain silent about who her brothers were?

He pressed his lips together, sighing heavily, realising that he would have to humiliate her along with them. He consoled himself with the thought that once she was his wife it wouldn't matter − she would become part of his family, their children would be from the rightful bed, and she would regain her dignity in the eyes of the kingdom.

They sat like this for a long moment, thoughtful, drinking wine, each locked in their own mind, only their fingers meeting once in a while, rubbing against each other in obvious need of closeness, reminding them of their presence.

"Why did you forgive me?" He asked finally, not looking at her though, but into the giant lit fireplace on the other side of the room, illuminating their faces along with the candles standing around them.

He felt her look at him, her gaze fixed on his face. She was silent for a long time before she replied.

"I have not forgiven you. I have understood you. Just as you understood me." She said finally, and he looked at her with a fast pounding, clenched heart, feeling discomfort in his lower abdomen.

Then, at last, everything became clear to him, and the weight that had been crushing him since he had seen her again fell from his shoulders.

They didn't have to force themselves to forgive each other.

They could just understand what had driven them, accept that they had unwittingly destroyed so much, and that some things they would never regain.

He felt suddenly that she was closer to him than ever before, his hand tightened on hers, wanting to see if she felt the same.

He swallowed loudly when her fingers intertwined with his, like the roots of two trees, like a vine; there was something ambiguous, something lewd about this gesture, he imagined their bare bodies hugged together in the same closeness.

"Spend the night with me." He muttered, looking at her, himself disbelieving that those words had left his mouth, feeling that his mind and his cock, all swollen in his breeches demanded her touch, her scent, her presence.

He saw in her misty gaze, in her slightly parted lips, in her sweetly rosy cheeks, that she felt what he said between her thighs, her chest rising and falling faster in shuddering breaths.

"Your mother…I'm sure Cole is waiting at the door to..." She started, but he didn't let her finish.

"Let's climb out the window to the cloisters. I'll take you to the empty servants' chambers." He said feeling her hand quiver in his grasp, excitement and determination in her eyes.

He thought he had completely lost his mind, that he was acting like a child, but maybe that was the point.

To pretend that he could get back anything of what had been taken from him.

She bit her lip at last, the corner of her mouth lifting in an innocent, cheerful smile from which he felt like throwing himself at her; he was sure that, like him, her daring had been enhanced by the wine she drank.

"Let's go, husband." She said softly, cockily, and he gasped loudly for air, standing up with a loud creak of old wood, feeling his head hum with each step to the shutters, the world around him seeming slightly blurred.

He opened them and immediately the cool evening air surrounded them. He glanced down and was relieved to see that they were not high up; he himself was easily able to get to the other side without jumping.

She moved after him without a word with a fierceness that surprised him, her task made more difficult by her long gown, but when he caught her at the waist and lifted her he managed to silently place her on the ground beside him.

They looked at each other with eyes full of self-satisfaction and pride, he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, he heard her sweet, pearly giggle.

Although he had said since he was a child that he didn't understand women's notions of fleeing lovers who organised late-night escapades for each other, he thought now that he hadn't known the one thing back then that changed everything.

This overpowering, ferocious desire.

As the door of the cool, cramped, modest chamber closed behind them, as he shut the bolt to make sure no one disturbed them, he turned to her. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle a laugh of disbelief.

"Gods, they're going to kill us, uncle…we're…" She didn't finish as his thirsty, yearning lips clung to hers in a greedy, wet, loud kiss, his hands clenched on her gown and hair.

He heard her sigh of delight, she threw her arms around his neck, reciprocating impatiently the movements of his lust-swollen lips, their fingers trailing and clenching on their bodies as if to make sure it wasn't a dream, sighing and panting into each other's mouths.

"Let me see your bare body." He whispered between the loud, sticky clicks of their saliva-wet lips. "Your uncle hasn't seen you in so long."

"You must reciprocate, uncle." She whispered sweetly into his mouth and he groaned into her throat, rubbing the bulge in his breeches against her. He felt his mind go hazy, her lips, the tip of her tongue meeting his sweet from the wine, everything around him swirling, so he relied only on his sense of touch and smell.

Their hands began to clumsily untie and unfasten their garments, bestowing loud, wet kisses on each other once in a while in an attempt to sweeten the ordeal of pulling off layer after layer of everything they were wearing.

He pulled off his boots with a quick, impatient movement, almost falling over, losing his balance; he heard her giggle sweetly, her grip on his arm keeping him from collapsing.

He thanked the gods that she was already standing in front of him in only her nightgown.

"Too much wine, uncle?" She asked teasingly and he snorted, furious, grabbing the back of her neck with his hand, walking forward, forcing her to step back until she fell with a quiet squeal backwards onto the bedding on the cramped bed.

"I'll fucking show you in a moment." He hissed teasingly, grinning involuntarily; she smiled cheekily beneath him, writhing under him in impatience, watching as with a nimble flick of his fingers he untied his breeches, pulling their material aside, releasing what was underneath.

She looked up at him with a dreamy gaze, breathing loudly when she noticed how big and swollen he was, the pink tip of his cock all glistening, wet with his own juices, twitching all over with desire.

"I need to feel you. Just for a moment. I won't be violent." He muttered spreading her thighs in front of him, drawing her buttocks closer; she nodded quickly, all red and trembling as he lifted the material of her nightgown higher.

"− fuck − what happened here, sweet niece? − you're leaking −" He whispered in a trembling voice, looking in disbelief at how wet she was, his thumb involuntarily ran over her heat from her bud to her slit, she squirmed beneath him, impatient.

"− tell your uncle what do you want − hm? −" He asked, not believing it was happening, having a feeling it was only a dream; he let his manhood run over her wetness, over her puffy folds, rubbing against her.

"− y-you − gods, I want you −" She mumbled out clasping her hands on the pillow on either side of her head, her hair spread around her head in wonderful disarray − his gaze fled from her face to his manhood sticky with her moisture, a shiver ran down his spine at her words.

"− spread your thighs wide − wider − just like that, come here − let me inside you − shhh −" He hushed her, hearing her whimper as the fat head of his cock pressed against her tight walls, with difficulty forcing its way inside her.

"− fuck − so tight −" He breathed out, clenching his eye almost in pain, his hands slid down from her thighs to her womanhood, his thumbs spreading the folds of her skin to the sides, allowing him to open her wide on his length. He groaned pathetically at the sight, her whole body trembling, a cry of exertion escaping her lips.

"− I know − I know − shhh − just a little more − it's almost in −" He gasped tenderly, wanting to soothe her, with a slow motion of his hips sinking deeper and deeper into her throbbing hot body.

The sensation of being inside her was very different from what he had felt when Aegon had taken him to the brothel, her muscles moist and hot, tight, clenching on his manhood so hard it took his breath away.

He felt vulnerable and safe at the same time, for here was his beloved, his Rhaenys reaching her hand up to his cheek, as terrified as he was, trying to soothe him with the gentle movement of her fingers, from which they both sighed.

"− you are so warm −" He whispered looking at her face, with gasp of exertion sliding his length fully inside her, feeling a tightness in his throat as if he was about to cry, her eyebrows arched in indecision, clear discomfort but also desire shone in her eyes.

"− uncle − too big −" She babbled, bravely trying to fit what he had just thrust into her; he shushed her again and slowly slipped out of her only to fill her again with himself. They looked at each other with slightly parted lips, shocked at how shameless and yet delightful the experience was.

"− gods, yes −" He exhaled, sliding out almost to the very end, only to sank inside her again with a loud click of her moisture, both of them moaned pathetically.

"− o-oh fuck, uncle −" She mewled as he sped up, rooting into her tight core again and again, slowly, tenderly, placing one of his hands next to her head. He chuckled involuntarily, guessing this must have been the first time she cursed loudly.

"− be quiet − want anyone to disturb us? − hm? − see how I take what is mine? −" He growled out, moaning low along with her, their naked bodies slapping against each other loudly, his cock all sticky from her moisture, he felt how at his words her walls clenched hard against him, sucking him inside.

"− i-if we get caught, won't you marry me? −" She asked despairingly like a small child and he snorted, looking with parted lips at her breasts bouncing slightly with each of his thrusts, his hand impatiently slid the material of her nightgown off her shoulder and squeezed one of them, massaging it between his fingers, playing with her nipple with his thumb.

"− you silly woman − no mere lord will take what belongs to me −" He hissed, speeding up, each buck of his hips stretching her hot, throbbing muscles with more and more intense, confident thrusts, he had the feeling that her fleshy walls had adapted to his size.

He leaned over her, sliding his tongue deep into her throat, their kisses loud and chaotic, forming a dance of their teeth, lips and saliva; they whined and panted into each other's mouths, her hands clenched on his naked buttocks, her breasts pressed against his chest as he rooted into her with low groans of pleasure.

"− o-oh gods, uncle − m close −" She whimpered, shuddering and panting beneath him, their bodies entwined together as then their fingers, tight, sweaty and hot, pulsing with desire, slapping against each other loudly.

"− me too − fuck − where −" He muttered, feeling that he was as close to fulfilment as she was, that one more push of his cock into her and it would be all over.

"− inside me − please, uncle, inside me −" She cried out and her words startled him so much that he just came, cursing loudly, furious at himself and his stupidity, slapping his hand loudly on the bed frame above her head in rage, moaning and panting along with her in elation and delight as his seed spilled inside her.

"− yes − gods, yes, yes, yes −" She mewled out, her eyes closed, her head tilted back, her lips parted sweetly in complete bliss, her hot walls clenching and throbbing against him in elation.

"− we're fucking fools − gods, my sweetest −" He howled, falling on top of her, crushing her with his body; he sighed quietly when he felt her arms quickly embrace him, his cock twitching hard inside her in the stupefying delight that was shaking his body.

"− forgive me −" She babbled, clearly only after a moment understanding what they had actually done.

He turned his cheek towards her, gripping her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him.

"− we will marry as soon as possible − do not fret − I took you and you are mine now −" He whispered, and she breathed a sigh of relief, her lips swollen from emotion and exertion clinging to his in a tender, warm kiss full of gratitude and affection.

He closed her in his embrace, trying to calm his breathing with her, stroking her hair, thinking only of how never after he had claimed Vhagar had he felt so fulfilled as a man as he did now.

He thought that there was still hope for them.

That from now on everything would be as it should be.

What he didn't know yet was that the only person who wanted their nuptials as much as them had just fell asleep forever.

The King was dead.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires

[gnomewithalaptop]

I'm still too distracted to write so here have a list of YJ-cast centric fics that make me froth at the mouth

Kon-centric recs:

I Want It That Way (1990s Tim/Kon) by WynterSky / @wynterstars -- A revamped, 90s-style Superboy origin story with added Lex Luthor AND a lil bit of 90s Robin for spice and flavor. Honestly, this whole series is so elite -- goes hard with the Superboy mythos + angst PLUS the third fic leans hard into the secret identity shenanigans in a way that'd make Miraculous Ladybug jealous. The first fic splits its attention between Tim and Kon, but the latter two are solidly Kon-centric

one plus one (easy math) by connerdrakewayne / @comphetkoncass -- Cassandra Cain and Kon go to a gala together. I'm always a sucker for a good Cass + Kon friendship. This one's very short and sweet, and it gets the job done -- 10/10 would read again

a timeline can be a haunted house by connerdrakewayne -- post-universal reset Kon angst + terrible coping mechanisms! This one goes so hard I read it three times. Tbh this author has an excellent handle on Kon as a character in general, so I honestly recommend just checking out their whole fic stash

Tim-centric recs:

Top 10 Secret Identity Fails by @havendance -- Tim's new English teacher is his on-again-off-again superhero teamup Helena Bertinelli (aka the Huntress). This one's just fun, okay -- the whole thing reads like it could be straight out of Tim's 1993 solo run, plus I love the dynamic between him and Helena. Overall just a very cool vibe

only the dead stay 17 forever by Sky_Dust (couldn't find their tumblr sorry) -- Listen, I've really been restraining myself here, because I realize my love for time-travel bullshit is not universal, but I genuinely couldn't not include this one. This bad boy is a Tim-centric time-loop featuring a seriously unhinged Tim -- definitely a darker tone, but I can't stop rereading it

Bart-centric recs:

reflections on respawning: a gamer's uncertainty by merils / @mamawasatesttube -- Bart has a hard conversation about his death and subsequent resurrection (feat. Kon) man, I just vibe with this one so hard. It's such a thoughtful take on Bart's more contemplative side, while still managing to keep his personality intact

the backlash to the backlash to the thing that's just begun by @kermit-coded -- trans/gnc impulse my beloved <3 also we get some funky Max & Bart bonding, made much rawer and more real by the fact that it's the 90s and nobody knows what they're doing. Again, feels like it's straight out of Bart's solo series

Cassie-centric recs:

you and I, we are more than just this armor by @suzukiblu -- KonCassie bonding + gender feels. They're both so trans in this, and the author does a great job of really digging deep into their complicated feelings (both about gender and about each other)

(also PLEASE somebody give me more Cassie-centric fic recs I'm literally begging you)

Team recs

I'm all yours but you're all mine by suzukiblu -- Poly Core 4 Soulmates AU! Essentially, everybody gets their 'soulmark'/soulmate-identifier (not really, but the best word) right when Kon wakes up in his pod, and because Superboy hasn't really made his big splash yet, they misidentify their soulmate as Superman; this is an issue mainly because 1) they're all 14-15 and Superman is roughly 30-ish, and 2) by the time this fic takes place, Superman is pretty verifiably dead. Currently in-progress, but this is such an interesting and fun take on the usual soulmates trope. I pinky promise you won't regret reading it

Love, Not Loved series by @popsunner -- hoooomygod this series makes me cry literally every time I read it, it's genuinely one of the most realistic representations of grief I've seen on AO3. Basically explores the general fucked-up-edness of pretty much the whole YJ Core 4 Squad dying one by one, with each fic focusing on a different funeral (complete with survivor's guilt, regular guilt, and just plain old complicated feelings). We get Cassie feels, we get Tim feels, we get Bart + Kon feels -- it's the whole shebang. Don't worry -- there's a happy ending eventually, but you def gotta work for it. This series beat me up and stole my lunch money and I'd happily do it all over again

Lost the Last Piece of Me by InsaneTrollLogic / @last01standing -- YJ Core 4 Animorphs AU! I'm sad to say I've never read the original Animorphs series, but every single Animorphs AU I've ever read has been such high quality. Unsurprisingly (I love this author, okay), this fic is no exception to that rule. Solid alien-invasion plot, character driven, and the world-building is explained well enough that even a newbie like me can understand (feat. some TimKon, but it's not the main focus)

Ikonoclast by anantipodean (couldn't find a tumblr) -- Tim and Kon get sent to an alternate reality that's almost (but not quite) like their own. This one's just fun for me -- I love the TimBart buildup and the worldbuilding on the other Earth is a funky time. Also, the other universe's Tim is goth and absolutely cannot stand mainstream-reality Tim, and I find that extremely funny for some reason

[aayakashii]

I’m so glad someone sent in a SH ask I’ve been too shy to! I loved it 💕 could you do another one with the remanding Hotarubi boys and Lyca?

ofc!!! I'm happy you liked it ๑´ ³)˘ᵕ˘៸៸ I'm gonna be honest, Haku's part kinda left me giggling and kicking my feet so I hope you like it as well fkfjdkdj

Warning: sh mentioned, a bit more angst on Zenji's part

"How did you get hurt?" Lyca says, grabbing your arms as soon as he noticed the fading scars.

You open and close your mouth, wordlessly, trying to think of ways to explain it to him. Lyca probably never heard or read about issues like yours. Would it be better to lie? Weave a story that wouldn't have him pity you?

You look at the earnest gaze he gives you, and you sigh. He deserves your honesty.

"I... I hurt myself. I'm the one who did this" you say, softly, knowing he would probably have more questions.

"Why would you do this?" he scrunched his face. "Is it a human thing?"

You hum, in thought.

"I guess you could say so." you reply, slowly, thinking of the proper words to explain it to him "Sometimes, when some humans are feeling very sad and like everything is a horrible mess, they feel like doing this gives them a sense of control. Not everyone does this. But, sometimes, some very depressed people might do it to feel some relief."

Lyca's wolf ears flatten against his head.

"I don't... really get it but... you were very depressed?" he mumbles, fingers tracing the little lines on your skin.

You shrug.

"I was in a dark place some time ago. I'm feeling better now, I promise" you say, and ruffle his hair.

Lyca lift his head up, yellow eyes gazing yours with determination.

"If you say you're okay now, I'll believe you. But promise me you won't try to hurt yourself again."

"I promi-" you begin to say, but he interrupts you.

"You can't lie! I'll know if you hurt yourself! I can smell you well, you know!" his face looks scrunched in anger, but his ears stay flattened on his head and his tail curls down.

You smile and pat his head again.

"I promise."

"My dear, how I wish I could have kept you safe from your struggles."

Zenji's voice, usually boisterous, spoke to you in a soft tone as he looked at the scars on your thighs while you slept.

You murmured his name in your sleep, unconsciously recognizing his presence in your room (his nightly visits became a routine, after all) and you held out your hand towards him.

His hand fazed through your skin, yet he still insisted on trying to touch you and comfort you as you slept.

He sat on your bed, eyes fixed on your peaceful figure, and he knew that those were scars from battles fought long ago – battles you have won. But it still pained him that he wasn't close to you since forever, that he wasn't able to protect you when you needed him but didn't know of him.

Even if he needed to write odysseys upon odysseys, singing praises to you throughout your whole life, just so you'd never feel so lost that you had to hurt yourself to find your footing again, he would do it.

Zenji would gladly haunt you for eternity, if it meant keeping you safe from your demons, in any way he could.

"Is this something you could tell me?" Haku squeezed your hand as he looked as the fading lines on your wrist, as you two held hands, strolling together on the beach.

You shook your head.

"There isn't a specific thing to say about it. I was in a bad place and made a choice that left these scars on me. It just... happened like that. I'm fine now, but also I don't regret them, nor do I feel ashamed. I did what I could to survive."

Haku stopped on his tracks and stared deeply into your eyes. He sighed, a faint smile gracing his face, and brought your wrist to his lips, kissing each scar.

"You're very strong. You should give me some chances to be your savior, you know? How am I ever going to look cool for you?" he said after kissing the last scar, a smirk playing on his lips as his eyes shined against the twilight.

You playfully tapped his head to shush him as you giggled.

He squeezed your hand once again.

"If you ever need to fight to survive again, I want you to rely on me. Is that okay for me to ask? I'll understand if you'd rather not have me all up in your business, though."

You shook your head and brought your hand to his cheek, smiling as he leaned against your touch.

"I'll be more than happy to have you with me in any moment of my life, whether I'm struggling or not, whether I'm sad or happy."

"This sounds a lot like a marriage vow, you know?" he smirked again and winked playfully.

"Oh, shut up." you patted his cheek and walked away, with him chuckling as he hurried after you.

Masterlist

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Part 12: Tranquility

A March 2025 Hinny Microfic for @ginnystrophyhusband using Prompt 19

558 words (so close to actually being micro)

All the March prompts that I write will be set in the same universe as, and form a prequel to, this fic. Hopefully they'll all stand alone, but they'll also form a little story of their own, which is why they're numbered.

Fair warning - it's going to be fluffy!

It's also occurred to me that the more I write, the more actual story there is, and there are definitely some references here that won't make sense if you haven't read the rest, so you might want to...

Read them all from the beginning on AO3

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

“Thank you, Harry, love, I wouldn’t have managed without you,” says Molly, as they arrive back at Ty Môr. 

They’re each carrying a huge basket of freshly baked Cornish pasties, still warm from the oven. It’s enough to feed an army—even one composed mostly of Weasleys.

“I didn’t do much,” he protests, and it’s true; just made them a cup of tea while Molly loaded them into the oven, then helped transfer them between the cooling racks and the baskets. Molly wouldn’t even let him carry both baskets. 

“Nonsense! An extra pair of hands is always appreciated,” she tells him firmly. 

“Well, I’m always happy to help.”

She beams at him. “I know, love. You’re a treasure. I couldn’t have hoped for a lovelier young man for Ginny, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve said that to Arthur.”

Harry doesn’t quite know what to say to that, so he settles for a broad smile, and hopes he hasn’t gone too pink; compliments still make him feel a bit weird. He feels the buzz of the wards against his skin as they approach the gate, but as he opens the latch, Molly stops dead.

“Oh, drat and blast!” she exclaims. “I made a batch of cherry flapjack for dessert, it’s all packed up ready to go, and I clean forgot to pick it up.”

“I can go and get it,” offers Harry.

“No, no,” she insists, instead handing over her basket of pasties. “I expect you’re just as hungry as the rest of them. Take these in, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Harry watches as she steps back towards the dunes and disapparates neatly and almost silently, a tiny reminder of just how formidable of a witch his surrogate mother is. 

The baskets are heavy, and the pasties smell divine, so Harry knows he really ought to head straight back up to the house before the troops start to riot, but he can’t resist posing for a moment, enjoying the tranquility. 

It’s impossible to avoid comparing Ty Môr to Grimmauld Place, and he thinks again how happy he is to swap the hard pavement and an endless stream of cars and buses for sand beneath his feet and the expanse of the sea on his doorstep. Buying the house was a spur of the moment decision (Harry? Impulsive? Surely not!), but he already knows he won’t regret it.

The gate squeaks behind him, and he whirls around to see Ginny standing there. She takes a moment to glare at the stubbornly noisy hinges, then beams at him. “You’re back!”

“I am. Bearing gifts.” He brandishes the baskets. 

“Oh, thank god!” declares Ginny. “If we don’t feed Ron in the next five minutes, I think he might start eating his own fingers.”

“And you won’t?” he asks, grinning at her.

“God no!” She shudders, theatrically. “Imagine where Ron’s fingers have been.”

Harry laughs, and hands Ginny one of the baskets. “No, good point. So whose fingers would you have eaten?”

“Luckily, you’ll never have to find out,” she tells him, taking one of the baskets, but pauses looking at him curiously. “What were you doing loitering out here, anyway? Everything okay?”

Harry looks back towards the horizon and takes a deep breath, letting the clean, sea air fill his lungs. “Yeah. Never better.”

[dialovers-lover-xoxo]

Mukami Brothers as Dads Headcanons!

Context is after their character development in later games where they're in a relationship with Yui but still taking into account their general personality and lasting trauma

Under a cut cuz it's long

------------------------------------------

Ruki

-------

- Ruki didn't want them to be like he was as a kid. He was spoiled past the point of Dudley Dursley, he was physically abusing servants

- He's a loving and supportive parent, but firm as well

- His kids learned pretty quickly that when Dad says something, he means it and nothing will change his mind

- He'll do what he thinks is best, even if that means unintentionally disregarding his kids' needs or wants

- Over time he becomes much more open to listening to them but he remains pretty strict and controlling

- They never doubt his love for them. He makes it crystal clear how much he loves them

- He liked to have them in his lap as kids while he read them bedtime stories

- He liked having them with him when he cooked but he was kinda overprotective, even as they got older he didn't really want them near knives or fire

- Very imposing to his kids' friends, the parent of your friend that isn't warm or friendly, just polite

Kou

-----

- Quit his idol career. He wanted to be there for his kids and he didn't want paparazzi invading his childrens' lives

- Of course just because someone's no longer an idol doesn't mean they're automatically forgotten

- Kou had to threaten some paparazzi

- Because he grew up with nothing, his parenting is mix of wanting to give his children literally everything they ask for and wanting to teach them to be grateful for what they have and generous to others

- He eventually finds a decent middle ground but he never gets rid of his doubts about that completely

- Very affectionate and calls them his little kittens

- Cheerful with their friends

- Protective in a way where he'll have a familiar follow them or he'll see into someone's soul with his eye to make sure they're not a threat

- He'll get violent if his kids get hurt or might be hurt

- Hates yelling at or arguing with them but understands tough love is part of parenting

Yuma

--------

- Piggyback rides, tickles, ruffles their hair a lot

- Refers to himself as "yer old man"

- Less aggressive than you'd assume, still very protective, but in a more secretive or subtle way

- Yuma actually doesn't mind if his kids don't want to get dirty in the garden. What Yuma wants to teach his kids is the value of hard work, it doesn't matter where they channel that hard work, as long as they do hard work

- He doesn't exactly have trouble showing his affection, he will, but he might get a little blushy

- Generally friendly with their friends, he'd be considered the cool nice dad by his kids' friends

- But he is still not one to be messed with. If you hurt his children, you will regret it

- Likes to tease them

Azusa

--------

- Even though he can be very worrisome, Azusa is very intuitive, and as a result he can trust when his child will make good decisions

- Of course that doesn't mean someone else won't make a dangerous decision that'll affect his kids so he still worries

- Really sweet and affectionate

- He never wants his children to feel unloved and worthless, he drowns them in love

- He gets soooo excited when his kids bring home friends and doesn't understand why he kinda creeps them out with his knives and slow talking

- The only time he will ever yell is if his kids did something that put themselves in danger

- Not very good at discipline but not exactly a pushover, they listen to him. Something about his soft words carry more power than an angry parent yelling or talking strictly would

- Has his familiars follow them on occasion

- If they're ever fighting and his kid lashes out and says they hate him just in a generic fight it will destroy him even when he knows they don't mean it

- He stares at them a lot because he's just so happy they're there and he loves them so much

- Doesn't push them to have ambitions in life, he just wants them happy

--------------------------------------------

I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading!

Feedback and reblogs appreciated! ❤️

Sakamaki Version Link 👇🏻

[faith2wood]

hey! i just finished beholden. i wanted to ask what got you writing, what had you stop for a decade, and what got you back in?

Ahhhh! Asking me why I write? You wanted word vomit? You're getting word vomit.

(There's a little spoiler for Beholden under the cut.)

What got me writing?

RAGE. 

No, really.

I was a lurker/reader in the Buffy fandom at the time, and I'd only occasionally read HP fics — 95% gen!fic, 4% low rated canon romance, 1% Sirius/OC smut, because the rest of my faves were kids, and I wasn't interested in anything else. 

And then after DH, with Draco getting pushed to the brink of redemption, but not crossing the line, and with Harry's view of him changing — always so sorry, so sad for him, always noting how scared he seemed, even switching to calling him 'Draco' — I was left with such a need to read that pairing. I wanted Draco to cross that line, and I wanted that soft understanding Harry had found for him to get explored. 

So, I tried reading Harry/Draco fics. And OH MAN. 

I was no stranger to character-bashing and unusual interpretations of canon — Buffy fandom was pretty damn crazy — but I knew my way around that place. With Harry/Draco, I stepped into the WILD. Fic after fic, all I could find was everything I loved and everything Harry loved in canon torn apart to pieces. His friends, his girlfriend, his House, his beliefs, his humor, the things that he wanted, the things that he fought for, the things that he was willing to die for, his character growth in DH, the confident brave man he became after Dobby's death, all of it dismissed, usually in a handful of exposition paragraphs. Endless apologies for the pure-blood supremacists. Draco 'redeeming' himself by quoting lines written by his fans on discussion boards, and therefore showing me he's not regretful, just full of excuses. Or he's not even redeemed, just cool and rich and suave (lol) and so much wittier than that bumbling, irrationally angry Harry Potter that felt plucked straight from OotP with all his teen angst painfully exaggerated. And then in those fics Harry just goes with it because he thinks Draco is hot. 

I could go on. I won't. 

So, I had that petulant moment where I thought, "Fine. I'll do it myself. How hard can it be?" 

Well, pretty damn hard, apparently. It's hard to create convincing drama. It's hard to get the characters in the right frame of mind so your plot could work. It's very hard to write smart and witty characters. It's hard to convincingly redeem someone. It's hard to juggle a cast of side-characters. It's hard to spell the word nesscscseary. It's especially hard to take that perfect, plausible, well-thought out story in your head and write it down without losing at least half of what makes it good. It's also hard to find time to write and write well. And of course your personal opinions on canon and fanon can seep through no matter how hard you try not to preach, and it can totally ruin a story.

That realization tempered my rage. It didn't mean I was willing to read the things I don't like, of course; I always liberally use that back button. But I did eventually find fics that I love and reccers I can trust, and learned to forgive when authors cut some corners.

Oh, but the taste of POWER writing gave me. The fact that I can just write the things I want to read. Cater to my own preferences. Simply not include the things I don't like. I want it, it's there; I don't want it, it's not.

So that's why I started writing. So I could read exactly what I wanted to read. Stories perfectly tailored for me. Honestly, I'm my biggest fan. I'm my own writing bitch. It doesn't even matter if I fail to do a good job while writing down the little movie that played out in my head, because I know my own intentions. I thought it all through. What I've written might not make sense to a reader sometimes, but it always makes sense to me. And I can always forgive myself if I feel like I failed. I find it very, very easy to forgive myself. Others, not so much, especially if I start to suspect they don't love Harry enough.

What made me stop writing?

I didn't stop writing. I stopped posting. I stopped interacting with fandom. I felt like I had my fill. I'm happy to recycle plots and read and write similar things over and over again, because I want what I want, and I won't apologize for it, but apparently I've reached a limit after all and felt like I have nothing new to offer.

I kept writing stuff. Fanfic for other fandoms, original stuff, even HP fics. Most of it unfinished and unedited and unpresentable, but enough to satisfy my occasional cravings for specific things. Which, as I said, is the whole point of my writing.

So I'll rephrase your next question: What got me to finally finish a Harry/Draco fic and post it? 

THE CURSED CHILD. lol I haven't seen it. Or read it. I haven't even read the synopsis. Next gen, eh, I was never interested. But I caught some spoilers about it on tumblr and reddit — about Draco's wife being ill and dying. That's some incredible stuff. Draco being so loving and dedicated, standing up to his parents, so heartbroken when the person he loved died but still being a wonderful father to his son. It's like I discovered a whole new Draco to think about. It got me all inspired. It's everything I ever wanted for him, except of course his wife dying. So he got to save his seemingly terminally ill lover in Beholden, and got the chance to be a loving, tender husband I wouldn't dare to even imagine after finishing the books, as it would feel too OOC to soften him up to that degree.

It likely wasn't visible, but in my mind, Beholden is kind of a Cursed Child fix!it fic — for that tiny part of the story. I needed it so desperately, I actually finished and posted it.

I have a few more asks in my tumblr inbox, and I'll very happily answer them, but it might take some time.

[aficionadoenthusiast]

hi! i also love comedy! any chance we could get some more funny fic recs?

yes, absolutely!

pjo

sorry, don't have a ton of these, I tend to read more serious fics for this fandom

keeping it fruity by buoyantsaturn; valgrace, T, 4k; Leo is both so relatable and so silly, I love it

Leo huffed. “Sorry, I just don’t think I can support such senseless violence,” he grumbled, knowing that all of the excuses he and Nico had come up with over the last few years would be useless by that point. “What is a sport, really, if not an excuse to beat some stranger to a pulp?”

sex education by CordeliaRose; solangelo, E & M, 5-20k; I'm not normally a fan of smut, so if this one got me to read smut, you know it's good

Percy tries to give Nico a sex talk. It goes about as well as anyone could have predicted.

marvel

shelter order by deniigiq; team red, G, 46k; team red quarantine group chat fic, need I say more?

Little Spidey (Pink): Hello Twitter. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Spiderman has decided that we should share with you all our private chat. We will be doing so on the condition that y’all remain cool about it. You gonna be cool? (Peter decides to raise spirits of those in isolation by sharing parts of the Team Red chat online day by day.)

Fishing Isn’t Fair to the Fish by NezumiPi; defenders, T, 17k; I was not expecting this one to have so much humor. or an exorcism.

Spoilers for Defenders S1 and prior individual shows. In a magnificent display of poor judgment, Luke Cage invites the Defenders on an upstate fishing trip in they can get to know one another better and perhaps smooth over some minor interpersonal conflicts. Contains (in no particular order): Minor interpersonal conflicts, major interpersonal conflicts, moderate impersonal conflicts, Danny Rand’s undergarments, porn for the blind, misuse of pharmaceuticals, talking swans, occasional fishing, and some seriously unpleasant business.

Mr. Stark's Home for Idiot Teenagers by OffToNewPastures; Iron family, T, 98k; tbh it's been so long since I read this one that I don't remember what it's about, but I have it marked as funny, so here you go

Peter is there, slumped over the kitchen island, slowly cramming spoonfuls of Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp into his mouth, hair tousled and sticking up every which way, and Tony realizes with sudden clarity that he’s fighting a losing battle. Maybe not today, maybe he can put it off for a while, but someday he’s just going to have to give up and love this ridiculous kid. - In which Tony Stark learns object lessons about love, sacrifice, death, friendship, and parenthood; and makes his peace with the unfortunate reality that his penthouse will be crawling with asshole teenagers every weekend for the foreseeable future. Follows canon...loosely. Ahem.

Chaotic Peter by Isnt_it_pretty_to_think_so; Iron family, T, 15-20k; this one is hilarious and painful and gripping and so so beautiful, and it has a logical path to the Iron family trope that doesn't make me cringe. I stayed up to 5 am on a weekday reading it. No regrets. (My note on ao3: "Reread first story to laugh until you cry, reread second part to feel something," if anyone was doubting how I feel about this fic.)

"Is there a reason you're calling this late at night?" Tony asks, worried in spite of himself. "Tell me what's going on, kid." “Everything is one-hundred-percent fine,” Peter says. “Seriously, I've never been better. But I should let you know I have about thirty bricks of cocaine in my bedroom. Also, Karen won't let me turn off Instant Kill Mode. Also, Walmart discontinued my special razzleberry pink squeezy lemonade. Which isn't related to tonight's patrol, I'm just bummed about it.”  Or: The five times Instant Kill Mode is activated +1

Super Duper Side Effects by awesomesockes, whumphoarder; Avengers, T, 16k; most mcu fans probably recognize this one and know it's hilarious

The downside of an enhanced metabolism is that it renders most drugs completely ineffective. Captain America accepted this long ago as an occupational hazard. But after Peter sustains a serious injury in the line of duty and the doctors have no way to manage the pain, Steve decides to volunteer as a test subject for Bruce and Tony’s experimental super drug. However, the soldier ends up getting a little more than he bargained for. (Alternative title: Original Drug Tester: Steve Rogers)

Obligatory mention of the fic that caused this ask:

in technicolor by deniigiq; Marvel's various NYC vigilantes & Brett Mahoney, not rated (I'd give it a T), 120k; again. the observor pov gives the idea of wildlife being studied in their natural habitat, and it is so. fucking. funny.

Brett sighed and looked down at the folder in his hand. “Your name is Peter, right?” “Lawyer.” “Peter, we haven’t even started talking. Let’s just take a minute to ease up.” “Lawyer.” “Bud, we haven’t charged you with a crime. This is just talking.” “Law. Yer.” Goddamn. (Brett's encounters with Team Red/vigilantes and their weird fucking way of helping)

hp

Still Preoccupied... With 1979 by darkbluedark; drarry (+jily & wolfstar), T, 15-20k; pre drarry accidental time travel hanging onto their rivalry for convenience? hilarious.

It’s May 1979 and the Order has just apprehended a pair of mysterious wizards who look remarkably like a Potter and a Malfoy. Naturally, James Potter and Sirius Black are called in to identify the strangely familiar strangers and determine their backgrounds and loyalties. (This would be a lot easier if their captives weren’t convinced everyone they talk to is dead. It would also be easier if they didn’t spend half their bloody time bickering.)

sirius black and the "mystery girl" by tjmcharg; wolfstar, T, 29k; heteronormativity but for humor reasons

"You can't tell me who you're with?" Lily smiles at him hopefully. Sirius laughs. "Alright Evans, if you're so curious, I have a proposition for you" "We'll set up a little bet, you have until the end of the school year - so two months - to work out who I'm dating, or..." he pauses to think and with an evil smirk decides, "or you have to ask your crush out on a date."

pair of tossers with a cat by moonymoment; wolfstar, G, 10k; a cat nearly destroys them. in the middle of a war.

Something seemed to dawn on Remus then; something so obvious he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. He frowned and looked at Sirius quizzically. “What?” “Are you…” Remus began, gaping slightly, “jealous of the cat, Sirius?” Sirius looked down. “I’m not jealous of the cat.” “You’re jealous of the cat!” “I am not jealous of the bloody cat.” Remus finds a stray cat on the street and brings it in. Sirius is not impressed. Chaos ensues.

(fuck jkr. for those of you who don't know me.)

(if y'all have any especially funny fics you wanna share, i would not be opposed 👀) (especially marvel and pjo 👀👀)

[cynthiav06]

I have a Question.

I'm just know finding out about percy jackson and was wondering...

Is this book series worth reading?

Even though it's almost like 10 years old?

I'm really late finding out about it

And what things should I look out for in the Fandom and the books?

Oh my, am I really going to be the one to introduce you to Percy Jackson Series? What an honor! 100%, yes, you should absolutely read it. The main series, at least for sure.

There's some serious drama going on in the fandom right now over certain sequels but the orignal series is perfection.

If you are looking for a fast-paced, action-adventure sort of thing but with tons of humor, then that's the series for you. There's a romantic sub-plot as well if you are interested in that. Percy is one of the sassiest main characters ever and one of the best main characters of all time to date, period.

All the characters are great and nuanced (stick to the main series for this), and it's an awesome mix of fun , trauma, and battles. And no one, no one in the entirety of fandom will ever say they regretted reading the series. The only reason everyone is so furious at the later sequels is because we absolutely adored the main series and want a fitting continuation. Now, this main series I keep talking about refers to Percy Jackson and the Olympians, which is the first set. Five books in this order:

The Lightning thief

Sea of Monsters

The Titan's Curse

Battle of the Labyrinth

The Last Olympian

Now my advice is that you read certain short stories like The Stolen Chariot, The Bronze Dragon, and the Sword of Hades before The Last Olympian. Personally, I think you can skip the Bronze Dragon, but the other two, especially the Sword of Hades, are a must-read.

There are post main series short stories too, but I won't overwhelm you with them right now.

After this, when (not if) you fall absolutely in love with the series, you can read Heroes of Olympus series [also 5 books], which is the second set. It's a direct continuation of the first series. There's some whacky stuff here and there, which means there are a few problems with certain characterizations, but ultimately, it's worth it. You would have to be a super serious fan to be bothered by it, so don't worry about it. It's all great. Heroes of Olympus gets really, really good in the middle, and personally, you should absolutely read it cause you would be missing out on a whole lot of greatness if you don't.

There are other book series taking place in the same universe and lots of fun cross-overs, if you like that sort of thing.

The fandom is a great place if you want for super cool headcanons or great character analysis or great au fanfics, and so on. A few characters have toxic stans, I won't mention which characters cause you might be put off by that during reading; these stans are mainly involved in the ships' monopoly. There are many ships and you can ship whoever you want really but some of the blind fandom is a bit touchy feely regarding their pairings so yeah try not to get involved in those if you want a fun time and a peace of mind( mainly cause you won't have to deal with toxic stans) ; unless you want to cause chaos instead (join the party), which is where the real fun is.

You are going to completely and absolutely love this series, I guarantee you. Take my word on it. Have fun, and if you have a blog here, would love to know your personal reviews after reading each book.

[williamkisser]

I have been given permission to yap and I won't stop talking until you regret it.

So, I live in the Netherlands and there is one place that is a cultural icon for every Dutch person you meet. Like, if you know this park and you know that someone is Dutch, you have a conversation starter right there because that Dutchie knows this park too and most likely has something to say about it.

This theme park is called the Efteling (do not forget the 'the', nobody just calls it 'Efteling') and it has been standing in its specific location at the edge of Kaatsheuvel since 1952. What is its theme? Fairytales! Almost all rides have a story attached to it, the theming everywhere is impeccable and there is a genuine forest which has fairytale scenes dotted around that you can look through.

JUST LOOK AT ALL THESE IMAGES!!

These are just some examples of the most iconic Efteling attractions and sights. Also, have you noticed something? The sheer amount of TREES!!! It's crazy. The Efteling has pledged itself to helping and protecting nature within its park. I don't just mean carefully msintained flower beds (although you can find many flowers during spring and summer time), it's ALL nature. There are so many trees everywhere within the park. You can't go Five meters in any direction without a tree being in your vision when you're outside. You can see squirrels in the park. Live, wild squirrels that just live their lives within the trees and nature surrounding you. There are birdhouses everywhere, along with feeding stations. It's so pretty and fun.

First picture is the entrance of the Efteling, it's a huge reed-clad roof, one of the biggest in Europe. Inside there is a stained glass window showing some iconic Efteling rides and characters. It's gorgeous, spaceous and in the nights it lights up!

Then we have an icon, he's named Langnek (literally longneck), he stands in the Sprookjesbos (Fairytale Forest) and some iteration of him has existed since the Efteling started. He's a part of a fairytale the park has written itself (there's more Efteling-original fairytales) and you can sit on one of the benches near him and listen to the story being told to you. For people who don't speak Dutch or don't feel like listening, you can read the story in four languages (Dutch, English, French and German, plus Italian for Pinnochio) in a huge statue of a storybook.

The huge castle is home to an extremly large ride called Symbolica. In the attraction we see the Efteling's mascot, called Pardoes. Basically, your invited on a visit with the king of the region, called Pardulfus, but Pardoes decides that the original plan is way too boring. He literally opens a staircase with magic and you go into the castle, where you can choose from one of three routes to take. Much of the routes are very similar, but the ride also has interactive elements which change depending on which 'tour' you choose. It's a ginormous construction with so much detail in every room. The place has its own secret alphabet that is used in all sorts of places, there's a lot of really cool animatronics and the music is great.

The fourth picture is inside of the Efteling's most popular attraction, called Droomvlucht (translated it's Dream Flight). The entire construction of the cart you step into kinda resembles a ski lift in its track, which makes it seem like you're flying through the attraction. You pass fairies, elves, trolls, castles and stars while going through the ride. It smells like flowers inside, it's these huge scenes of animatronics all carefully placed in different locations and it is insanely popular. Like, regular lines are nearly an hour long and everyone finds it worth it popular.

Next one is a photo of the Efteling's wild water attraction (there is a LOT.of water and water elements in the park, no surprise in the Netherlands), called Piraña. It's themed after the Aztec civilization, so you'll see many of those elements in what the building looks like, the decorations and the landscape of the ride. There is even audience participation for the people on dry land. You can hit a drum by some specific statues and splash water on the people in the ride, or risk getting wet a little early yourself. Everyone comes out soaked, you will not be spared. It's nice for in the summer, but not my favorite since I don't enjoy wet clothing.

Nr 5 is a photo of the infamous drop from Baron 1898, the most intense rollercoaster of the Efteling. An insane drop into a misty pit, multiple loopings, super fast turns and all the works. The story is super interesting though. A guy called Gustave Hoogmoed has decided to start missing in a place that's protected by spirits. You are a prospector diving down within these mines, getting chased by the Witte Wieven (VERY old Dutch myth, like pre-christian Dutch mythology, roughly translates to wise women in white). If you stand near the pit, which is properly fenced off in a way that's not scalable for the normal person, you can hear them sing. It's also very fun to watch the coaster carts come up from different places within the park, because they pause a good five seconds at the last moment before the drop.

And the last pic for now (because I WILL return with more ramble) is of the true icons, the musical mushrooms. They play the song 'Menuet in G major' by Christian Petzold and they're dotted along the path in the Fairytale Forest and its tradition to get your pictur taken while sitting on it. If you're Dutch, you can have a picture of a younger you sitting on one of the mushrooms, your parents can have pictures of them on the mushroom AND your grandparents can ALSO have pictures of them on the mushroom.

You'll definitely have to sit through a rant on my favorite rides, my favorite fairytales and the history of the Efteling later, but I'm done with rambling for now. Sorry for dumping a monstrosity on you.

Wait I KNOW THAT PLACE kate bush performed there

[puffyducks]

DCRC Week #39

PKNA #33: The Day That Will Come. You're not getting more of an intro than that or I will say something I'll regret.

heyyyy babygirl 💖 ignore the big scary men arm wrestling in the background

Not even one page in and he's already so over it... he doesn't even know what's coming

ooohhh right I forgot about that. okay well sorry for PREVENTING ALL OF SPACE AND TIME FROM BEING OBLITERATED

NNNOOOOOOOOOOOO THEY'RE GONNA TAKE MY COOL LESBIAN ROBOT FRIEND

Ok Raider

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL AND HE SHALL APPEAR!!! HERE'S HERE TO SAVE DONA- no wait nevermind he's here to do terrorism

It's where he WAS confined that one time before escaping. Care to explain how that happened btw? No like seriously I really wanna know how the fuck he got out

Since we all decided on that poll that the Raider is actually a rooster, I'm just putting it out there that Kronin is now one as well.

I'm assigning him specifically as an Ayam Cemani rooster, which are completely black (down to their organs)

First of all L + ratio + he stole your job and then also your name get fucking wrecked idiot

Second of all what are the implications here of the name Raider then? Does this mean that it's like a title that can get passed down (or stolen)? What the fuck was our Raider called before that? And most importantly what is his regular civilian name outside of that??? I'm asking because I wanna know but also because I hope it's something really stupid and boring. If they don't give us a canon answer I'm gonna decide that his name is actually Ron Raider.

GOD DAMMIT KRONIN IT'S BEEN LIKE 20 SECONDS

FFFUCKING SHIT!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

This shit is so fucking funny what do you mean they Just Have Donald

YEAH YOU TELL EM RAIDER!! FUCK THAT OTHER LOSER GUY FORMERLY KNOWN AS THE RAIDER

Looks like SOMEONE'S a sore loser 🙄

Take that cape off bitch it looks way better on the REAL Raider

Sorry I promise this whole post won't just be me bullying Kronin

NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO- hold on wait a second his ENTIRE chest is metal?????

THEY HIT THE FUCKING PENTAGON

WAIT THIS IS FUCKED UP I'M REALLY UPSET

THERE HAS TO BE ANOTHER WAY HE CAN BE SAVED CAN'T WE LIKE KILL KRONIN AND GIVE HIM HIS ORGANS OR SOMETHING FUCK!!

FUCK YOU YOU'LL NEVER BE THE RAIDER YOU'RE NOT EVEN WEARING HOT PINK

Actually fucking me up that Donald is like being really nice and gentle with the Raider here and he's literally the only person there that cares about him surviving FUCK!!!!!

DON'T YOU DO IT I SWEAR TO GOD

NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

dropping "hey btw I have a son" immediately before killing yourself is fucking CRAZYYYY WHAT ABOUT TRIP OH MY GOD

and nothing of value was lost. except for THE FUCKING RAIDER WHO WAS WAY COOLER THAN YOU!! FUCK

also wait hold on am I stupid for just now realizing this but didn't this guy used to have a scar over one of his eyes? In an earlier comic? Idk who cares see you later bozo you did nothing to help us ever

Have I already read this comic before? Yeah. Did I know where the story was going? Also yes. AM I STILL REALLY UPSET??? YEAH I AM. WHAT THE FUCK. I DIDN'T THINK I WOULD BE THIS DISTRESSED ON REREAD BUT I AM 😭 I STILL AM

I'm not adding Xadhoom comic down here because I used too many pictures already but Man. Man. I'm freaking out. WHAT ABOUT TRIP MAN.

And you know what the craziest part of all this is??

THAT NEXT WEEK IS MY FAVORITE FUCKING CHAPTER BITCH LET'S FUCKING GO I'M SO EXCITED!!! I HAVE NOTHING SMART TO SAY IN REFLECTION OF THIS ONE JUST CATCH ME NEXT WEEK WHEN I GO APE SHIT

[funeralprocession]

I wrote a thing... This is weird, self-posting without sticking a Nagito sprite on it but I'll endure, probably.

I'm not sure how often I'll write, probably not very? And this is actually the second Oumaeda thing I wrote (the first one isn't getting posted, it's not terrible (like, in terms of the subject matter, it wasn't scary or anything) but it was exceptionally low-effort as well as being overtly smutty).

For the record, everybody in dangan is an adult to me. Just putting that out there, short, annoying adults are still adults, even if you find them annoying (and short) XD!!

The first story is referenced in this one a few times, but the important things to know about it are: - Kichi was deliberately staying close to Nagito, testing him to see if he was going to get bothered enough to leave - He was doing everything in his power to force him away if he was going to go - It didn't work XD!! Nagito is slightly out of character (here and in the first one); we (Skyler and I) figure Nagito would be incredibly unfamiliar with someone showing him that type of attention... Not just hanging around him a lot, but when Kichi started being aggressively flirtatious, that was new and he didn't know what was happening, essentially. He's not normally this nervous, but he didn't have anyone showing him that type of attention prior.

Anyway, here's the thing, if you're reading this right now it means I actually posted it XD!!! (I'll also be colour-coding their speech, since I didn't always denote which the speaker was, hopefully that won't be too distracting or whatever.)

- - -

"Ask me something," Kichi commanded; his tone was friendly but it wasn't a request. "Aww, I couldn't do that," Nagito complained and averted his eyes, "Scum like me has no right to ask anything of you." "I'll answer whatever you wanna know," Kichi responded playfully, knowing his response might be a lie but electing to leave that part off.

Nagito was equal parts frustrating and intriguing - Kichi couldn't settle on either thing for certain. It was a good thing, of course - Kichi wouldn't get bored with him. He felt like he'd picked an interesting one, and had nothing to regret.

"I do have something," Nagito finally spoke up, his voice calm and cool as usual. "Let's have it." "It's really none of my business…"

Kichi groaned and slumped his shoulders - was Nagito really going to ask about his organization? He was hoping he would ask something more fun than that. He didn't blame him for being curious, of course… After he'd gone digging and found absolutely nothing, that had to be--

"Have you ever kissed anybody before?" Kichi yelped in immediate surprise, "Have I ever what?" "C'mon," Nagito smiled serenely, "I know you'll never tell me anything about your organization. I wouldn't expect you to." "When I told you to ask me something, I was--" Kichi huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and feigning indignance, "We're… Uh…"

He forgot the word. He was so flustered by being asked that question, he forgot the word he wanted. The longer he fixated on it, the more nervous he looked-- This was bad.

"Is that a 'no'?" Nagito was still smiling casually, "Too busy with your leadership responsibilities, huh?" "Y-yeah, busy," Kichi quickly agreed, "I… I'm surprised you would even ask that, it's-- It's not like I have time for that kind of… Whatever! Never wanted to, never needed to! If I wanted to, I definitely could have, though--" "Of course," Nagito nodded slightly.

That tone of voice - Kichi heard it every day for the last several weeks… Or months? He wasn't sure how long it'd been, but he'd heard Nagito speak often and in that very specific way… The reason he couldn't tell whether Nagito was frustrating or intriguing was, in part, because of that voice. The way he expressed himself… The things he said, the way he insulted himself but it felt like his actual target was--

It was intriguing. Kichi decided, it was intriguing. Nagito was an incredibly fascinating individual.

Things had been a little… Not tense, but 'unusual' between them, after the incident, when Kichi was testing Nagito to see if he would finally be pushed away… But it wasn't because Nagito had been avoiding him. Was Kichi feeling… Guilty?

"Hey," Nagito spoke up after a rather lengthy silence, "Are you ok?" "I'm fine!" Kichi responded too quickly, feeling even more embarrassed in an instant.

"Y'know…" Nagito began after another slightly awkward pause, "I'm not judging you, I know you're busy with your organization and all… You're not a loser like me… I haven't kissed anybody before, but that's just what you would expect out of someone like me, isn't it?" "I'm sure you were too busy too," Kichi waved a dismissive hand, "Not everybody has time for… Bullshit, or whatever."

Kichi hated everything he was saying, but he was too flustered to stop and express himself properly. Had he completely lost the upperhand? Everything he was saying and feeling was so awkward and annoying-- Did Nagito know what he was doing? Was it an accident?

"I appreciate the benefit of doubt, but I really wasn't busy at all," Nagito confessed, "I guess I wasn't really trying, but there wouldn't have been any point-- not much, anyway."

Kichi started thinking about that day again… He couldn't stop - something about the discomfort and the conversation was making him think about that time… Feeling Nagito rubbing him… First with his hand, then…

Kichi squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts out of his mind. "Sorry," Nagito gently apologized; Kichi glanced at him and found he was still smiling faintly. "Sorry for wh--" "I'm sorry for putting that thought in your head," Nagito clarified, "The thought of… Anybody… With me, I'm sure that was disturbing. Sorry you had to see that." "It is not disturbing!" Kichi asserted too quickly once again, "I mean-- It's fine, I wasn't even thinking about that." "You looked troubled. I assumed that was why."

Did… Nagito not remember what happened? Had he really forgotten? Kichi didn't want to ask in case it had completely slipped his mind…

"Guess I've been thinking about things recently," Nagito began, "Stuff I didn't really bother with before, mostly." "Huh? What kinda things?" Kichi straightened his posture; the topic change could prove useful. If Nagito had something on his mind, the distraction might pull Kichi out of the gutter he was suddenly struggling to drag himself out of--

"I have no right to ask, of course--" "Just say it, Nagito!" Kichi complained, "We're friends, right?" "We are?" Kichi furrowed his brow and glanced over, unsure of what that was supposed to mean… Was Nagito saying he didn't think of Kichi as being his friend--

His expression was… Normal. He didn't look upset or bothered in any way. What did that mean?

"Yes," Kichi responded resolutely, forcefully, leaving no alternative, "We're friends." "Ah."

That was how Kichi conducted himself with everyone else: nothing was up for debate. He just took what he wanted. He didn't wait for permission, he didn't ask politely, he took control, he steered, even if they fought back… So why was it so difficult now? What was wrong with Nagito? What about him made Kichi so… Flustered? And why was Kichi enjoying it?

"I like you too," Nagito informed him, "I said that before, but I figured how I felt wouldn't mean anything--" "You remember!" Kichi blurted, "W-what happened, I mean? You remember?" "Of course," Nagito chuckled, "Did you think I forgot?" "I mean, kinda," Kichi slumped his shoulders again, "Since you… I dunno, didn't… Whatever."

He was embarrassing himself again; he couldn't stop.

"That's why I'm here, isn't it? Because you said I'm yours now, you weren't going to let me go?" "Y-yeah," Kichi confirmed, "That was a loyalty test." "Hmm," Nagito glanced at Kichi from the side of his eye, the corner of his mouth slightly upturned in a faint, wry smile.

"Have you done that with many of your associates?" Nagito asked after an uncomfortable silence. "Th-they received specialized-- Ok, fine! No! What do you want me to say?" Nagito chuckled softly and shrugged, "Nothing in particular, we're just having a conversation."

Kichi's face was burning with embarrassment. He couldn't remember anybody ever getting the upperhand over him at any point - if they ever had it, they didn't keep it very long. He had a way to weaseling out of situations, but Nagito had a way of keeping him completely off-balance. He couldn't tell if Nagito was even aware of it-- He must have been. There was no alternative. There was no way it was an accident. Nagito was clever, and constantly besmirching himself was just another tactic - Kichi was sure of it.

"Have you ever heard of the Pocky game?" Nagito asked casually. "Of course!" Kichi sat up straight and pushed his shoulders back, determined to regain his control over everything - himself, the conversation, Nagito, everything. He was fairly certain the feeling he had - that unusual enjoyment, was just because the experience was a new one. No one had ever backed him into a corner before and kept him there. It wasn't boring. (Was that even what Nagito was trying to do? Did he have an angle? Was Kichi getting in his own way?)

"I kinda wanted to do it," Nagito mumbled with a slightly embarrassed shrug, "N-not right now, I mean… Just in general, at some point, but--" "What's wrong?" Kichi grinned and nudged Nagito with his shoulder playfully, "Don't you like me? Am I not good enough~?"

Kichi felt like he was trying too hard but he refused to back down.

"I couldn't," Nagito chuckled, "Someone like me?" "You're not so bad, Nagito," Kichi felt his nervousness dissipating - it really was him getting in his own way. Nagito wasn't doing anything, he was sure of it now, he'd just been imagining--

"Are you sure you want to?" Nagito asked in a somewhat ominous tone, "You seemed kinda distressed before… Are you sure it's ok?" "Oh, that," Kichi waved his hand and grinned, "That was something else, I was thinking about-- Never mind, it's not important." "Ah, I see," Nagito smiled faintly once again, "Good, I was starting to think I was bothering you, maybe you were reconsidering." "Reconsidering?" "What you said before, about how I'm yours now," Nagito reminded him casually, "I was thinking you had regrets, even though I would completely understand if you did." "Nah, you're mine," Kichi nonchalantly asserted, "You just kinda threw me off before, but I'm fine." "You really thought I was going to try to ask about your organization again, huh?" "Nah," Kichi grinned, "You're not boring. You know better." Nagito smiled once again, the silence setting Kichi on edge immediately.

Something about silence from Nagito, even when he was smiling, was unnerving. Kichi assumed it was because he was difficult to read and figure out… Which wasn't entirely bad, just nerve-racking.

"What have you done? With another person, I mean," Nagito requested softly after a momentary pause.

Kichi couldn't remember if he'd directly admitted to never having kissed anyone before - why would he do that? Did he lie or not? He couldn't remember!

"Besides what we did with each other, I mean," Nagito clarified after another brief span of quiet, "Sorry, excluding that." "You go first," Kichi grinned mischievously, suddenly realizing he couldn't lie his way out of the situation at hand. "Ah, that was my first time," Nagito replied modestly, "Not a surprise, I'm sure… I… Doubt it was even any good, I didn't know what I was doing…"

Thinking about that event again--

"Ha," Kichi chuckled breathily, then barely managed to regain composure, "Y-you weren't bad." "Do you have any Pocky around here? I noticed… Sorry for paying attention but I noticed you like sweets." "You're allowed to notice things, Nagito. In fact, that's a good quality to have in a servant." "Servant?" "Well, yeah," Kichi adjusted his tone, pretending to get impatient, as if the matter was an obvious one, "You're my servant now, what did you think I meant when I said you belonged to me?" "Oh, aha," Nagito chuckled softly, "That makes sense." "I could send you to go get some for us-- some Pocky, I mean," Kichi rambled, attempting to maintain the illusion that he had secured control, "But there's no rush. We can do that any time." "That's true," Nagito nodded slightly in agreement.

He was struggling. He didn't want to let Nagito out of his sight. He didn't want to have to wait for several frustrating minutes - or longer, if Nagito got held up somewhere, if someone pulled him aside and started talking to him… He liked the idea of having the game as a cover, but he couldn't possibly wait that long. He wished he'd had some on-hand but it was obviously too late, it would do no good to stew about it.

"I just decided, we don't need it," Kichi stated firmly, "U-unless you would rather have it…" "Huh?" Nagito blinked, "You actually want my input?" "Why wouldn't I?" "Because I'm just a servant," Nagito stated simply, as if the answer was obvious, "Surely you wouldn't require feedback from me." "Will you stop that," Kichi huffed, "Why are you this way? Who hurt you, Nagito?"

Nagito was silent for a moment, which was strangely disturbing.

"Are you actually asking?" "Of course," Kichi responded quickly, "Did something happen to you?" "People just don't really care how I feel about things," Nagito shrugged passively, "It's not important." "It's important to me, I care about how you feel!" Kichi insisted, "Y'know, I might be annoying and pushy but I'm not mean - ok, I am but I'm not mean all the time." "You're not," Nagito confirmed, "You're not any of those things." "Call me 'master'," Kichi turned his nose up and smirked, suddenly deciding his mission was to push Nagito out of his self-hating comfort zone, beginning with forcing him to address Kichi using an embarrassingly respectful title. Surely he would fight back - maybe.

"Ok, master," Nagito nodded without any hesitation; Kichi felt like someone punched him in the stomach as soon as he heard those words. "Hey!" Kichi objected without delay, "You're supposed to-- I mean--!" "What's the problem, master?" Nagito asked serenely, "I'm your servant, and that sounded like an order." "You're too agreeable," Kichi complained, "You were supposed to get mad, you were supposed to be offended!" Nagito shrugged passively once again, completely unphased by the command he'd been given.

So maybe the self-deprecating 'facade' wasn't a facade at all. Perhaps Nagito really was like that? And the way he spoke was genuinely how he felt?

"Are you messin' with me?" Kichi demanded, "You have to tell me if this is a joke!" "Sorry, I'm not the best at jokes. My reputation precedes me in a lot of ways, but that isn't one of the things I'm known for."

It was uncharted territory - most of the time, people fought back against Kichi and his attempts to control situations and conversations. He actually preferred it, since it was a challenge to eventually get them to fall in line via any means necessary. Not violence, of course, but trickery and lies - the fun ways. He thought it was funny when people would lash out at him using violence; they were so bothered by his behaviour, they resorted to their baser instincts. It was funny, but also boring - it was predictable and they were being so normal.

"I want you to…" Kichi began his next command, feeling like he could have more fun with Nagito than expected. Nagito waited for Kichi to locate his words, showing absolutely no signs of distress, just like he hadn't before.

When Kichi was following him closely, tugging him around by his elbow, even shoving his hands into Nagito's pockets just to see how far he could be pushed before he began to push back… Nagito was completely unphased by it all. He was either incredibly patient? More-so than anyone Kichi had ever met? Or he might have been enjoying someone wanting to be around him.

"I want you to teach me how to kiss," Kichi grinned triumphantly, "With tongue, that's an order." "Wh-what?" Nagito stammered, "I told you, I don't know how--!" "Too bad, that was an order!" Kichi grinned even more, "Also, don't forget to call me 'master'!" "This is an impossible request, master, I'm sorry--" "It's not impossible, you're just being a quitter!" Kichi complained, "I gave you a task, now do it, Nagito!" "Ha," Nagito chuckled and brushed his hair away from his eyes, only for it to fall right back into place.

'Pleasepleasepleaseplease,' Kichi was silently pleading, begging Nagito would actually attempt to follow orders. He discovered he didn't want to issue commands and take charge - not all the time, anyway. How could he get Nagito to give him what he wanted without commanding him?

"C'mon, Nagito," Kichi whined, "I need you." "Huh?" "Yeah, I was too busy with my organization before, not like I can just… Y'know?" "Hmm," Nagito's gaze softened; it wasn't that he had been upset, but slightly concerned with the task he'd been assigned. "You asking me if I ever… It made me realize that I kinda missed out? And I don't like that," Kichi explained, "I mean, I don't like that I missed out, you asking me things is fine. Sorta, depending on what you're asking."

"Am I gonna get in trouble if I teach you poorly?" Nagito asked after a momentary silence, "I mean, I would deserve it but I did warn you, I don't know how--" "Nah, you won't get in trouble," Kichi asserted firmly and waved a dismissive hand.

Something was wrong… Even if Nagito did what he was commanded to do--

"I want you to teach me as if you already know what you're doing," Kichi clarified. "That's impossible!" "'That's impossible, ~master~'," Kichi corrected mischievously, "And it's not! You're just being obstinate!" "You're being obstinate!" Nagito argued before shrinking back, "Ah! S-sorry!" "No, do that!" Kichi asserted sternly, "Tell me I'm being annoying, I am being annoying! I'm getting on your nerves! Tell me off!" "I don't know what you want!" Nagito fretted, "This doesn't make any sense, master." "Sure it does, you're just afraid of making a mistake, and you're not making one," Kichi assured him, feeling an odd sense of deja-vu from the time before, "I'm not setting you up, you won't get in trouble."

There was something absurd about everything that was going on. Kichi still wasn't entirely convinced Nagito's self-loathing wasn't an act and yet there he was, trying to force him to stop. Was it possible? Was this going to be the thing that forced Nagito away? The realization hit Kichi like an ice cold tidal wave. 'Oh no.'

Before he could fully regain control of his senses, he was suddenly laying on his back with a pair of greyish eyes staring down at him behind a lock of fluffy white hair. "N-Nagito?" Kichi asked timidly. "Is there a problem, master? Didn't you tell me you wanted me to teach you how to kiss?" "Y-yes!" Kichi agreed in an instant, suddenly self-conscious about how over-eager he sounded.

"Can I sit up?" Kichi whined, attempting to disguise his eagerness from a moment before, "This is weird. Why are you on top of me?" "I want your full attention," Nagito cooed, "And this way, I have it. Master." "Ha," Kichi panted, finding he was already getting excited despite how nothing happened yet.

"I can't… N-Nagito," Kichi attempted to close his knees but Nagito was kneeling between them, "H-hey." "What's wrong, master?" Nagito asked, his tone somewhat gleeful, "Did you need something before we start?"

Kichi wasn't sure if Nagito was just that good at feigning confidence, or if this was proof that his normal demeanor was false. It didn't matter, it didn't change what was happening.

"Can… Can you please move?" Kichi asked meekly, "I can't… Uh…" "Sorry, I can't," Nagito responded calmly, leaning in a little closer and gently pinching Kichi's chin between his thumb and forefinger, "It's part of the lesson. I don't want you closing your legs." "Ha, fuck," Kichi panted before regaining control over himself and whining, "Th-that wasn't part of it!" "Would you like to call it off? Master?"

Was that what was going on? Nagito was attempting to force Kichi's hand, make him rescind the order so he wouldn't be forced to fulfill the obligation?"

"No!" Kichi asserted, "Teach me how to kiss! Let's see how good you are, I don't even need to close my legs, I'm not uncomfortable at all!" Nagito chuckled softly, "I don't believe you, sorry."

It was always fun when people obeyed Kichi's commands - but it was also fun when they reacted with force and hostility, refusing to follow his orders. This was… Even more fun than both of those things combined.

"Let's go, I'm waiting~" Kichi grinned, clasping his hands over his abdomen, doing his best to appear casual while he was stuck laying on his back. Nagito caressed Kichi's cheek very softly with his fingertips; Kichi's grin disappeared. Nagito was studying his lips for a moment before glancing back up, looking Kichi in the eye. "Stick your tongue out," Nagito ordered very softly. "Huh?" Without responding aloud, Nagito leaned in and gently licked Kichi's bottom lip, slipping his tongue inside without delay; Kichi eagerly cooperated and carefully adjusted his posture as Nagito laid down on top of him.

Kichi realized he'd never wanted to before? He didn't know why… But he never wanted to, with anyone. He wasn't sure if he regretted that - never even considering it at any point, or if that was speaking for itself: no one was ever interesting enough to him, apparently--

"Ha," Kichi panted, grasping onto Nagito's arms in an involuntary bid to keep him from pulling away. "This lesson's a pretty bad one, huh?" Nagito smirked faintly, his breath tickling Kichi's neck, "Not sure what I'm doing here." "Y-yeah," Kichi agreed, unsure what he was agreeing with, just that he didn't want to argue about it, wanting Nagito to continue as quickly as possible.

It was one of the few times he had nothing to say - or rather, didn't want to have a discussion.

"Why are you breathing so hard, master?" Nagito teased quietly, "Are you ok? Do you need something?" "I'm fine!" Kichi asserted, flustered, "Whatever!" "I dunno," Nagito continued, supporting himself by leaning on his left elbow, delicately caressing Kichi's cheek with his right thumb again, "You were making some noises…" "I said I'm fine!" Kichi insisted, unable to explain something he couldn't even remember doing. "You sure?" "Yes!" "Well, if you say so… Just kinda sounded to me like… Maybe I just got your dirty-voice out of you, but we weren't even doing anything yet… I heard it before, you know."

Kichi was blushing hard - he couldn't lie about that, either. He'd completely lost control of himself before; Nagito had him at a couple of distinct disadvantages.

"I'm sure I'm making a mistake," Nagito cooed softly, "Imagine… Someone like me? Getting that type of reaction out of you when I've barely even done anything at all~? That would be so embarrassing for you, huh?"

Before Kichi could respond in any way, Nagito leaned back in, a little more forceful that time, initiating a new kiss that Kichi eagerly participated in. He attempted to covertly slip his hand down between his legs and rub himself as he was getting uncomfortably hard, but Nagito pulled his hand away and pinned it onto the bed by his wrist. "Nope," Nagito smirked, "Sorry, master." "Hey!" Kichi huffed, "That wasn't part of it! You were supposed to teach me to kiss, there was never anything about I'm not allowed to jerk off!" "It was implied," Nagito responded casually, his voice as calm as ever, "I'm not done with you yet, so you're not allowed." Kichi whimpered pathetically and attempted to sit up enough to initiate a kiss on his own; Nagito obliged, laying him back down immediately without separating from his captive.

- - -

That's it, sorry about the abrupt ending but that was all I wrote on that one, it was just going to get worse anyway XD!!

[randomsloredrops]

Random's Lore Drops - Cnaonfell Papayas WOOOO-

i'm running out of shit to name these you gotta give me suggestions as to what I can name these lore drops. fish lady's next so literally ANYBODY who's reading this gimme a funny name to call undyne in her post. ANYWAYS, Howdy hey fellas, name's Ran- wait no, that's my intro in my soundcloud FUCK. Anyways, name's Random, you know this, you read the fucking title, let's get to the point. BRING OUT THE PICTURE OF THE... wait... just Papyrus? He doesn't have a canon nickname? Fuck... BRING OUT PAPYRUS!

(Design by THE one and only Vic The Fella/Underfella/Underfell.) You dont understand how long it took me to get the small amount of sans out and all of the information arrows, holy SHIT. anyways cue the uhhh read more

alright time to act formal now that the curtains are down or some shit idk. Papyrus T. Skeleton, also known as Papyrus, Pap, and also... bonehead? wait am i reading this right? damn,, alright, so basically fuck the formality. alright jackasses, let's get yapping. if you know papyrus, then you should be able to tell that, well... he's a skeleton. hence the last name "skeleton". but, unlike undertale's papyrus, canonfell papyrus... is a part of the fucking royal guard. IN FACT! he's second in command, which means he's actually pretty cool and... cool. yeah, that's it. anyways, you might have noticed the weird wonky armor that just looks like an evil papyrus armor, HOWEVER, he does have official "Royal Guard" armor that he despises wearing. Unless he's on official business, such as with Asgore or Undyne, he won't wear it. Design is HERE. You're prolly wondering where Papyrus got his scar from. Well, basically, to put a long story short, his brother was about to get killed by uhhhh Asgore because he couldn't break the barrier like Gaster said they would, and so Papyrus stopped Asgore. Guess what HE gets? A position in the Royal Guard, and his eye being stabbed in by Asgore's claw. Sans gets POWERS!, thas it. Unlike most Monsters in Underfell, he feels remorse- hold on, what's that word mean? what the fuck does remorse mean, google dot com... found it. so basically, he feels regret any time he HAS to kill, and he also swears the least out of everybody. Oh, right. CHECK OUT BROTHER RELATIONSHIP HERE FUCKHEADS! k, i dont have to explain. Oh yeah, Papyrus laughs really fucking weirdly, going "HAW HAW HAW" instead of "NYEH HEH HEH". According to fella, it is a "very powerful ugly laugh". It makes him hate when people try to make him laugh. According to my sources (canonfell wiki)... Ahem... "Papyrus likes evil puns, but will not get regular ones". I am going to kill somebod- Oh YEAAAH, papayas cooks lasagna instead of spaghetti. He also cooks chimichangas, which Sans sells, and he... wants to write his own cookbook? I mean, shit, I'd buy it. Also, in terms of, like, AUs meeting AUs, Underfell Papyrus is friends with Horrortale Papyrus and "Trades" recipes. He does not accept Horror Papyrus' recipe for... obvious reasons. Papyrus is an AMAZING actor, being able to pretend that he's this menacing Royal Guard, and pretend he does the killing he's forced to do for sport. Don't forget that his voice is canonically deeper, but he can LITERALLY just raise the pitch in his voice whenever he wants and shock people. Lastly (because it's almost 2 AM)... Papyrus is Asgore's number 1 hater, and he can't do shit about it (if Papyrus is weaker than Undyne, and Undyne's weaker than Asgore... Well, obviously he won't win). Anyways, fuck you, I hope you have a wonderful rest of your week!

[gigglesandfreckles-hp]

commentary/ramblings/director's cut of omtnwf chapters 2-5 below the cut!

HAHA this is NOT supposed to be there. i guess it makes enough sense...but this is from an earlier version of omtnwf that never had them actually get together at hogwarts at all! it was obviously a very different story altogether but i guess i never edited this part to reflect that oops. i'm going to pretend it reads as dumbledore being cheeky with his "you two were once rather good friends" instead of "multiple members of my staff have seen you half-naked around this school"

okay yes thereeee we go albus. much better.

the first of the seventh year secrets unravelling!!! i've gotten quite a few questions about how the internship being revoked plays into their story and the truth is, it doesn't really...not in the larger sense or beyond what we see here. it serves first and foremost as an early example of the half-truths that were happening toward the end of jily 1.0. and also reinforces the reasons lily turned toward the order. it's another layer of discrimination she was facing at the end of school that she never told james about. it feels more momentous in chapter 2 when it's mentioned because it's the only concrete thing we know she kept from him. in the grand scheme, though...there's not much more to the story there. she just simply didn't tell him. one more straw on the proverbial camel's back that led to their ultimate demise.

i have no idea why i made lily irritated here 😆 james's shock is personally reasonable considering she's been a covert member. c'mon lil cut our boy some SLACK

i actually love this bit of reveal that james was planning to propose. it feels sooo long ago because we've now seen the lead-up and both the immediate and long-term effects of said proposal. we've even seen the proposal! but here's where it all started. happy, naive james...about three months away from one of the worst days of his life.

i have actually warred with this bit for so long. i regret teasing their first encounter with voldy here because i have the perfect place for it as a flashback of it's own in a waaaay later chapter, but i didn't think of that until i'd long posted this chapter...which shows too much of the interaction between jily and voldy to revisit the scene later. ah well.

second only to my james potter sunshine motifs are my lily evans elemental motifs. james consistently notices things about lily and compares them to various facets of the elemental world. this is because i see james as being very grounded within nature due to his being an animagus! i like to imagine he has a keen understanding and perception of the natural world around him. the trees, the grass, the earth, the wind, etc. thus...his admiration of lily frequently takes the form of elemental metaphors!

this 1983 sirius intro is probably my favourite character intro of the fic! he's such a grumpy bastard. but immediately...they can't help it!!! james and lily unite to tease him. i love the natural little slotting back into their old trio dynamic (which is special to me) even in the midst of all the Big Feelings happening between all three of them. also this is embarrassing but this scene, especially the "do you promise to be good?" bit was inspired by that scene in national treasure when abigail first ends up in the van with ben and riley (and the declaration of independence lol) and the banter between the three in the "she won't be any trouble. see? she's curious" exchange just screams jilypad to me in a way i can't quite explain. idk i told y'all i was mad okay?!?!

the fact that this isn't even the only time james uses lily's beltloop for Plot. what can i say!!! i'm a girl of very specific taste!

i literally laboured over this scene wondering it was too soon for them to break the touch barrier and then i had to get a hold of myself because this isn't a regency era fic!!!

he makes me LAUGH. he's so cool and composed but i know and you know, WE ALL KNOW, that he's freaking the freak out on the inside. "the milk will sour" SHUT UP!!!!!!

[snailstrailz]

Ok so I SUCK at comics and post-sleep clarity compels me to just outline my alternative ending for OATD. I'm kinda on the fence about the ending, but whatever AU where the night entities are real or whatever.

This is kinda long so it's below the cut!

After Dark fades away Orion gets like super pissed at Light and yells at him for not stopping. Light weakly defends himself and flies off, leaving Orion alone to break down on the beach.

Cut back to present Orion and Hypatia, who's like "wow bummer ending dad" and Orion is like"I'm not finished tho!!"

The scene with the night entities realizing they fucked up plays out basically the same, but they all come together and have an argument about what to do. They all really regret just leaving dark but nobody has any ideas on how to fix things.

Finally, they listen to quiet, who suggests they go back for Orion, because maybe they can get Dark back though his memory.

The entities go find Orion, who's still hopeless. The entities all pitch in and talk about how he's helped, but it's not working. Finally dreams appeals to him by just stating the truth. "We need to get him back, or there will be nothing left for anyone."

Orion finally agrees and the whole crew goes into Orion's head this time, but searching through everything they can't find Dark.

This causes Orion to start having a panic attack and then the whole thing with the black hole happens pretty much the same with Orion deciding to face his fears. This dissipates the black hole and Dark is left behind in its wake.

He too, though is completely hopeless. He's reading the list again, crying.

Everyone tries to convince him to come back but Dark won't budge. Completely given up.

Then light shows up. He's like "dude, if you don't come back nobody will ever feel the cool, calm, dark again bro. It kinda blows when it's just me."

Dark turns around. "People have been terrified of me from day one." He turns to Orion, "you're still pretty afraid of me too. But... Maybe that's ok."

Dark gets up and declares that they're going to go fix the world and again the scene plays out pretty much the same.

Dark brings Orion home and they hug one last time. Orion goes inside and it fades to Orion on the field trip. He gathers his courage and talks to Sarah, and even though his voice cracks, he tells Ricchi Panichi to leave him alone.

In the present Orion and Hypatia are going back home. Hypatia doubts the story, thinking it's just made up. Orion knowingly smiles, before something for the poorly lit park from before catches his attention. Beyond the flickering street light, is Dark.

Hypatia is stunned and Dark is like, "long time no see!" Orion is elated to see Dark again, giving him a hug.

"I guess you're here to convince me you're not so bad now?" Hypatia says but Dark says "nah, I don't really mind." Sleep pops in alongside the others and saying, "it's past your bedtime anyway."

Boom title comes on screen credits roll yippee yay