#it's been creeping lately but it's not at full power yet

[metalbvcky]

I kinda miss posting a bunch (esp oneshots; those'll happen again eventually) but while I haven't updated in a hot second, I have so much prepared to share in the coming months. I'm feeling myself with multi-chapters and I'm beginning to think they're my biggest motivator. It only took almost four years of writing Steve/Bucky to come to that realization 😂😂

[callsigns-haze]

His Shadow: Chp 2

masterlist part 1

Azriel, secretly juggling his responsibilities and personal life, maintains a hidden relationship with YN, who works at a pleasure house in the Hewn City. She was his light, his love, his passion. Yet being his darkest secret is a hard role because life in the Hewn as a young female isn't the easiest as the two of you hold an even dark secret yet to be told...

Pairing: Azriel x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences.

The night had been peaceful, at least for the first few hours. Azriel had held YN close as they lay in the bed, Knox nestled in the small bassinet beside them. For a brief moment, everything in the world felt right—no shadows, no dangers lurking in the dark, just the quiet comfort of his family.

But as the hours ticked by, the reality of parenthood made itself known.

At two in the morning, Knox stirred in his sleep, his tiny whimpers quickly escalating into a full-blown cry. Azriel was on his feet in an instant, moving with the kind of speed that would have impressed even Cassian. He scooped Knox up in his arms, gently rocking him while YN tried to catch a few more moments of sleep.

Azriel whispered soothing words, his voice low and calming as he walked back and forth across the small room, Knox gradually settling in his arms. The infant eventually drifted back to sleep, but the peace was short-lived.

By four in the morning, Knox was awake again, this time with more insistence. Azriel rose once more, his movements slower this time, the exhaustion starting to creep in. YN tried to take over, but Azriel shook his head, determined to give her as much rest as possible.

He changed Knox’s diaper, a task he was still getting used to, and then fed him while humming a quiet lullaby. It took nearly an hour to get the baby back to sleep, and by then, the night had blurred into a haze of half-remembered moments.

When Knox finally settled down around five in the morning, Azriel fell back into bed, his body heavy with fatigue. YN curled up beside him, her hand resting on his chest, her breathing soft and even. Azriel’s eyes drifted shut, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to surrender to sleep.

But sleep did not last nearly as long as he needed it to.

At some point, the dim light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, and Azriel stirred slightly, aware of the passing time but too exhausted to fully wake. The room was quiet, blessedly quiet, as Knox remained asleep in his bassinet, giving his parents a much-needed reprieve.

It wasn’t until the first rays of sunlight touched his face that Azriel’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, disoriented, his mind sluggish as he tried to remember where he was. It took him a moment to process the silence—Knox wasn’t crying, YN was still asleep beside him, and the world outside was calm.

But then his thoughts cleared, and with them came a sudden, sharp realization: he had a meeting with Rhys at eight.

Azriel bolted upright, his heart pounding as he glanced at the small clock on the bedside table. 9:07 AM. The numbers stared back at him, mocking his shock.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, scrambling out of bed.

His sudden movement woke YN, who blinked up at him sleepily. “Az?” she murmured, her voice thick with exhaustion. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m late,” he replied, pulling on his pants with quick, jerky movements. “I was supposed to meet Rhys an hour ago at the River House.”

YN sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Azriel, it’s okay. He’ll understand.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure. Rhysand was many things, but he was also the High Lord, and punctuality was not something he took lightly. Still, the thought of explaining why he had overslept made Azriel’s stomach twist with anxiety. He didn’t want to lie, but he also couldn’t tell the truth—not yet.

He yanked on his shirt, hastily buttoning it as he searched the room for his boots. “Dammit, where are they?” he muttered, scanning the floor until he spotted them half-hidden under the bed. He dropped to his knees, grabbing them and shoving his feet inside without bothering to tie the laces.

YN watched him with a mix of concern and amusement, her expression softening as she saw the dark circles under his eyes. “Azriel, breathe,” she said gently, reaching out to touch his arm as he fumbled with his belt. “You can’t help being late. Knox had us both up all night.”

Azriel paused, looking at her, his heart aching with the desire to stay, to crawl back into bed and hold her and Knox close. But duty called, and he couldn’t ignore it. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “But I still have to go.”

YN nodded, understanding in her eyes. “Go, then. We’ll be here when you get back.”

Azriel leaned down and kissed her, a brief but tender touch of his lips against hers. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised, brushing a hand over Knox’s tiny head as the baby slept on, oblivious to his father’s rush.

With one last look at his family, Azriel grabbed his jacket and slipped out the door, his wings snapping open the moment he was outside. He launched himself into the air, the cool morning wind hitting his face as he flew at breakneck speed toward the River House.

His mind raced along with his heart, running through excuses, apologies, anything he could say to explain his tardiness without revealing the truth. But deep down, he knew nothing could truly justify the lateness—not in Rhysand’s eyes, and certainly not in his own.

But as he approached the River House, Azriel’s heart sank. Cassian was pacing on the balcony, his wings twitching with barely-contained frustration, while Rhysand stood with his arms crossed, his expression a mix of irritation and concern. The moment Azriel landed, he could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

“You’re late,” Rhysand said flatly, his tone giving nothing away, though his purple eyes told another story—one of anger and disappointment.

Cassian didn’t hold back. “Damn it, Az,” he snapped, his voice rough with frustration. “You’ve never been late for anything. What the hell is going on?”

Azriel straightened, trying to keep his expression neutral even as his heart raced. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm despite the turmoil inside him. “Something came up.”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, his frustration clear. “Something came up? Azriel, you’ve been distracted for weeks. You’re barely sleeping, you’re avoiding our questions, and now this?” He shook his head, the disappointment palpable. “If you’re dealing with something, you need to tell us. We’re supposed to be brothers, we do not keep secrets from each other.”

Azriel swallowed, the weight of his secret feeling heavier than ever. He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.

What could he say?

That the love of his life and his newborn son were hidden away in the Hewn City, a place he’d kept secret from everyone he cared about? That YN’s connection to the Hewn City’s pleasure homes was a burden he couldn’t share, even with his closest friends?

But instead of revealing the truth, Azriel shook his head, his voice tight with the lie. “I can’t explain it right now,” he said, avoiding their eyes. “But I’ll handle it.”

Cassian let out a harsh breath, clearly unsatisfied. “Az, we’re not asking you to spill your guts. But this isn’t like you. We can’t afford to have you slipping up, especially not now.”

Rhysand’s gaze softened slightly, though the frustration lingered. “We care about you, Azriel. But if you keep this up, it’s going to start affecting more than just you. We need you at your best, not half here and half somewhere else.”

Azriel nodded, the guilt clawing at him. “I understand,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with the weight of his secret. “It won’t happen again.”

The silence that followed was thick with tension, but Rhysand finally nodded, though his eyes were still sharp with concern. “See that it doesn’t,” he said, his voice softer but no less serious. “And Azriel… whatever it is, make sure it doesn’t consume you.”

Azriel forced a small nod, the words echoing in his mind long after the meeting began. He tried to focus on the discussion, tried to bury the guilt and exhaustion that clung to him like a shadow.

But even as the meeting continued, the memory of YN and Knox, sleeping peacefully in that small, hidden apartment, stayed with him, a reminder of the life he was desperately trying to keep from unravelling.

---

By the time Azriel returned home that evening, he was utterly drained. The day had been relentless, a blur of meetings, briefings, and strained interactions with Rhysand and Cassian.

Despite his best efforts to focus, his mind had constantly drifted back to YN and Knox, the image of them alone in that hidden apartment gnawing at his thoughts. Every moment away from them felt like a thousand tiny blades digging into his heart, each one reminding him of the life he was trying so desperately to keep in balance.

As he landed lightly on the roof of the building in the Hewn City, the familiar darkness of the alley below closing around him, he felt the exhaustion in his bones. His wings ached, his mind buzzed with fatigue, and all he wanted was to hold YN and their son, to let their presence be the balm for his weariness.

He made his way up the narrow stairs to their apartment, each step heavier than the last. The worn wooden door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the dim light inside greeting him. The moment he entered, he heard the soft, desperate cries of Knox.

YN was in the middle of the room, swaying gently as she tried to soothe their son. Her eyes were tired, her movements sluggish, and the dark circles under her eyes mirrored the exhaustion Azriel felt deep in his soul. She looked up as he entered, a small, weary smile playing on her lips despite the fatigue that clung to her.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb Knox further. “Rough day?”

Azriel nodded, his heart aching as he took in the sight of her struggling to calm Knox. “You could say that,” he replied, his voice rough from the day’s strain. He walked over to them, gently taking Knox from her arms. The baby’s cries softened as Azriel held him, his strong arms cradling his son with a tenderness that belied his warrior’s exterior.

For a moment, everything felt right again. The feel of Knox’s tiny body against his chest, the warmth of YN’s presence beside him—it was everything he had fought for, everything he wanted to protect. But then his gaze drifted to the chair beside YN, and the brief comfort he had found quickly evaporated.

Draped across the back of the chair were YN’s clothes for tomorrow: a black satin cowl neck crop tank top, dark navy jewelled shorts, and a pair of black heel sock boots. The sight of them was like a punch to the gut, a stark reminder of the reality they were living in.

The outfit was for her return to the pleasure house—a place he loathed with every fibber of his being, a place she was forced to return to far too soon after giving birth. The thought of her having to go back there, of the way the lords of the Hewn City controlled her fate, made his blood boil.

His jaw tightened as he looked at the clothes, a flare of anger and frustration surging through him. He hated it. Hated that this was the life she had to return to, hated that she had just given birth and was still expected to fulfil her duties in the pleasure house. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

YN noticed his gaze and sighed softly, stepping closer to him. “Azriel…”

He turned to her, his eyes dark with the storm brewing inside him. “You shouldn’t have to go back there,” he said, his voice low and edged with anger. “Not after everything you’ve been through. Not so soon.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice heavy with resignation. “But I don’t have a choice. The lords… they don’t care about that. They want me back, and if I don’t go, it could make things worse for us. For Knox.”

The mention of their son tightened the knot of anger in his chest, but it also brought with it a sense of helplessness that he hated. Azriel was used to fighting battles, to facing enemies head-on.

But this… this was a battle he couldn’t fight with steel or shadows. It was a battle against a system, against the twisted rules of the Hewn City, and it made him feel powerless.

He looked down at Knox, his son’s tiny face peaceful now as he slept in his arms. Azriel’s heart ached with the desire to protect him, to protect YN, to shield them from everything that threatened to harm them. But how could he do that when the very world they lived in was stacked against them?

YN reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Azriel, I hate it too. But this is the life we have right now. And as much as I wish things were different, we have to do what we can to keep Knox safe. To keep us safe.”

Azriel closed his eyes, the weight of her words pressing down on him. She was right. As much as it tore him apart, they had to play by the rules of the Hewn City—for now, at least. But that didn’t mean he had to accept it without a fight.

“I’m going to find a way,” he said, his voice firm despite the exhaustion pulling at him. “I’m going to find a way to get you out of there. To get us out of here.”

YN’s eyes softened, a flicker of hope in their depths. “I know you will,” she said quietly. “But until then, we just have to hold on. For Knox.”

Azriel nodded, his resolve hardening. He would do whatever it took, endure whatever he had to, to protect his family. But as he looked at the clothes on the chair, a bitter taste filled his mouth. He knew that tomorrow, YN would put on that black satin top, those jewelled pants, those heels, and return to the life she hated. And there was nothing he could do to stop it—not yet.

But when he looked back at YN—exhausted, her shoulders slumped with the weight of their situation—his focus shifted. She needed him, perhaps now more than ever.

He turned to her, seeing not only the fatigue in her eyes but the emotional strain etched into her very being. Her body had been through so much, and yet she was expected to push through, to return to a life she had never wanted but had been forced into by the twisted politics of the Hewn City. The sight of her standing there, trying so hard to be strong, broke something inside him.

"You should take a bath," Azriel said softly, his voice gentle but firm. He shifted Knox slightly, the baby snug in his arms. "I’ll handle him."

YN hesitated, glancing at Knox and then back at Azriel, her expression torn. “Az, you’ve had a long day. I can manage—”

"No." Azriel’s voice was soft but resolute, cutting through her protest. He stepped closer, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "You need it, YN. You’ve been carrying so much, and you haven’t had a moment to yourself. Let me take care of him. Please."

She stared up at him, her eyes filling with emotion—gratitude, exhaustion, and a hint of relief. She was always trying to shoulder more than she should, always putting Knox and him first. But right now, she needed to rest, to let herself unwind, if only for a little while.

YN sighed, her shoulders finally sagging as she relented. “Okay,” she whispered, giving him a tired smile. “But only if you’re sure.”

Azriel smiled back, though it was tinged with sadness. “I’m sure.” He gently rocked Knox, who was still dozing in his arms. “I’ve got him. You go take a bath, relax for a bit.”

She nodded, though she still looked reluctant to leave. With one last glance at Knox, YN moved toward the small washroom attached to their apartment. The sound of water running filled the air a few moments later, a faint comfort as Azriel stood there with their son.

The apartment was quiet again, save for the occasional soft gurgle from Knox. Azriel sat down in a worn chair by the small hearth, cradling his son in his arms. The baby’s tiny hand curled around one of Azriel’s fingers, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so small.

Azriel couldn’t help but marvel at the life they had created together, the love he felt for this tiny being so fierce it almost scared him. Knox was barely two weeks old, and already Azriel felt a protectiveness that surpassed anything he had ever known. He had fought in countless wars, faced endless dangers, but nothing compared to the way he would fight for this little boy.

As Knox stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering but not quite opening, Azriel smiled. He continued to rock him gently, humming softly under his breath, a lullaby his mother used to sing to him—a memory long buried, brought to the surface by the presence of his own child.

“You’re safe, little one,” Azriel whispered, his voice barely audible. “You and your mother… I’ll keep you both safe.”

She didn’t deserve the life she was forced to live, and Knox certainly didn’t deserve to grow up with those shadows hanging over them. Azriel would make sure of that.

The soft splash of water in the washroom signalled that YN was settling into the bath. He hoped it would help ease some of her tension, even if just for a little while. She deserved more than a few minutes of peace—she deserved a life free of the burden that the Hewn City placed on her. But for now, this was the best he could offer.

Knox let out a small whimper, his tiny face scrunching up as if he were about to cry. Azriel quickly adjusted him, bouncing him lightly in his arms. “Shhh,” he murmured, his voice soothing. “It’s okay, little one. I’m right here.”

The baby calmed almost immediately, as if sensing the steady presence of his father. Azriel chuckled softly, marvelling at how something so small could bring him to his knees. Knox was a miracle, a bright light in the darkness of the world they lived in, and Azriel was determined to shield him from everything that could harm him.

He glanced toward the closed door of the washroom, the sound of water still audible. YN deserved this moment—this brief reprieve from the weight of their reality. Azriel knew she would never complain, never ask for more, but that only made him want to give her everything.

For a long while, Azriel sat there in the quiet of the apartment, holding Knox close, feeling the warmth of the fire and the weight of his own thoughts. Tomorrow would come too quickly, and with it, the reality that YN would have to return to the life she hated. But for tonight, he would make sure she rested, that she felt loved and cared for. Because even in the shadows of the Hewn City, they had built something beautiful. And Azriel would fight to protect that beauty with everything he had.

As Knox finally settled into a deep sleep, Azriel stood and carried him to the bassinet beside the bed. He carefully laid the baby down, tucking him in with the soft blanket YN had made before he was born.

When YN finally emerged from the washroom, her skin flushed from the warmth of the bath, her hair damp, she looked more relaxed than she had in days. Azriel turned to her, a small, tired smile on his face.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly.

She nodded, her eyes soft as she walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Thank you," she whispered, resting her head against his chest.

Azriel held her close, his chin resting on the top of her head. "You don’t have to thank me," he said quietly, brushing a hand over her back. "You needed it."

YN sighed, the tension finally leaving her body as she melted into his embrace. For a few moments, they simply stood there, holding each other, drawing comfort from the quiet of the evening and the knowledge that, for now, they were safe.

---

The soft warmth of the apartment wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. The fire in the hearth crackled quietly, casting a gentle glow over the room. Azriel stood with YN in his arms, her head resting against his chest, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to fall away.

But exhaustion tugged at his every muscle, the long day and sleepless night before catching up with him. YN could feel the tension in his body, the way his arms, though strong and steady, trembled ever so slightly from fatigue. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her eyes filled with concern.

"You look like you’re about to pass out, Az," she said softly, reaching up to brush a lock of dark hair away from his forehead. Her touch was gentle, soothing, but there was a firmness in her tone that told him she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Azriel smiled down at her, though the smile was tinged with weariness. "I’m fine," he replied, his voice soft but still edged with the determination that had carried him through countless battles. "I can handle it."

But YN wasn’t convinced. She could see the dark circles under his eyes, the heaviness in his gaze. He had been running on fumes for days, pushing himself beyond his limits, all for her and Knox. And as much as she loved him for it, she knew he needed rest—needed it desperately.

"You’ve been handling everything, Az," she said, her voice tender but insistent. "But you need to rest. Let me take care of Knox tonight. You’ve done more than enough."

Azriel opened his mouth to protest, but the look in her eyes stopped him. There was a determination there that he couldn’t argue with—a quiet strength that had nothing to do with physical power and everything to do with the love she felt for him and their son.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as the exhaustion finally began to take its toll. "Are you sure?" he asked, though he already knew her answer.

YN nodded, her expression softening as she cupped his cheek with one hand. "I’m sure," she said gently. "You’ve been taking care of both of us, Az. Let me take care of you tonight."

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment as the warmth of her hand seeped into his skin. It was hard for him to let go, to relinquish the responsibility he felt so deeply. But he trusted YN—trusted her more than anyone in the world. If she said she could handle it, then he believed her.

"Alright," he finally whispered, opening his eyes to meet hers. "But if you need me, you wake me up. Promise?"

"I promise," she said, smiling softly at him. "Now come on, let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep on your feet."

Azriel chuckled, though it was a low, tired sound. He allowed YN to lead him to the bed, his steps heavy with the weight of the day. The bed was a small, simple thing, but it had become a haven for them in the midst of the chaos of their lives. As they approached, Azriel glanced down at Knox, who was still sleeping peacefully in the bassinet beside the bed. The sight of his son’s tiny chest rising and falling with each breath brought a sense of calm to his weary mind.

YN pulled back the covers, and Azriel slipped out of his boots and jacket, leaving them on the floor beside the bed. He climbed in, the mattress creaking slightly under his weight, and let out a long, relieved sigh as his body sank into the softness.

YN slid in beside him, the warmth of her body immediately soothing his frayed nerves. She turned to face him, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look down at him. Her fingers brushed over his forehead, pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

"Get some sleep, Az," she whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple. "I’ve got everything under control."

Azriel reached up, taking her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice heavy with the exhaustion that was finally beginning to take over. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

"You’ll never have to find out," she replied, smiling down at him. "Now close your eyes. I’ll take care of Knox tonight. You just rest."

He nodded, his eyelids already growing heavy. He let his eyes close, the darkness of sleep pulling at him, but not before he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I love you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I love you too," YN replied, her voice soft and filled with all the warmth he needed.

Within moments, Azriel was asleep, his breathing deep and even as his body finally gave in to the rest it so desperately needed. YN watched him for a long moment, her heart swelling with love and admiration for the male beside her. He had done so much for her, for their son, and now it was her turn to take care of him.

Carefully, she slipped out of bed, moving as quietly as she could so as not to disturb him. She checked on Knox, who was still sleeping soundly, his little face peaceful and content. YN smiled down at him, her heart aching with love for this tiny life they had created together.

She knew the night would be long, that Knox would wake up hungry and need to be fed and soothed. But as she looked back at Azriel, asleep and finally at peace, she felt a renewed strength within her. She would do this for him, for their family.

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[queenshelby]

The Unwilling Wife

Pairing: Dark Thomas Shelby x Virgin Reader

Warning: Arranged Marriage, Full On Non Con, Loss of Virginity, Tommy being horrible

Note: This was a request!

Growing up Gypsy, it was customary for young women like you to be married off early. But in the heart of the Midlands, amidst the smokestacks and iron foundries of Birmingham, you were to marry a man of power and influence, Thomas Shelby.

You stood at the altar, dressed in a gown that glistened like liquid moonlight under the chandelier's golden glow. Your heart pounded against your chest like a caged bird, desperate to escape. You knew not what awaited you in this new world, but fate dictated that you must submit to its cruel whims.

Standing before the officiant, you locked eyes with Thomas, his gaze cold and unyielding. "I now pronounce you husband and wife," the Gypsy man uttered, the words striking a death knell within your heart.

You turned to face Thomas, the air thick between you, heavy with tension and unspoken words.

"Come now, Love," he rasped, his voice a husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. He had his eyes on you for the past two years, but your parents insisted that he waited until you were ready for a union of such kind.

At twenty-one, your father passed away and you were no longer given a choice. You had to marry this man to provide stability to your family.

The weight of expectations bore down upon you, making each step feel like walking through mud. You'd never known much about love, having only felt the bitter sting of betrayal. You had no idea how this man, whose eyes held a wildfire of ambition, would treat you.

Thomas led you down the aisle, his grip firm yet gentle. "We are leaving now," he asserted, his tone hardening. You nodded, feeling the weight of the gazes upon you. Your heart hammered in your chest; the fear of uncertainty consumed you. The velvety darkness of night seemed like a safe haven compared to the storm brewing inside you.

You walked away from your familiar surroundings and the chill hung in the air, mirroring the icy sensation creeping down your spine as your husband led you to his car. 

He couldn't wait a minute longer to claim what now was rightfully his and you soon began to notice the urgency in his demur. 

It was all too late to do anything about it now though, as your hands shook and you found yourself staring back at him, paralyzed, even as you silently wished for a way out. In those moments, you remembered how different life could have been if your choices were truly your own. Yet, here you stood - defenseless, scared, and utterly alone.

"Your new home is only a short drive from here," he said abruptly, his tone devoid of emotion.

Despite the dimness of the interior, you noticed the hardness in his jawline, the intensity burning in his eyes. It was clear to you that he desired something far more than just physical pleasure. And as his hand found the small of your back, you knew that he wanted absolute control over you.

You followed meekly, stepping into the car as he shut the door behind you. The leather seats were warm against your skin, carrying a musky scent of polished wood and cigar smoke.

Thomas clicked the button to close the doors, and your stomach twisted in knots, the fear growing stronger within you. The car started smoothly, pulling away from the parking lot, leaving your old life behind. You watched the blurred lights pass by outside, trying to grasp the reality of your situation.

"So, tell me Love," Thomas broke the silence, "What did your parents tell you about me?" he wanted to know. 

"Not much," you managed to croak, swallowing the lump in your throat. The air was thick with tension, the silence pressing down on you like a vice. You fidgeted in your seat, shifting in discomfort.

"Just that you are dangerous," you finally replied honestly, trying to sound indifferent. The truth was, you barely knew anything about Thomas Shelby beyond the rumors you had heard from others. You knew he was a prominent figure in Birmingham's criminal underworld, feared and respected for his ruthlessness.

Thomas chuckled, his deep laughter echoing through the enclosed space. "Well, I suppose that's true enough, eh" he admitted, a glint of pride in his eyes. "But you have nothing to worry about Sweetheart. I'm a fair man," Thomas reassured you softly, reaching across the distance between the two front seats to stroke your arm gently. His touch was soothing, yet there was something unsettling about it.

"If you do as I say and behave like a good wife for me, I will treat you well," he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your wrist. "And, considering the deal I made with your mother, I have no doubt that you will learn your place fairly quickly, eh," he said. 

Thomas smiled grimly, his eyes flashing dangerously under the dashboard light. You tried to nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your palms were sweating against the satin fabric of your dress, and your heart raced wildly in your chest. You felt trapped, suffocated, and desperately yearned for freedom.

As the car pulled up to the entrance of an imposing mansion, the engine roared to a stop. Your breath caught in your throat; you had seen pictures of this place, but seeing it in person took your breath away. The house loomed high, casting ominous shadows onto the driveway.

Thomas opened the car door for you, offering his hand as if he expected you to jump straight into his arms. You hesitated, taking a moment to gather your courage before accepting his help. As you stepped out of the vehicle, the crunch of gravel beneath your heels echoed loudly in the silent night.

Inside, the mansion was magnificent. A grand staircase dominated the entrance hall, leading up to a second floor where countless rooms branched off. Each one seemed to hold its secrets, and you wondered what lay hidden behind closed doors. Despite the luxury surrounding you, feelings of unease crept into your mind.

"Frances will show you upstairs, to your bedroom," Thomas instructed, gesturing to a petite woman standing quietly near the entrance. Frances, you noted, was much older than you and appeared to possess a calm confidence you envied.

"Thank you," you whispered timidly, grateful for the reprieve from Thomas' intimidating presence.

With the slightest tilt of her head, Frances indicated that you should follow her.

"This way, Mrs Shelby," she called out to you politely, her tone as smooth as silk.

You trailed after her obediently, your feet whispering against the plush carpet beneath them. As you ascended the grand staircase, you paused to glance upwards, marveling at the glittering crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.

Frances shot you a smile, seemingly reading your awe-struck expression. "There's plenty to explore, Miss. But let's get you settled in first, shall we?" she said. "Mr Shelby will be up soon and my understanding is that he wants to consummate your union tonight," she added delicately but firmly.

You gulped, your heartbeat accelerating as Frances guided you toward a set of double doors adorned with intricate gold detailing. "Don't fret, Miss," she continued, opening the doors to reveal a stunning bedroom filled with luxurious furnishings. "In time, you may come to appreciate the finer things in life that Mr Shelby will provide for you," she told you and you knew the price you had to pay for what she was referring to. 

As such, you didn't respond, instead choosing to focus on the plush red rug beneath your feet.

Frances saw through your feigned ignorance, smiling softly. "Mr Shelby has selected some clothing for you to wear," she told you, pointing to the white satin lingerie on the bed before quietly leaving the room. 

You stared at the delicate garments laid out on the bed, feeling overwhelmed and anxious. The soft fabrics were unlike anything you'd ever touched before, and the thought of wearing them made you uncomfortable. You approached the bed cautiously, picking up the lacy bra and panties with trembling hands. 

"I am not going to wear this," you muttered to yourself while sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Your fingers nervously toyed with the lace trimming of the underwear. You weren't accustomed to such luxury, nor the idea of being submissive to someone else's desires. Still, you knew you had little choice or control over your circumstances.

The clock struck midnight, and you heard footsteps approaching your door. Thomas entered the room, locking it behind him. The air crackled with tension, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

"May I assume that the garments I chose for you did not fit?" Thomas asked, breaking the silence and you flushed, averting your gaze. 

"I did not try them on," you stammered, aware of the sudden stiffness in his posture and, unsurprisingly, your comment caused Tommy to sigh.

He stepped closer to you, towering tall over you as you remained seated, looking like a cornered fawn. His gaze swept over you once before speaking again.

"I am surprised you still hesitate," he began, running a hand through his dark hair. "I understand that you may be nervous, but I own you now. You are my wife and I expect you to do as I say," Thomas said, his voice low and steady. He reached out to caress your cheek, his touch sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. You flinched slightly, but you knew better than to pull away. This was your life now, and if you wanted to survive, you would have to play along.

"Now stand up and take off your dress," Thomas ordered, his voice hardening. You swallowed, knowing what he wanted.

You stood slowly, taking a deep breath and meeting his gaze. He appraised you coolly, a slight smirk curving his lips. You clenched your fists, hating the fact that you had no other option but to comply.

"Undress," he commanded again bluntly, watching you closely.

You hesitated for a few seconds before peeling your wedding gown off. It slithered down your body, leaving you bare underneath the flickering candlelight. You shivered, the goosebumps rising on your skin as you met his assessing eyes.

"Good girl," Tommy smirked and you could feel his eyes roam over your flesh, drinking in the sight of your naked form while you shivered fearfully under his gaze. 

Your teeth gritted together, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

"Turn around," Thomas growled, his voice thick with lust. Reluctantly, you spun around, presenting your back to him.

His fingertips grazed your shoulder blades, tracing a path down your spine towards your waist. "You're beautiful Love," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "And I have been dreaming of this moment for two fucking years now," he confessed, moving closer.

You flinched when you felt his hot breath on your neck, but you bit your lip and held your ground. You could sense that he was aroused, and that knowledge made you feel nauseous.

"Please, I don't want to do this," you whispered, your voice quivering like a leaf in the wind. "I have never been with a man before," you pleaded with him as his hands roamed over your body possessively. 

"And that excites me even more, knowing that I will be the first to have you," Thomas responded, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now, turn around again and lie down on the bed for me, legs spread," he commanded you.

You hesitated, torn between your instinctive refusal and the stark realization that resistance would only invite punishment. After a moment, you reluctantly complied with his order, turning around and climbing on to the bed, lying down slowly but keeping legs firmly together. 

"Spread your legs, I said," barked Thomas, his patience clearly thinning. You looked up at him pleadingly, but his expression was resolute. With a quiet whimper, you reluctantly parted your legs. The gap between them widened, and you quickly covered your exposed sex with your hands.

"Let go of yourself," Thomas snapped, grabbing your wrists roughly and pinning them down to the mattress. "I want to see what is mine," he declared, inspecting every inch of your body with a predatory gaze.

You struggled weakly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

"Please," you gasped, "I can't do this -- I've never done this before!"

To your surprise, the usually stern Thomas softened, stroking your cheek with the gentleness of a lover in the throes of passion. "Shh," he soothed, "Open your legs," he told you again and, nervously, you acquiesced, allowing him to guide your limbs apart. 

"That's it, Love," he praised you, stroking your inner thigh. "Beautiful," he breathed, his eyes devouring you greedily. "I've never seen anyone quite like you," he purred, leaning down to kiss the tender spot where your thigh met your hip. "You are fucking perfect," he growled before he kneeled down, upright, in between your legs so that you could do nothing else but keep your legs parted for him.

Tommy unbuckled his belt next and pushed his pants down to reveal his erection, dripping with the pre-cum, eager to penetrate you. It was monstrously swollen, pulsing, and visibly leaking. You recoiled back, feeling terrified, and disgusted. You tried to look away, but Tommy grabbed your chin, forcing you to confront it.

"You belong to me now," he declared, his voice sinister and commanding. "Your sweet little pussy belongs to me. No one else will ever have you or touch you like I do."

"Now hold still," Tommy said, maneuvering himself between your legs. He gripped your hips tightly, guiding your body into position. The rough texture of his calloused hands made you wince, but you held your tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your protests.

"Look at me," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours. You met his gaze warily, unable to tear your eyes away from his intense stare. His pupils dilated, reflecting the fire of desire burning within him as he aligned the head of his cock with your entrance. You tensed, feeling a wave of panic wash over you he started applying pressure that gradually increased.

"Relax," he urged as a bead of sweat trickled down your forehead, pooling at the base of your neck. The dampness was uncomfortably warm, adding to the mounting agony. You focused intensely on breathing evenly, attempting to distract yourself from the intrusion.

"I'm sorry, Love," he mumbled, his grip tightening around your thighs. "It is going to hurt, but you'll get used to it in time."

The words stung, a reminder of the brutal reality of your situation. You tried to brace yourself as Tommy continued to push, his cockhead teasing your wetness as it teetered on the brink of entry.

Your insides clenched involuntarily, resisting the violation. The muscles of your core contracted around his shaft, threatening to reject him entirely. You could almost imagine your womb recoiling within the confines of your pelvis, rejecting the foreign object invading your most sacred space.

"Relax," Tommy repeated, his voice strained but still calm. "And let me in," he growled, beginning to thrust harder, his cock slipping further into your tight passage. You bit your lip, suppressing a scream as your body stretched to accommodate him.

"That's it Love," Thomas groaned, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "Let me fuck that little hole of yours," he grunted, relishing the sensation of his member filling you.

You tried to focus on his words, willing yourself to relax and enjoy the experience. But the overwhelming sense of violation left you numb, incapable of experiencing any pleasure. Instead, you clamped tightly around him, squeezing his cock in a futile attempt to prevent it from entering deeper.

"Fuck you are tight," Tommy moaned, his eyes glazed over with lust. "I can't believe how tight you are," he hissed, his nostrils flaring as he fought to regain control.

He grasped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he attempted to plunge farther into you. 

"Relax," he implored once more, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Let me push my cock all the way in to you," he snarled, plunging his cock into you with renewed vigor.

"That's it," he eventually groaned as he bottomed out against your cervix, "So tight," he panted, withdrawing  partially before slamming back into you with renewed fervor.

The impact reverberated through your whole body, causing your toes to curl. You gasped, feeling helpless against his raw strength. He drove into you relentlessly, his movements building momentum with each thrust. 

"My beautiful wife, you are taking my cock so well now," breathed Tommy, his voice husky with need.

You squirmed beneath him, your body racked with conflicting sensations. The pain was relentless, but somehow, the pleasurable hum of arousal grew louder, drowning out the cries of distress.

You swallowed convulsively, fighting back the tears welling up in your eyes. "No, please," you choked out, your voice cracking with desperation. "I can't handle anymore."

"I am almost done Love", Tommy whispered, burying his face in your neck.

Suddenly, you felt his thrust become shallow, and then he withdrew completely. You heaved a sigh of relief, thinking that it must finally be over. However, before you could fully exhale, Tommy flipped you onto your back and positioned himself above you.

"Oh god, please," you whimpered, struggling to escape his iron grip as he pinned your wrists down.

"Relax," he said through gritted teeth and, before you could argue, his cock slid back into you effortlessly, tearing a whimper from your throat. He fucked you mercilessly, unrelenting in his thrusts. 

"I'm ready to finish inside you," Tommy groaned, his pace quickening. "And I am going to cum deep inside you, Love," he growled, his strokes becoming erratic before, with a loud groan, he buried himself deep inside you again.

"Fuck," he groaned as he began to spasm, releasing his seed in hot spurts deep inside you. You cried out in shock, your body arching uncontrollably against the invasion. The thick warmth filled you, spreading inside you until it overflowed, dribbling down your leg.

"My beautiful wife," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and heavy as, finally, he pulled out. 

You could feel his semen leaking down your thighs, a cold reminder of the act that had just transpired. The raw pain you felt was matched only by the shame and humiliation that weighed heavily upon you.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart" he mumbled, his voice sounding sincere but distant as he handed you a handkerchief. "I promise it won't be like this every time. Like I said, you will get used to it. Once you are broken in, it will be much easier for you, eh," your husband told you and you stayed silent, staring blankly ahead as he got dressed. The remnants of his seed dripped onto the sheets below you, staining the pristine white fabric with evidence of your desecration.

"Now get some rest," Thomas gruffly instructed you, brushing aside tangles of your long dark hair and placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. He helped you scoot under the covers, positioning your body so that your legs were slightly parted. His firm hands ensured that you were tucked in properly, creating a cocoon of safety around you. "Tomorrow will be another day," he murmured, extinguishing the candles on the bedside table as he rose silently to leave.

"Goodnight, Love," he said softly, closing the door behind him, leaving you alone in the darkness.

Tags: @ietss@thorins-queen-of-erebor@cilliansbabe@calmingmelody96@lavender-haze-01@febris-amatoria@cursedalchemist @too-manyfandoms-help @sena-m @forgottenpeakywriter

[trappednyourheart]

Human-sized doll in the old ages?

(This is another Version of my original post that was inspire by Jason's doll, unlike Damian's. This one's for our Tim!)

My Original post for Damian's

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The Drakes were in another trip to England as a new business trip concerning a new museum had taken place a Auction to very Old items lost in time, and for the Drake's it was an opportunity to find something new and all...but the only one who stands out the most was the Human-sized doll.

For a hundred years old Doll it was gorgeous, they hesitantly carried it out, after they bought it..it cost them a fortune but it was worth it.

The dress maybe been Billion's of dollars or even pounds due to its quality and design..if people sell it of course- but no stains, no rips of anything, as if it was just newly made..the only thing standing out the most was beautiful emerald gem necklace lace with unique designs of a Dragon flames. flickering a green flame

It was gorgeous, the designs of the eyes. Green emerald that you might think it glowed ( Well we never know)

The height of the doll was that of a child no older than the height of there Son, Timothy when he was 8..

Now that they think of it..there son was interested in photography lately, maybe this doll might be in good use for modeling..

Yeah they should send this as a early birthday present

(Jesus Christ you couple just realized that?)

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According to the auction staff that had taken care of the doll for about fifty years,

It was actually the old man's family had been maintaining the doll passed over for about hundreds years ago,

This Doll was a Original, it wasn't a Replica or sorts to the real thing, This was The Real fortune, This Doll was said to be a request of a powerful and influencal Aristocrat house, said Unknown but Famous Duke held position of this Doll, As his Perfect Daughter

Talk about the creeps Janet Drake Got

-----------

Which why the Doll was said to be haunted by the Soul of the Young child that the Duke was heard obsessive wanted to be his perfect daughter,

Similar Cases said by guards hearing soft taps of heels or ruffled sounds of a gown being moved or even giggles, whispers, or even a full on conversation with a voice of a young child ,Three unlucky Guards onces have check and investigate it out, before being passed out and muttering glowing green eyes and freezing so hard that they may have been in alaska.

Well being the Drake couple they are just completely ignore the Staff caretaker and send it to there only son, Timothy

Its surprised they haven't been killed yet after they had just left that curse mummy int there Goddamn house when visiting ancient Egypt-

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

Timothy wasn't dumb, he was very minded in what his “parents” gave to him in his Early gifts, it wasn't a trinket, or another Mummified corpse that was stuck in the basement or equipment his mother wanted him to use for activities...

It was a doll, by the looks of it.

It was a girl's doll, in a glass case, it was looking at him, with a smile..you could see a teeth- was it supposed to be teeth? So white...it reminded him of that fairytale book..Snow white

With a beautiful Gown, but the most was the necklace, huh..so this was a gift, after he had found the note containing some birthday pleasantries and blessings and pity writing..from his parents.

This gift was considerately chose by his parents...he thought to his mind that this would be just another batch of a trinket being left in the basement

Boy...was he totally wrong

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Dick wasn't a man to complained, he was decent atleast in his own perspective, yes the whole family is definitely something but he wouldn't trade this for the world, except for that is to question Tim's....Ehem stuff, the whole doll..was definitely creepy, after the ordeal, yes Jason is back, but not in good terms, and the whole fam known that Tim was hiding something from them, and how it turns out, this is why privacy exist, now he can't stop looking at that child doll...and the visible thumps of those heels.

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

Damian was questioning his choices, maybe he need to properly and carefully using his words now, after convincing and maybe caught Drake red handed, he known Drake was different but not that different for having a doll with the same height as him and look so realistic, if ever he doesn't want to bother asking or taunting Drake (for now) and may he be excuse, he needs to go to the barn to check with animals there ( he somehow still got that charm)

[author-morgan]

Title: Daylight Rating: M Pairing: Arthur x fem!Reader Summary: Arthur always knew you and he would make a fine match. ...hiding all of our sins from the daylight... I've now collected all(?) your husbands for my infinity gauntlets. a late merry christmas and an early valentines for you boo. @mrsragnarlodbrok.

“SORRY,” ARTHUR MUTTERS, “hands are rough.” He noticed how you pulled away from his calloused touch as he pressed the stained damp cloth against the bloody wound on the back of your shoulder—remnants of an arrow after Bedivere and the Mage helped him dig out the bodkin point. It’d likely been meant for him in the heat of the battle and he cursed himself seeing you fall nigh feet from him, pulled away to shelter by his kingsguard. Even with the power of Excalibur, he’d been unable to protect you—an age-old promise broken.

You lift your gaze from the charred stone floor, looking at your reflections in a fogged-over mirror on the opposite side of the room. Focus has his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “You always say that,” you tell him, words slurred from the pain, exhaustion, and strongwine, and voice rougher than normal. This isn’t the first time Arthur Pendragon has tended your hurts and woes, and at this rate you doubt it’ll be the last.

Dried blood and sweat washed away, Arthur picks up the piece of tree bark with a salve prepared by the Mage to stave off the pain for a while and keep the wound from festering. Then, Arthur binds the wound with fresh linen and wipes his hands, kneeling in front of you—hands resting on your hips. You lay your hand on his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheek, marred with dirt and soot. Leaning toward him, he meets you halfway, and you set your lips on his—a soft, fleeting kiss like the touch of butterfly wings.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you tell him, fingertips mindlessly combing through the scruff on his jaw. He straightens to full height but does so with a grimace. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” You ask again.

“Just bruises,” he assures you, and this time, it seems like he’s being truthful, besides the few scratches on his hands and the slim, already scabbed-over, cut on his forehead. 

Arthur sits next to you on the edge of the bed, looking toward the open balcony. You both can hear the joyous shouts and chants. Bedivere and the others will only be able to satiate the men for so long. They will want to hear from the one who led them to victory. From the Born King. “They’ll be waiting for you to give a speech,” you tell him. 

“They’re waiting to go headfirst into the barrels of grog,” he amends, but if the out-of-tune songs are anything to go off of...  

“Sounds like they already have,” you laugh. Tonight, there will be revelries for the victory against Vortigern and his forces. In the following days, there’ll be feasts to honor the fallen and growing lists of preparations for a coronation. But right now, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t want to be a king just yet. Right now, he’s content just to be Arthur the street rat, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder and link your fingers through his—and then he’s certain there’s no one else in all of England for him except you.

“HIDING FROM ME? Or everyone else?” Your head quickly swivels to the side, only to relax at the sight of Arthur approaching. You cannot help but wonder how he isn’t cold. He's not dressed anywhere near as layered or warm as he should be for the winter evening, but somehow, he manages to look cozy even in just a scarlet linen-and-wool doublet. Stepping back, your eyes flit up to the scarlet-tinged leaves, still clinging to the branches of the white-bark birch, before looking beyond to the fresh falling snow. 

He stops at your side and looks up, too. “Was just thinking about what a bad influence you’ve been on my person,” you tell him, a small half-smirk creeping onto your features. Arthur tilts his head back in amused question, then stares up at the leaves and the silver sliver of the moon peeking through the winter clouds. “As I recall, I was an innocent girl before you came along and ruined all that.”

His blue eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ll have to refresh my memory on how I did that, darlin’.” He moves a little closer, and you sense his ploy, twisting and ducking when he moves to grab you. 

You face him with brows raised, smiling. “Such a brute,” you taunt, “grabbing at innocent girls in the castle courtyards at night. Is that any way for the King of England to behave?” 

Arthur only rolls his eyes, trying to smother another smirk, and this time, he catches your arm as you move around him. It takes little strength to move you how he wants—pressing you into the trunk of the great tree at the heart of the courtyard. His hands press against the smooth bark beside your head as he leans in enough to look down at you. The glint in his eyes is mirthful, but there’s something else shining in his gaze too—you’ve seen that look a dozen times now, and you’re almost afeared to think about what it can mean. “Maybe you have a point,” he drawls, wearing that crooked, boyish grin that makes your heart flutter.

Your laugh almost catches him off guard. His hand slips down to run gently along your waist, the other toys with the hair at the side of your head. You lean back into the tree more, relaxing as your hands find his waist to rest on. “My father sends his kind, innocent daughter to study in Londinium, and what does this strong, noble boy do?” Arthur raises his brow. “He shoves her against a wall in an alleyway because he has no reasonable way of expressing his feelings with words.” He was just a street rat orphan and you were the daughter of some fancy lord from far away—opposites in nigh every way but more alike than you ever could have imagined. “I was never the same after that.”

His head dips down into the crook of your neck, nose training across your throat and inhaling the scent of roses and lavender. “No,” he smiles, voice low—more of a muttering husk—lips twitching as he pulls back, glancing to your lips and up, “but you’re more fun now.” Your expression falls flat, and Arthur laughs. It’s nigh impossible not to grin or melt at the sound and how little it seems you’ve heard it of late—and by Merlin’s beard, he’s impossibly handsome with laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and a lopsided smile. Leaning further into him, his breath dances across your cheek, the back of his fingers brushing along your neck. 

You exhale shakily, and Arthur teases you again with light presses of his lips along your jaw and neck—hands smoothing up and down your waist as he does. For a moment, your hands find their way to his chest before you remember how open the courtyard is and that anyone can happen upon the two of you like this. Glancing around, you breathe his name in a flustered whisper, hand pressing against his chest—the last thing a new king needs is rumors to turn into scandal. 

Arthur takes a step back, giving you both room, but then there’s a new glint in his eyes. The playful mirth disappears from his cornflower eyes, replaced by something more serious—kingly, even. It’s something he’s been thinking about for years. Maybe even since the two of you first met by happenstance in the streets of Londinium and struck up an odd friendship. But over the years, Arthur thinks he cannot just call you a friend, not anymore. What he feels runs deeper than that, and given his newfound title and responsibilities...“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

“And does it pay well?” You quip in a poor attempt to lighten the now solemn mood.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, unable to hide how his lips quirk upwards. “Would you let me finish?” And so you do, unsure what he must say or ask that warrants such a dramatic change in his usual demeanor. Arthur reaches for your hand, the rough pads of his fingers curling around and into your palm. He stoops forward, lips brushing against your knuckles—reverent. “I’d like you to stay,” he breathes, straightening back to full height. Your brows furrow. “Here,” he adds, “with me.”

You know what he is asking of you—marriage—and it should be an easy answer. Yes, of course. You’ve loved Arthur since before you knew what the word truly meant. But given the events of the last few months and the precipitousness of his proposal, you’re left speechless, heart beating in your throat until all you can do is run to the haven of your chambers with tears pricking your eyes.

A LOUD KNOCK on the great wooden door echoes in your bedchambers. You rouse from sleep, righting the oversized tunic hanging off one shoulder in an attempt to appear decent at the late hour. Part of you already knows who will be waiting on the other side, but when you crack open the door, it still surprises you to find him standing before you—wearing only a loose, nigh threadbare tunic and pair of dark britches. “Arthur,” you greet, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before motioning for him to come in.

There’s still an uneasy air between you after the earlier events and conversation in the courtyard—his proposal. “I shouldn’t’ve….” he starts as you do. “I should not...” You both fall silent, eyes searching the other’s face for an indication of who will be the first to speak, the first to act, but there’s only silence. 

“Yes,” you quickly tell him—the shock of his initial proposal has faded, and now you’ve never been more certain about something in your life. You still can’t say what it is that caused you to react in such a way—Arthur’s the only man you’ve ever loved, the only person you could have ever thought of having a life with, even before all this Born King shite. The answer is ‘yes.’ It had always been. 

“Yes?” He repeats with furrowed brows, not sure he’s heard you correctly.  “I’ll stay” —you reach to comb your fingers through his close-shorn beard, and he leans into the touch— “with you.” Forever.

He smiles, and it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur cradles your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You smile for him, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours in an instant.

You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer. Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?” Arthur asks, breathless.

Then he’s kissing you again and again—hands straying to your waist and backside, pulling you closer, tighter. And it fans the embers burning low in your belly to flames. Arthur breaks the kiss with an anguished groan—fighting a losing war with himself. He brushes back the hair falling in front of your face, the rough pad of his thumb running over your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he mutters—it’s almost a plea. And then he’s adrift in your soft and dark gaze, knowing if you do nothing to stop this, he’ll be acting on countless years of love and pent-up desire.

“No,” you breathe, catching his wrist and sliding his hand up from your neck—peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and with a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts.

“Arthur.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer. “I want you.” He pulls on the string at the neck of your nightshirt, loosening it until the gauzy material falls off your shoulders—puddling around your ankles, 

Though bare, you still hold his clear blue gaze. He goes silent as he draws in a sharp breath—eyes dart over the length of your body. His eyes darken, though, a mix of lust and adoration. “Think this is the longest you’ve been qui–” He cuts you off with a kiss, and one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek—the side of your neck again—and his lips coax yours open.

You sigh into his mouth, hands instinctively dipping under the hem of his roughspun tunic, fingertips trailing over the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scar on his ribs. Arthur breaks the kiss, quickly shrugging off his shirt, and lets the undyed piece of wool fall to the floor.  

Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet effortlessly. You hastily grip his shoulders for balance until he lays you on the bed—standing back to take off his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips. Arthur kicks aside his discarded clothes, then crawls onto the bed, making room for himself between your thighs—his clear and cold gaze burning with the warmth of the Sun and never once straying from yours.

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing in his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough.

Arthur kisses you again, and then he leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you feel lightheaded —a mix of pleasure and disbelief. 

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath wafting over your breast, making your nipples go taut with anticipation, and when the scruff of Arthur’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. You twine your fingers into his golden hair, trying to hold him in place against you. But Arthur shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed still and kisses your breast —and you twist your hips, hands slipping from his hair to his shoulders.  

A sob leaves your throat—not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise tore from your throat without your permission. He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face—the spark in his clear eyes and the boyish smirk twisting his lips.

Arthur palms your breast and squeezes gently. He shuffles lower still on the bed and places a sweet, open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth drifts lower now, the scruff of his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel and eases your thighs further apart.

Arthur places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure. 

“You alright, darlin’?” He smirks. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing sparkle in his face, you spread your knees wide. His gaze drops between your legs, and his expression darkens with interest as he places his hands on your knees—stroking up to your thighs. He places another firm, wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips, and he hums with approval, a smug, half-growly little hum.  

You gasp in a breath, realizing you haven’t been breathing at all. Arthur lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Relax, love,” he croons, smoothing his palm over your belly as he laps at your cunt with slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open.

Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His tongue and lips are at your clit, fingers stroking and curling deep within you. You jolt, and then he moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch.

Pleasure washes over you in waves, making your calves twitch, your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise leaves your throat. Overwhelmed—enraptured—you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore. You pull on his hair to stop him, and he finally pulls away, lips glistening in the moonlight and fading glow of the firelight. “Enough,” you groan. “Need you.” It’s nigh a broken plea.

You shudder as he moves, situating himself between your thighs, calloused fingers dipping into your cunt to gather your slick and spread on his hard cock as he strokes himself. “Arthur, please,” you whimper, impatient, and he won’t keep you waiting.

He slides his cock through your folds before his angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just inside you—barely splitting you open. Arthur’s hand grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide deeper inside you, and you cling onto his biceps—feeling his scars press into your palms and admiring the way his muscles flex under your touch. 

Arthur hisses through his teeth when he fully seats himself inside your warmth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours, pressing the back of your hands into the mattress. From the moment Arthur first saw you in the Londinium streets, he knew your fates were intertwined—just as your bodies and hands were now. He trembles at this personal heaven, then draws his hips back, starting to move.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant, hooking your legs around his waist. You roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart. 

He huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” Arthur says as he pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear. Then he lowers his lips to yours in a kiss—there’s something sweet on his tongue, like honey wine. 

His whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands releases yours and caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch—thoughts clouded by lust and love. His fingers find your clit at the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, and he’s still holding your hand while his other grips your hip. Your breathing is loud, and so is his, and his hand is tightening on your fingers. He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained groan.

He shudders, then pounds into you hard, twice, thrice, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw clenches, and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it—just as much as you like the guttural sound he makes as he shudders in completion. A few long seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, holding his weight above you on shaking arms. 

You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet. “I love you,” he murmurs in turn, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side, and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Arthur presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair as the first dregs of daylight break over the horizon, shining upon England, Camelot, and his future wife and queen.

[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other character/fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[myersgirlxxx]

Shadows of the occult 03. Shadows between realities 01. 02

Wednesday x fem reader

summary: In the shadowy halls of Nevermore Academy, you navigate the delicate balance between reality and the Other Side. As an occultist with a powerful yet unstable connection to the elements, you learn that the Other Side does not come easily. it demands secrets and sacrifices. Caught in the gaze of the enigmatic Wednesday Addams, you must confront the darkness within before it consumes you.

Warnings: Dark themes, mental health, supernatural elements, intense relationships and mature content.

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

The nightmare came again.

It always started the same—Nevermore, but twisted, wrong. The towering trees that usually framed the school were gnarled and dead, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The walls of the school itself were crumbling, vines of blackened thorns creeping through the cracks. And there, in the heart of it all, stood the gates to the Other Side.

They pulsed with an unnatural light, like blood beating through a vein, and the air around them buzzed with the hum of something alive, waiting, watching.

You always knew what would happen next. The elements—Blood, Death, Knowledge, Energy, Fear—would start to rise from the ground, manifesting as dark figures that moved with a purpose, circling you, pulling at your very essence. They whispered in a language you couldn’t fully understand but always felt in your bones. It wasn’t just a warning—it was a promise.

And then the fog would come. Thick, rolling in from the edges of your vision, swallowing everything in its path. This was the part that always chilled you to the core, the part that felt most real. The fog wasn’t just a dream. It was the Other Side, pressing in, trying to break through.

You could hear the gates creak open, feel the pull of that other realm as it reached for you. And just before you were pulled in, just before the darkness consumed everything—you always woke up.

Gasping for breath, heart pounding, you shot up in bed, the shadows of the nightmare clinging to your skin. Your room was dark, the usual pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. But tonight, even that light seemed dim, as if something was blocking it.

For a moment, you sat there, your breath coming in ragged gasps, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of the dream. But it wasn’t just a dream, and you knew it. It was a message. The membrane between worlds was weakening, and the Other Side was trying to break through, using you as its conduit.

Your fingers brushed against your neck, where the feeling of those whispers still lingered, cold and invasive. You couldn’t afford to lose control. Not here. Not now.

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

Nevermore had always been strange, but lately, it felt different. The cold air that wound through the corridors seemed heavier, charged with something unsettling. The school’s history was full of dark legends, but the feeling that clung to the walls now was new, almost suffocating. You could sense it, just as clearly as the pull of the Other Side that never left your mind.

Xavier had mentioned it the other day at lunch, his voice low as he leaned in close, as if he didn’t want the air itself to hear. "Doesn't it feel... different to you lately? Like something’s off?"

You had brushed it off with a shrug, hiding the fact that you felt it too. But you knew better. The thin veil between realities—the one that kept the Other Side at bay—was weakening. You could feel it most at night, when the fog rolled in, dense and unnatural, curling like fingers through the cracks in the windows and doors. That fog wasn’t just mist from the forest. It was from the Other Side, creeping in through the weakened membrane.

Xavier didn’t know that, of course. But his senses were sharp. He was feeling the effects, the same ones that made your chest tighten at night. Still, you couldn’t afford to let anyone know the truth. Especially not Wednesday Addams.

Sitting in your usual spot at lunch, you absently toyed with your fork, the noise of the cafeteria fading into the background. Across from you, Enid was chattering away, her bright energy a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere weighing down your thoughts. She had been going on about something—likely school gossip—but her words barely registered.

"Earth to you!" Enid laughed, waving her hand in front of your face. "You’ve been zoning out a lot lately."

You blinked, forcing a smile. “Sorry, just distracted.”

“By Wednesday?” Enid teased, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Hardly.”

Before she could press further, Xavier slid into the seat next to you, his expression serious. He didn’t even bother with a greeting. “Have you noticed the fog?”

The question was blunt, but it struck something deep within you. You kept your expression neutral, not wanting to reveal how much his observation unnerved you.

“It’s just weather, Xavier,” you said, trying to sound casual.

He shook his head, leaning in closer. “No, it’s more than that. It’s been thicker, heavier. Like it’s... watching.”

You felt the blood in your veins stir at his words. The element of Blood had been restless lately, whispering to you more often, feeding off the weakening of the barrier between worlds. You fought to keep your composure, knowing that Xavier’s curiosity could lead him too close to the truth.

Enid frowned, looking between the two of you. “Is this another one of your weird theories, Xavier?”

Xavier’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from you. “I know what I feel. There’s something wrong with Nevermore right now.”

He wasn’t wrong, but admitting that would only draw more attention. You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. “Maybe it’s just your powers acting up.”

Before Xavier could argue, the air around you shifted. A cold breeze swept through the cafeteria, drawing everyone’s attention. And then she appeared—Wednesday Addams. She moved through the room like a shadow, her presence commanding even without a word. Her dark gaze locked onto you, and for a brief second, you could feel the weight of her suspicion, sharper than ever.

She didn’t sit down, didn’t bother with pleasantries. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

You raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way both Enid and Xavier tensed beside you. “Right now?”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Sighing, you stood, making a show of stretching before offering a playful smile. “Well, lead the way then, Addams.”

As you followed her out of the cafeteria, you could feel Xavier and Enid’s eyes on your back, their unspoken questions hanging in the air. But it wasn’t them you were worried about. It was the way the fog had thickened just beyond the windows, creeping closer to the school. And it was the look in Wednesday’s eyes—the one that said she was getting closer to discovering the truth.

Once you were alone in one of the quieter corridors, Wednesday stopped abruptly, turning to face you. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp, cutting through whatever mask you might have tried to put on.

“You’ve felt it too,” she said, her voice low but certain. It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t deny it. “The fog? Yeah, it’s hard to miss.”

“There’s more to it than just fog,” she said, her tone clipped. “It’s something else. Something... wrong.”

You tried to keep your voice light, though the tension in the air was palpable. “You’re always so cheerful, Addams.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t take the bait. “I don’t trust things I can’t explain.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you kept your face neutral. She was too close to the truth. The pull of the Other Side, the elements swirling just beneath the surface, was something no one at Nevermore could know about. Not yet. Not even Wednesday.

She took a step closer, her voice dropping lower. “There’s something off about you. And I don’t trust you.”

You chuckled softly, leaning against the wall. “You say that like you trust anyone.”

Wednesday’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

For a moment, you considered telling her something—anything—that might throw her off the scent. But Wednesday Addams wasn’t someone you could easily deceive. She would keep digging, keep pressing, until she uncovered whatever secret she suspected you were hiding.

But you weren’t ready to reveal the truth. Not yet.

“You’re free to keep watching me, Wednesday,” you said, your voice teasing as you leaned in slightly. “But I’ll warn you, I’m not that easy to figure out.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something—annoyance? Interest?—before she stepped back. “I’ll figure it out,” she said simply, turning to leave.

As she walked away, her figure disappearing into the shadowed corridor, you felt the elements stir within you. Blood, Knowledge, even the faintest touch of Death—they were all there, whispering, waiting.

And as much as you tried to suppress it, you knew Wednesday was right.

The fog wasn’t just a warning.

It was a sign.

The Other Side was pressing closer, and soon, the secrets you had worked so hard to keep hidden would no longer be yours alone.

[denim-mixtapes]

Nothin' but a Good Time - [1/?]

Wealthy!Steve Harrington x Fem!Stripper!Reader Rating: Eventually E, this chapter contains no smut yet but mentions drug and alcohol use and strip clubs. Words: 3.7k

AO3

It's 1996 and Steve Harrington has found himself, somehow, with the fancy office job and lush apartment and more than enough disposable income to spend on booze and drugs and one night stands to distract himself from how much he HATES his scummy corporate law job and too-big, too-empty apartment. You, after years of saving, begging cheapskates and creeps for tips as a waitress by day and dancing for bigger tips from bigger creeps after dark, finally afford yourself the opportunity to move into the fancy downtown apartment of your dreams. When you move in next door to Steve Harrington, there's no way of knowing if you've just met the next great love(r) of your life or the biggest pain in your ass you'll ever know. It's entirely possible that it could be both.

November, 1996 – Steve

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

A faint rhythm builds from behind the door of Steve Harrington’s office, slow, steady, louder and louder until eventually the sound is muffled and interrupted by a low groan. 

“Fuck!”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Just outside the door, his secretary is left aghast, wondering when she missed the arrival of this midday rendezvous and exactly when Harrington had become so daring. Sure, she’s seen her fair share of interns and lower level assistants escorted into his office after late stressful nights or the occasional holiday party, but he’s never been so brave as to interrupt the work day for a bit of afternoon delight. The kid may be a little dense sometimes, but he isn’t that dumb. 

Usually Harrington is by the book, strictly on schedule and often working through lunch to stay on the boss’ good side. So the fact that he’s running late to a meeting in favor of a roll in the hay, well, she is shocked to say the least. 

Corralling all of her bravery into one swift motion, she knocks on the door and is surprised to hear his, “come in,” right away. Maybe a little haggard and hushed in one breath, but immediate nonetheless. Needless to say, the stout woman is nervous about what she’ll find on the other side of the door when she opens it. 

What she finds, however, is nothing more than a slightly rumpled version of Steve Harrington. Tie undone, sleeves of his collared shirt shoved up to the elbows, and his glasses placed gingerly on the desk beside him. His hair is a riot from where he was just repeatedly banging his forehead against the desk, sporting a wide swath of plump red skin above his eyebrows as evidence of the act. No, she hadn’t walked in on anything indecent, only the culmination of stress and burnout on her young boss. 

“Sorry for the noise, Linda,” he breathes, scrubbing a palm over one tired eye and down his cheek. “I just– there’s no elaborate explanation here. It’s just been a day.” He types something quickly into the computer before him and then presses the power button on the boxy monitor, turning to give her his full attention with his hands folded on the desk in front of him. “What can I do for you?”

She mirrors his posture, fingers laced together but hanging limp at her midsection, “I was just wondering if I should call Mr. Greene and inform him you won’t be able to make it to the 3 o’clock partner meeting.”  

Eyeing the clock on the wall beside him, Steve’s eyes widen to saucers and his chair scrapes loudly against hardwood floor as he stands up in a haste, collecting paperwork and wayward supplies into his briefcase as he does. “Shit.” His brows knit in a gesture of apology for his language, but Linda simply chuckles and steps out of his way. “Sorry, sorry! Thank you, Lin!” 

—

No matter how hard he tries to act the part of a corporate bigwig asshole, Steve is convinced he may never get the hang of it. If he were to be honest, he isn’t entirely sure how he made it this far. Truthfully, he’s hanging on by the skin of his teeth and the Harrington name. 

After a year of hopping from minimum wage job to minimum wage job, he finally broke down and listened to his father’s demands. Just get the damn degree, Steven, he’d said, I have a job all ready to be laid at your feet, all you have to do is pull your head out of your ass and get the degree. So he did. He sucked it up, used the influence of his family name and a bit more of the Harrington fortune to attend the most prestigious law school he never would have been able to get into with his academic record alone. When he graduated, as promised, he was offered a position just above entry level with a 401k and a more than generous benefits package. He wasn’t sure how many strings his father had to pull or how much bribing it took, but he landed this cushy job that got him out of his childhood home and into an apartment of his own, something that he’s sure benefited not only himself, but also the parents who were clearly sick of putting him up well past 18. Over the better half of the last decade, he took ‘Fake it till you make it’ to heart and managed to charm his way up the corporate ladder, and now here he is: pushing thirty with a private corner office, the title of junior partner, representing corporations he didn’t care much for and working under senior lawyers he liked even less…but this job pays more than generously. It affords him luxuries like the latest new apartment with more square footage than he knows what to do with and the city view from his living room window. It affords him as many trips out to Massachusetts to visit Robin and Nancy as he’d like, stunning suits and flashy watches he never could have dreamed of affording when he worked at Family video and refused his family fortune. And then there’s the extravagant gifts for said family that make up for his absence at Christmas dinner.

This job is draining, but it’s purchased his peace, in a way, so he does what he has to do to make it worth it.

Lately, what he has to do to make it worth it is party until he forgets how much he hates it. 

If he had to recall the names of everyone in his apartment at this moment, he would fail. There’s faces he recognizes, sure, people from work and their friends he’s seen at many other parties. Clark from down the hall, who always manages to have the best coke, is in the corner making friends, and Eddie is around here somewhere peddling his own stash…but between the thumping bass and raucous laughter and the blur of lights, there’s about 25 to 30 other people he doesn’t recognize. When a bottle is thrust into his periphery, he gladly takes a swig, drowning the worry of strangers in his apartment and the stress from the day at work with amber liquor. 

Clark beckons him over to the mirrored coffee table where he’s set up shop, offering a rolled twenty with one hand and clapping Steve’s shoulder in a shallow gesture of friendship.

Fuck it, it’s Friday. 

November, 1996 – You

Dropping one last box at the foot of the doorman’s desk, you sigh and brush cardboard dust from your hands. The two men from the moving company just went upstairs with the last of your large furniture and are set to take off when they return to ground level, having only been paid through 11 AM. So you managed to unload the back of your car and the rest of the boxes from the moving truck into the lobby, promising the doorman – whose name you swear you’ll memorize soon – that it will all be out of the way momentarily. He graciously offered to make sure nobody messed with it in the meantime. 

It’s hard to even wrap your head around the fact that you’re moving into an apartment with a doorman in the heart of the city at all, let alone one within walking distance of your diner waitress job, and close enough to a bus route to the club where you danced. You’ll have to remember to pay your grandma a visit in her new nursing home and thank her for keeping her rent-controlled lease and illegally subletting it to you. Just another thing to add to your overflowing calendar. 

When you make it up to your shiny new apartment on the ninth floor, you say your goodbyes to the movers who are on their way out, sign the appropriate paperwork for them, and drop off your armload of boxes before heading back down. 

It takes quite a few trips on your own, but after another half hour, you exit the elevator in the lobby to see only three boxes remain and heave another sigh of relief. The end is in sight, and by the grace of whichever God is looking out for you, you might even be able to sneak in a nap before work tonight. You bend over to pick up one of the last few boxes of your belongings and suddenly feel the all too familiar prickling heat of someone’s intense stare. Rolling your shoulders, you let go of the cardboard handles and stand to turn and face whoever is continuing to stare.

Behind you, leaning one hip against the front desk, is exactly the kind of man you would expect to live in a building like this. Slightly older than you, but not by much, tall and lean, but the sleeves of his tight white tee shirt show off the perfect sculpt of his bicep. The man is etched in sleep, draped in it like the blankets he surely just crawled out of, the fluffy length of his hair sticking out in every direction, pushed up and out of his face by round wire-framed glasses. He smiles in a way that feels friendly, but has the sly kind of charm behind it that makes you want to shy from it. 

“You know,” he says, grinning wide, “I know I had a hard time waking up today, but something tells me I might still be dreaming, pretty thing like you moving into my building.” 

You want to scoff at his comment, knowing exactly how you must look right now. Sweat drying on your skin, messy bun practically falling out of its hold, sporting a plain black tank top and a pair of your ex’s old basketball shorts rolled at the waist. You manage to hold back the scoff, but do roll your eyes with a soft smile at your new neighbor. “Cute, you use that line often?” 

His sharp jaw ticks, but his smile softens around a friendly laugh as he rubs tiredly at one eye. “Can’t say I do,” then, dropping the hand in favor of offering it to you to shake, “I’m Steve, need a hand with these?” 

Accepting his secondary offer and shaking his hand, you smile in return and introduce yourself, but decline the first. “Thank you, but I’m sure you were headed somewhere. Don’t let me keep you from your plans.” 

“Nonsense.” When he shakes his head, there’s a pinch to his forehead, eyes slamming shut at the motion, but he recovers quickly and hides the pain. This man is clearly fighting a monster hangover, and yet he insists. “I was just going to pick up some coffee. It can wait.” Without waiting for you to agree, he takes the smallest box and stacks it atop another, picking them both up and tacking on, “lead the way.” 

You decide there’s no arguing with him, so you grab the last remaining box and head back to the elevator, punching the 9 button once inside. 

“No way,” he says in disbelief, “ninth floor?” 

“Mhm,” you mumble softly, “9C.” 

Your eyes are drawn to the crinkle around his eyes when he laughs again despite the dark circles below, the two moles just below his cheekbone that dance when he smiles. Damn it, he really is pretty. 

“I’m in 9B, right next door! You’re moving into Ms. Ruth’s old place?” 

There’s practically a lightbulb above your head when you make the connection, and in comical time with it, the elevator dings, signaling your arrival. “Oh, so you’re the Steve Grandma warned me about!”

All color drains from his face. “W-what did she say?” 

Steve follows you down the hall to your front door, and you can’t help but giggle at his change in demeanor. Both of you set the boxes down just inside your front room and you turn to him with a hand on your hip. “Just that you’re too handsome for your own good and a habitual flirt. Both of which I’m finding to be true already.” 

“Oh, well,” not only does his color return, but his cheeks pink noticeably. He gives a small nod that tips his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and sends a tuft of hair curling into his face – he couldn’t have choreographed it better if he tried. With an exaggerated wink, he continues, “you ain’t seen nothing yet.” 

You scoff, “sure, sure,” and lightly push his shoulder out toward the hallway. “Thanks for your help.” 

He strides down the hall back to the elevator and points at his own front door as he passes it. “Anytime…and you know where to find me if you need anything. You know, cup of sugar, little company. Whatever.” 

With a shake of your head and the elevator doors closing around him, you punctuate, “bye, Steve.” 

—

Later the same night, in the dressing room before your shift, you’re practically glowing from the long afternoon nap you allowed yourself in place of unpacking. You did your makeup at home – never really did care to leave your expensive products in the locker room, no matter how much you trust the other girls –  so all you have left to do is get changed. There’s a lounge just outside the locker rooms for the dancers and bar staff. It isn’t much, a cracked and peeling old leather couch, a few folding chairs around a card table, and a kitchenette for snacks and drinks, but it serves its purpose. After changing into your first outfit of the night, a bedazzled fishnet body suit over a metallic hot pink matching set, you practically bounce into the lounge and land gracefully on one end of the couch, heels in hand. 

“Someone’s in a good mood,” comes a sleepy voice from the kitchenette where Eddie Munson, club security, resident dealer, and occasional fill-in DJ, makes his routine evening coffee. 

“Didn’t you hear?” One of the other dancers, Charity – though you’re not sure her real name, stage names only even back here, that’s the rule – asks, draping herself onto the other end of the couch. She pokes at your thigh with the toe of her heel and scrunches her button nose in your direction. “Honey here is fancy now, moved into that luxurious new apartment of hers today.” 

“It’s true,” you boast with a dramatic lean into the couch, lazing, a cat to sunbathe under the fluorescent lights and clutching at pretend pearls, “I am one with the fat cats, now.” 

“The fat cats living off their granny’s handouts, maybe,” Says Felicity, the club manager, through a playful snort as she enters the room. 

You concede, “yeah fine, I could never afford this place if it wasn’t for her subletting it to me, but it’s all a part of my master plan.” 

Eddie settles into one of the folding chairs, propping his feet up on the armrest of the couch beside you. “Master plan? Do go on.” 

“You know,” you swat at the heavy, thick-soled boots before leaning forward to don your shoes and look up at him over your shoulder flirtatiously, “find a rich, hot man who can afford to live in the building and make him fall in love with me.” 

“Solid plan, how’s that working out for you so far?” Charity laughs playfully. 

It’s quiet for a moment as you contemplate the question. You were joking, of course, but when she asked the first thought that came to mind was of your interaction with Steve. It could be nothing, after all Grandma Ruth did warn you that her next door neighbor is a major flirt and for all you know that’s how he interacts with every woman he meets – maybe even every man, you don’t judge. On the other hand, it could be something. You never know.

“Well, actually there was this guy–” 

You’re interrupted by one of the bartenders leaning in the doorway. “Eddie, we’re about to open, need you at the door!” 

On his way out the door, Eddie twists his mess of curls up into a bunch atop his head and as a goodbye, says, “fill me in later, ladies, duty calls.”

—

The next time you see Steve, it’s under wildly different circumstances. For him, anyway. 

You’re still sweaty and worn out after a long morning shift at the diner and the walk home under blazing July sun. Your fifties-style uniform wrinkled and stained with sticky syrup and dried milkshake from the bratty kid who “accidentally” dumped it on you in passing. Your apron is slung over your arm carelessly and you have just let your hair loose from its scrunchie when you entered the building so you have no idea how wild it actually looks. 

Steve, however, is nothing short of stunning when you run into him at the mailboxes. He’s sporting a navy blue suit that fits him so well it must be tailored, still slightly disheveled at the end of his workday but clean cut and endlessly handsome despite it. There’s a dusting of five o’clock shadow along his sharp jaw, and his glasses are perched low on the tip of his nose as he sorts through the small stack of bills before tucking them into the inside pocket of his blazer. When he looks up and meets your eye, he visibly brightens.

“Well hi, neighbor,“ he greets with a warm grin dimpling his cheeks. He leans with one arm above your head against the wall of mailboxes and looks softly down his nose at you. “How’re you settling in?” 

Shifting the strap of your bag up higher onto your shoulder, you try to cover up the stains, once again shying under his attention. You’re more than used to attention from men, used to their intense stares and acute observation, but only when you have prepared for it. When your makeup is done to perfection and you’re fresh and clean as a whistle. Not now. Not smelling of fryer grease and pancakes and the sweat of a hard day’s work, with melted makeup and dried mascara flakes accentuating the bags under your eyes. You finally answer, “alright I guess. I’ve been working a lot lately so there hasn’t been much time for settling, but I’ll get there eventually.” 

He scrutinizes your outfit with a playful sneer. “I can imagine how hard it is, having to commute back to the fifties every time you have a shift.” He reaches out to untuck the collar of your dress that folded itself inward on your walk, smoothing it down with a caress of the thumb. “This suits you, by the way. ‘S cute.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm away with the apron in hand. “It pays the bills and I’m good at it. I wouldn’t have chosen it, otherwise.” 

Without ceremony, you both start walking to the elevator, step in step as if this was routine, as if you’ve been doing together for years. He presses the elevator button and shakes his head as you wait for the doors to open. “Does it, though?”

Swallowing your offense, you give him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?” 

Together you step into the elevators, and Steve holds out an arm to make sure the doors don’t close on you as you pass through. An unnecessary gesture, as the doors don’t close if they detect motion, but it’s appreciated nonetheless. 

“Not that I’m judging, because I am not, I just find it a little hard to believe that you can afford this place as just a waitress. What else have you got up your sleeve?” 

The elevator once again signals your arrival with an overhead ding, and you just shrug as you brush past him toward your door. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

—

Working two jobs to keep up with your discounted rent is tough. You’ve never been ashamed of either job, both of them honest work and both of them something you’re good at and damn proud of, but there’s no denying that it’s tough sometimes. 

The late hours at the club, though not every day, followed by an early wakeup call for the breakfast shift at the diner often called for little to no sleep, trudging into the building well past three AM with only enough time to shower and fall into bed for two hours before the alarm went off again at 5:30. But you made it work. Naps in the middle of the day and strategically planning which days you went into the club, you always made it work. Which means on the off nights you choose not to go into the club, you value your time and the opportunity to go to bed before midnight. 

It’s a rare Saturday night that you choose to stay home a few weeks after your move. Usually Fridays and Saturdays are your biggest tip nights so it’s rare that you skip, but it had been a particularly rough day at the diner and you have to go in even earlier than usual tomorrow to cover the overnight server’s vacation, so you decide it isn’t worth the added stress. You’ll just take a nice relaxing bath, maybe watch a movie on cable, and get to bed early.

Only, ever since Steve got home, there’s been a constant flow of people outside your front door, trailing from the elevator to Steve’s, some knocking, some letting themselves right in with a slam of the front door, most of them shouting. Their voices echoed off the walls and floated through the crack under your door. You wrote it off as a simple get-together and hoped it would die down soon, but to no such luck. The swell of voices and bass heavy music and generic party ambiance only grew louder as the night went on, and here you are. 

It’s two AM, your alarm is supposed to go off in just over an hour, and you’re wide awake, no, kept awake by the thumping of the party music on the other side of your shared wall and the boisterous laughter of Steve’s guests. 

You try not to be annoyed, really. Sure, it’s well past midnight, but it’s also Saturday, and you’re no square. Obviously people can have a good time and enjoy their weekend, but God, it’s so hard to not let the noise get to you, your anger bubbling just under your skin the longer the ruckus keeps you awake. 

Angrily shoving a pillow over your face, clamping it around your ears, you make note to say something to Steve the next time you see him. 

[pricegouge]

very quick companion/prequel piece to this

cw: brief descriptions of sex, power imbalance i guess

Simon's not well enough adjusted for a job like this. 

It had been an easy enough position to lie his way into when he'd been on the lam and desperate for a place to lay low for a while, while still keeping his belly full. Tie a few knots and pen a few docile little creatures who've never even seen the south pasture, and everyone believes you're a trained stable hand. Free meals, free cot. Even a few house maids would warm his bed if he behaved himself long enough to pass as a good christian who'd make honest women out of them. Easy enough when the birds were barely even literate, harder when the employers themselves were the devout sort who took notice of each of the help's comings and goings because they were too proper to suffer a whore under their roof. They watched their flock like hawks, strictly enforcing curfews and dress codes and wing assignments. Simon couldn't even eat in the big house, let alone spend the night. And forget about luring the birds out, the owner of the place sat up in the parlor all night reading verses aloud and denouncing anyone who tried to sneak out for so much as a smoke.

But the young one - the son. He was worse yet.

Blue eyed and well built, covered in the kind of dense stubble that could lend him a sort of roguish charm if he could risk his place in heaven long enough to roll his sleeves up past his wrists, John MacTavish was a maid's fantasy in the flesh - and completely wasting it. Too devout, maybe. Too inexperienced to know when a bird fancies him, more like. Either way, Simon feels himself creeping closer to an edge he knows all too well every time he watches good ol' Johnny denies himself a night of proper relief.

He's two months into the job and one flustered employer incident away from stealing an heirloom rifle from the big house and putting Johnny out of his fucking misery when Simon decides he's had enough of listening to this ungrateful little git put down pretty serving girl after pretty serving girl in favor of a Lord that would never love him. Finding Johnny in one of the field houses berating a hand for sloth of all things, Simon sends the young boy scarpering with a particularly well aimed scowl and corners the little lordling with a subtle shuffle of feet designed to lure him into a sense of dominance until it was too late; until Simon had him on the stall wall, flustered and red and spitting mad.

He's not hard to subdue, all things told. All that Catholic rearing makes him eager to please. Simon calls him Johnny, like the head of the house does. Johnny's big eyes turn pleading when he asks what Simon wants, as if requesting guidance. 

Who is Simon to deny his employer?

"Just like that, Johnny," Simon encourages, cock rammed so far down the lad's throat he's not surprised when his pretty blue eyes start leaking tears. "Just like communion."

It's not, but that doesn't stop Johnny needing it anyway.

He seeks Simon out nearly every day, keeps him from his chores. Simon doesn't give a shit, keeps a bag packed under his cot just waiting on the day the head butler sends him off. He never does, kept in line by Johnny's sway, probably. Simon tests his limits, decides he's above reproach when he spends an entire day lounging on a large rock in a brook past the east gate and catches no flack.

"Cock that good, pup?" He asks Johnny later that night, the younger man bent over a bay of hay in the small barn like a loose little housemaid whore. He whines like one too, his hoarse voice carrying enough to keep even the most intrusive stablehands at bay. No one besides Johnny's ever enjoyed being part of Simon's sins, after all.

"You make me untouchable, did you?" He's referring to his position, how he's starting to believe he could posture himself as head butler come the morning and they'd just let him. But the way Johnny looks back over his shoulder at him is far too intense.

"Anyone else touches you, they'll never work again."

It's good until it's not. Novel, at least. Simon's never been the favorite pet. He entertains it for as long as he can bear, but he's had enough pets of his own to know it's not a position he can manage. Like the job itself, he's not well enough adjusted; and a misbehaving dog is a kept dog all the same.

Getting Johnny properly under his thumb is harder than he expects, the man too well suited for his position in life. Properly groomed for it by his father. The solution is so obvious it nearly draws a proper laugh from him when he sees you fawning over the boy one day through the kitchen window, servile and sweet - eyes lowered in submission. 

If Johnny needs to keep someone, who's Simon to discourage it? The good Lord knew he'd never been swatted on the nose for the same. Better just to give the boy something to chew on other than his own arm.

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

"The Demon" by Mikhail Lermontov, and parallels with Sauron x Galadriel

This idea was pitched to me by @leto97, and now I can't get it out of my head. Because the parallels are, indeed, mindblowing. And to a degree that might suggest the show writers actually took inspiration from this to write Galadriel and Sauron’s story in “Rings of Power”. Can this poem offer some predictions for Season 3, or Season 4?

This poem, "The Demon", is by a Russian poet and is considered a masterpiece of European Romantic poetry, tells of a Demon who falls in love with — and attempts to seduce — a Georgian princess, Tamara. Can he be redeemed by love? Will Heaven even allow it?

Full text here, or here.

1. The Repentant Demon

The somber Demon [Sauron], banished from the heights, Soared aimlessly above the sinful earth, And memories of better days gone by Kept crowding countlessly before his eyes — Those days when he, secure in light’s abode, Shone radiant, a cherub free from stain; When incandescent comets, shooting past, Would pause and lovingly reciprocate His hailing smile of fond benevolence; Those days when, through the timeless mists of space, Desiring knowledge, he would keenly track Nomadic caravans of shining stars Strewn out by God across the dark expanse; Those days when he believed — when he still loved! Divine Creation’s fortunate first-born! [Mairon, the Maia of Aulë] He knew no spiteful enmity, no doubt, Nor was his mind yet menaced by the thought Of barren ages in an endless train… So much, so much was his, that all of it He hadn’t strength enough to recollect!

Long since expelled from Heaven, he now roamed The desert of this world, without repose; One age after another passed for him Just as the minutes pass for humankind: In an unending and unchanging stream. And in dominion o’er this paltry earth, He sowed great evil — but without delight. [corrupted by Melkor/Morgoth] For nowhere did this artistry of his Meet with resistance in the hearts of men — And he grew tired of evil’s tedium.

2. First Meeting with the Princess

A great and lofty house, a sprawling court, [the raft] Did grizzled old Gudal decree be built. Much toil and many tears did that house cost [shipwreck] The long-enduring slaves who raised its walls. From dawn, its shadow creeps across the slopes Of mountains ’round the rock whereon it looms; And in that rock a staircase has been hewn, Descending from a turret to the stream; And down those stairs — a glimmer, now and then — A figure hurries, in a cloak of white: It is the princess — young Tamara [Galadriel] — who Descends to the Aragvi with her pail. [ship to Valinor]

Indeed: the Demon saw her. In a flash Some agitation inexplicable Arose within him, not to be denied; The silent desolation of his soul Was filled now by a glad, salvific sound — And once again he knew the sanctity Of love, of all that’s good and beautiful! Long, long did he now linger to admireThe precious spectacle — and long-dead dreamsOf his past glory, like an endless chain.Of star strung after star strung after starProcessed before his eyes as he looked on. And, shackled by some great but unseen force, He grew acquainted with a newfound pain: For sentiment began to speak within Him — in his long-abandoned native tongue. Were all these signs but preludes of rebirth? [redemption] His menaced heart sought refuge in his mind, And scoured it for shrewd and sneering words — But no! Forgetting was forbidden him By God. Indeed, he wished not to forget!

Down at the river raging far below — Here every step was fraught with threat of death! Great cliffs loomed to the left — and, to the right, The fatal torrent roared, tempestuous. [tempest at sea] It had grown late. Upon the snowy peak The blush burned out. An evening mist arose... And so the caravan picked up its pace.

3. The Dead Groom [Husband]

But on this day a great feast is at hand; The zurna sounds as wine begins to flow. Soon old Gudal [Finarfin] will see his daughter wed; He bade the whole clan gather for the feast. There, on the roof, with carpets rich bespread, The young bride sits among her friends, and laughs; With carefree games and songs her wedding eve Goes by. And evening falls: from distant peaks The half-disc of the sun still spills its rays; The revelers, now clapping rhythmically, Burst out in song, and watch the lovely bride Take up her tambourine and start to dance. Behold, how with her hand so delicate She twirls the tambourine above her head — One moment fluttering just like a bird, The next she sinks, alights — and, looking round, Her moist eyes glimmer softly from beneath [...] This was the last time she would ever dance. She well imagined what the future held — Alas! — for Gudal’s heir and only child [Galadriel is Finarfin's only daughter, and only surviving child], For one as used to freedom as was she: The woeful station of a wife enslaved; A homeland, new and as of yet unknown, And equally unknown [Doriath, Middle-earth] — her husband’s kin [Celeborn, prince of Doriath] So, now and then, a surreptitious doubt Obscured the smiling features of her face; And yet her every movement, as she danced, Was so full of expression and of grace, Of effortless and sweet simplicitiy,

Galadriel: Celeborn was his name. We met in a glade of flowers. I was dancing and he saw me there. Theo: You were dancing? Galadriel: The war seemed so very far away then. When he went to it, I chided him. His armor didn't fit properly. I called him a silver clam. I never saw him again after that. Rings of Power, "The Eye", 1x07

4. Demon In Love

In drops of water glistening like pearls, Upon a body beautiful as hers! Nor has the hand of any mortal man Been blessed to dance across a lover’s brow And unbraid hair as sumptuous as this. No! Never, since the loss of paradise — [the light of the lost Two Trees of Valinor shines on Galadriel's hair] I swear it! — had a flower such as she Spread wide its petals ’neath the southern sun.

For lo, the Demon, clever in deceit, Did rile his fancy with a guileful dream, And in his mind, concealed by darkest night, His lips caressed the lips of his new bride.

“Cry not, dear child, cry not — you cry in vain! Your precious tears will not, like living dew, Fall vivifying on that voiceless corpse: Their water will but blur your brilliant gaze, Their fire will but burn your virgin cheeks! Your groom is far away; he will not see The grief you bear, nor will he know its worth; The fleshless gaze of his transfigured eyes Is now caressed by Heaven’s blessed light; His ears now hear the songs of Paradise… What are the trifling dreams of earthly life, The moans, the tears of some unhappy girl, To one who knows undying happiness? No, no, my dear! A mortal being’s death — My earthbound angel, please believe my words! — Could never, ever be deserving of A single moment of your precious grief! [Sauron sees Galadriel's grief, and asks for her forgiveness]

5. The Demon Reveals Itself

Tamara - Who are you? Oh, how dire the words you speak! Did heaven send you to me, or did hell? What do you want?… The Demon - How beautiful you are! Tamara - No, tell me who you are! Give answer, now..!

The Demon: I am the one whose voice you heard before Amidst the silence of the midnight hour — The one whose thoughts were whispered to your soul, And whose unending sadness you discerned. I am the one whose form you saw in dreams; I am the one whose very gaze kills hope; I am that wretched one whom no one loves; I am the scourge of all my earthbound slaves; I am the king of knowledge — freedom, too; The enemy of heaven, nature’s bane. And now, behold — I fall upon your feet, And bring to you — you, whom I so admire — A quiet prayer of neverending love, I bring to you the first pain I have felt, The first tears I have shed upon this earth. Oh! Hear me — only out of pity! — For You must know: you could, with but a tender word, Restore me unto heaven, unto good; And, in the sacred mantle of your love Once clothed, I would in love arise anew, A newborn angel, newly radiant. Oh! Only hear me out, I pray you, please! — I am your slave — And now declare my love! The moment when I first set eyes on you, I first began to secretly despise My immortality, my evil might; Despite myself, I first came to desire The incomplete and earthly joys of men; It pained me not to live the life you know — And how I dreaded life apart from you! Thus in my bloodless heart a sudden ray Of light has broken forth, to shine, to live — While all my sorrow, deep in that old wound, Keeps stirring, like a serpent long asleep. What is eternity, without you there? What good, the boundlessness of my domain? They’re nothing, save for empty, ringing words, A sprawling church — with no divinity! Tamara: Begone, O clever spirit! Leave me be, And speak no more! I cannot trust you, friend! O Lord, Creator, hear me!… What is this? I cannot pray!… My poor deluded mind Is by some deadly venom overcome! Your words would doom me to the fires of Hell, Your words are fire and poison, nothing more... [Sauron reveals himself to Galadriel]

6. The Demon Temptation (he asks the Princess to help him achieve redemption)

There is an ocean vast, ethereal, Where without rudders, without masts or sails, Drift effortlessly, through eternal mists, The graceful choirs of luminaries bright; Across the boundlessness of heaven’s fields Roam sinuous and sheep-like flocks of clouds Intangible, and leaving not a trace; The hour of parting, or reunion’s hour Means neither joy nor misery to them; For they no longing for the future know, Nor do they feel regret about the past. You too, my dear, need only think of them On days of harrowing adversity; Be too, like them, without a single care, Without concern for any earthly thing! [Sauron tempt Galadriel into joining him]

7. The Demon torments the Princess

As soon as night, its somber shroud outspread, Obscures the towering Caucasian peaks, And the entire world below, bewitched By some enchanted word, falls still, And nothing moves, save for some withered grass Stirred by the wind that steals along a cliff And soon inspires a bird that shelters there To spread its wings and flutter in the dark, [Galadriel is tormented by visions of Sauron, via Nenya]

For surely you have noticed: day by day I’m wilting, victim of some poison vile! A clever spirit surely torments me With some dark dream that I cannot resist; I’m lost, my end is near — take pity, please! [Tamara tells her kin she's being tormented by a "clever spirit" and needs to escape it = Galadriel tells the same to Elrond]

8. The Demon visits the Princess

While far below, beneath the vineyard vines, Insatiably imbibing heaven’s dew, A flower spreads its petals in the night — As soon, I tell you, as the golden moon Ascends the sky in silence o’er the peaks, To steal a loving glance at you, my dear... It’s then that I’ll come flying to your side, And linger with you till the morning star, And waft delightful dreams of purest gold Upon the silken lashes of your eyes...” [Sauron comes for Galadriel, at last, in Season 2]

And then the wondrous voice withdrew from her, And, word by word, its music died away; Now startled, she jumps up and looks around... A painful longing, inexpressible, Now seized her breast; and nothing, next to this, Was any sadness, fear, or ecstasy: Her every passion seethed within her heart; It was as if her soul had burst its chains, And flames were coursing through her every vein — [Sauron stabs Galadriel with Morgoth's crown]

And that same voice, so gloriously new, Seemed still to resonate from ear to ear. Near morning, at long last, a longed-for sleep Sank down and shut her weary, reddened eyes; But sleep too stirred her disconcerted thoughts With some uncannily prophetic dream: A visitor had come from far away, And, radiant with rays of unseen suns,

He stood there, gently bowed above her bed; He stood there — and his loving gaze beheld Her with such sadness, with such tenderness — And with, it seemed, compassion most profound. This was no angel sent there from on high; No guardian ordained for her by God; No halo spun from iridescent rays Adorned the locks that ringed that handsome face. Nor yet was this some awful fiend of Hell, Enduring torment for his many sins — No, no! He looked like lucid evening — Not night, not day — not dark, not light!

8. The Princess choses "death" to resist the Demon

Give up your child, bereft of sanity, To the most holy convent’s certain care, Wherein our Lord and Savior all sustains; Before His Face I’ll pour my every tear. No smiles, no joys are left me in this world… Like relics shrouded in serenity, May I too find the shelter of a cell — As of a tomb — long, long before my time…” [Galadriel jumps to her death to escape Sauron]

9. The Princess is sent to a Sanctuary by her kin, to protect her from the Demon

So, to a monastery far away [future Rivendell]Her kinfolk [Elves] sorrowfully sent the girl,And there in modest clothes, from sackcloth sewn, She humbly wrapped her ever youthful breast.

9. In spite of her prayers, the Demon's temptation and her desire for him still endure on her heart

But still, beneath her nun’s attire — just as It had beneath a dress of patterned gold — That same illicit, sinful fantasy Kept beating in her heart, unfadingly. Before the altar, in the candlelight; Amidst her solemn, sacred songs of praise;

Amidst her prayers, the same familiar voice Would oft assail her ears with tempting words. Along the gloomy temple’s mighty vault, A shape she seemed to know would sometimes glide, Without a noise, with no trace left behind, Through clouds of incense rising weightlessly. He shone there, silent, like a star, and lured Her, called to her... Where would he have her go?

What happens next in the poem? Hypothetical predictions for Season 3?

1. The Demon lingers around the sanctuary

In the poem, the Demon goes to the monastery to claim the princess. At first, he hesitates and does not dare to enter, and “violate their blessed sanctity”: 

A shroud ethereal of evening mist In darkness clothes the sleeping Georgian hills. True to his custom, in the still of night, The Demon flew about the cloister walls. But for a long, long while he didn’t dare To violate their blessed sanctity. Indeed — if for a moment — he seemed poised To cast aside his merciless intent. There, lost in thought beside that lofty wall, He paced about — and where his footsteps fell, The leaves would tremble in the windless shade. Again he lifts his gaze: again he stares Into her window, where the lamp still shines: [the sun still shines?] Long has she waited, waited for someone! And then, amidst the all-embracing quiet, Some graceful fingers strum the chonguri, And suddenly a lovely song resounds; Its notes drift forth, and play without respite, As measuredly as tear falls after tear. So tender, so exquisite was the song That it might well have come here from on high, Composed in heaven for this sinful earth! How like an angel’s voice — an angel who Desired to see some long-lost friend below, And secretly descended from the clouds To sing to that dear friend of days gone by To lend some sweetness to their suffering... And thus love’s ache, love’s longing restlessness, First pierced the Demon’s heart — and, knowing now The fear that love entails, he wished to flee, To flee — and yet his wings refused to move! What miracle is this? A heavy tear Falls from his faded eyes — falls to the ground — And to this very day, outside that cell, Beneath that window, one can see a stone Burned straight through by a tear as hot as fire — By an infernal and inhuman tear!

2. The Demon's love for the Princess is too strong for him to stay away

Eventually, the Demon decides to enter the sanctuary, and confess his love for her: 

He enters now — his heart prepared to love, His soul no longer shutting out the good, Believing that a long-awaited life — A new life — a new day — was now to dawn. The vague anxiety of boundless hope, The fear that lurks in mute uncertainty — These unfamiliar feelings filled his soul, These feelings known to all who have known love. Alas, they did but augur things to come!

3. The Demon fights a God's messenger to get to the Princess (and wins)

When the Demon enters the sanctuary, he discovers a "agent of God" is there, protecting the princess’s soul against him:

He enters, looks — and looming there, beholds God’s messenger, the guardian angel who Stood watch above that sinner beautiful, His brow bathed in a pure celestial light, His smile impassive, and his shining wings Protecting her from her soul’s enemy; And suddenly a ray of Heaven’s light Shone forth and smote the Demon’s unclean eyes; Where words of love might have caressed his ears, An onerous reproach now thundered forth: “O restless spirit, full of wickedness, Who called you here in midnight’s tranquil dark? There are none in this place who worship you; Nor has the breath of evil breeched these walls. Dare not transgress, dare not in sin draw near To one I hold in love and sanctity. I bid you speak: who summoned you?” To this, The evil spirit glowered in reply, His gaze now burning red with jealousy; And in his demon’s soul again was stirred That age-old poison — hatred of the good. “She’s mine!” he bellowed, with abysmal might. “Abandon her, for I have laid my claim — While you, her guardian, have come too late, And you are not to judge her, or judge me. Upon her heart, replete with sinful pride, I have already set my awful seal; There’s nothing sacred here for you to save; Here, I am master now; here I now love!” The Angel, overcome, with eyes downcast, Looked one last time upon the wretched girl, And slowly, beating high his shining wings, He rose, and plunged into a sea of light.

4. The Demon confesses his eternal love for the Princess

Coming out victorious of his fight against this “Angel of Light”, the Demon eventually gets to the princess, and confesses his eternal love for her: 

Tamara - So why, why do you now profess your love? The Demon - Why do I love you, lovely girl? Alas, I do not know myself! I only know That, full of newfound life, from my vile brow I’ve finally removed my crown of thorns, And cast it — all that was — into the dust. My heaven and my hell are in your eyes; I love you with an otherworldly fire; I love you in a way you cannot love: With all the ecstasy, with all the force Of thoughts immortal, and immortal dreams. For since the world began, deep in my soul, Your captivating image was engraved; Long did that image drift, beyond my reach, Through the eternal ether’s wilderness; Long, long disquieting my every thought, The sweet name you now bear did sound to me; And in those days of bliss, in paradise, You were the only blessing that I lacked. Oh, if, poor girl, you could but understand What neverending anguish I have known! [...]

5. The Princess is conflicted: she loves the Demon but wants to be on God's side

The princess still resists the Demon, and accuses him for stealing her peace, and tormenting her, but she’s conflicted because she’s in love and wants the Demon in her heart:

Tamara - Hush, hush, someone might hear us! The Demon - We’re alone. Tamara - But God sees all! The Demon - He will not deign to look: He has eyes but for Heaven — not for earth! Tamara - And what of punishment? The fires of Hell? The Demon - What of them? You will share their flame with me! Tamara - Be who you may, my uninvited friend — You’ve robbed me of my peace forever... Yet — Poor sufferer! — I cannot help but hear Your tale of sorrow with a secret joy.  But what awaits me if your feeling’s feigned? Or what if you, concealing some deceit... Have mercy, please! What love do I deserve? Of what good is my wretched soul to you? Could I mean any more to God above Than all the girls who did not draw your eye? Alas, they too are good, and beautiful, Their chaste sheets too, like those on this nun’s bed, Were never crumpled by a mortal hand... No! You must swear a sacred oath to me... You must tell me — for you can see my tears; You can discern this sinful woman’s dreams! How could you help but strike fear in my soul? But still — you understand, you know all things, And surely you will show me charity! So, swear to me... That, from this moment forth, You do renounce all things acquired in vice — Or can it really be that there remain No oaths or promises you will not break?

6. The Demons promises to abandon his evil pursuits, if he can have the Princess' soul, for them to be together

Then, the Demon makes the ultimate love confession, in which he swears to abandon all of his evil pursuits for her, and take her to heaven, where they can be together:

The Demon - I swear to you now — by creation’s dawn, I swear to you now — by its final day, I swear by evil’s base ignominy, And by the triumph of eternal truth, And by the bitter torment of defeat, And by the short-lived dream of victory; And by the hope of seeing you again, By separation menacing anew. I swear to you now by the spirit hosts, And by the fate of demons in my thrall, And by the swords of angels passionless — Those ever-watchful enemies of mine; I swear to you by Heaven and by Hell, By all that’s holy on this earth — by you: I swear to you now by your final glance, And by the first tear that you ever shed, And by the breath of your unspiteful lips, By every ringlet of your silken locks; I swear to you by bliss, by suffering — And more than all of this: I swear by love. I now renounce my lust for cold revenge; I now renounce my every prideful thought; From this day forth, false words of flattery I will not pour, like poison, in men’s ears; My inmost wish is to be reconciled With God. I want to love, I want to pray, I want now to believe — believe in good. With this repentful tear, I’ll wipe away — Upon a brow now worthy of your love — The ashen traces left by Heaven’s fire; And may this world, in placid ignorance, Live on, and prosper — I’ll not interfere! Believe me, lovely girl! I am the first To understand you, and to know your worth. In choosing you as my most sacred prize, I choose to lay my power at your feet. But for an instant of your gift of love, I offer you all of eternity. Have faith, Tamara, in my constancy, My greatness both in evil and in love — For I, the ether’s freedom-loving son, Will transport you to realms above the stars, And you will be the empress of the sky, My sole companion, and my only love; And there — without regret, without concern — You’ll soon regard this earth for what it is: A place where no true joy is to be found, Nor any beauty that is long of life; A place of naught but sin and sin’s reward; A place where only petty passion dwells, A place that’s home to no one capable Of hating — or of loving — without fear. Or do you truly not know what it is — The momentary love of humankind? The youthful agitation of the blood? But as the days race by, the blood grows cold! Do lovers long endure when forced apart? Who can resist the lure of novelty? Who can withstand the boredom, the fatigue Of indefatigable fantasy? No! Not for you, my love, are all these things! Nor yet has cruel Fate ordained for you To waste away in these repressive walls, A slave to others’ jealous crudity, Amidst the meager-spirited and cold, Amidst false friends and outright enemies, Amidst your anxious fears and fruitless hopes, Amidst your empty and oppressive toil! No! Woefully, behind these lofty walls, You’ll not live on, your passion’s flame snuffed out, Amidst orisons, equally removed From the divine and from humanity. No, no, my lovely creature: You were meant For an entirely different kind of life; A different sort of suffering awaits, As do the depths of other, unknown joys. Abandon all your previous desires, And leave this wretched world unto its fate — And in exchange, I’ll open up for you Proud knowledge’s unplumbable abyss; A host of spirits, bound to me in thrall, I’ll cast before your feet, to serve your whim; To you, my beautiful, my love, I’ll give Maidservants magical and light as air; And for your head, from off an eastern star I’ll wrest a brilliant crown of purest gold; I’ll rob some flowers of their midnight dew, And set them in that crown like precious pearls; I’ll steal some crimson from the setting sun, And wrap it tenderly about your waist; I’ll saturate the very air you breathe With breath of flowers fragrant and pristine; And every minute I’ll caress your ears With wondrous notes of otherworldly strings; I’ll raise exquisite mansions; you will dwell In halls from turquoise and from amber wrought; I’ll swim down to the bottom of the sea, I’ll soar beyond the heavens’ highest clouds; I’ll give you all, all that the earth can give — Just love me!..

7. The Demon kisses the Princess, and takes her soul

The Demon kisses the princess and she dies.

And with that, he dared to touch His lips, aflame with an infernal fire, To hers, which trembled as they met his kiss. Her pious supplications had been met By words filled with the power to seduce; A mighty gaze now looked into her eyes, And scorched her. In the darkness of the night, He shone forth, looming high above her now, A deadly blade — yet irresistible. Alas! The evil spirit did prevail! The deadly venom of the Demon’s kiss In but an instant pierced her fragile breast. A terrible and torment-laded cry Now rent the silence of that tranquil night. That cry held everything: both love and pain, Both accusation and one final plea, A last farewell, pronounced in hopelessness — A farewell to her still-young earthly life

8. The God's messenger returns to fight the Demon for the Princess' soul.

The Demon has the princess's soul, now. But the "Angel of Light" returns to fight him. And the princess, seeing the Demon's true form, is now terrified of him, and sides with her guardian angel, instead.

Amidst a blue, ethereal expanse A holy angel sent by God above Flew onward, borne aloft by wings of gold, And bearing, in his merciful embrace, A sinful soul far from the world below. And with his mild and blessed words of hope He drove away the soul’s remaining doubts, And with his tears of love he washed from it All trace of misdeed, and of suffering. And from afar, the songs of paradise Already reached their ears — when suddenly, Abruptly cutting off the path ahead, A hellish spirit rose from the abyss, As savage as a roaring whirlwind’s rage, Yet shining like a bolt of lightning bright — And proudly, in his mad audacity, He bellowed at the angel: “She is mine!” And, holding back its terror with a prayer, Tamara’s sinful but repentant soul Pressed close against its guardian angel’s chest — For its eternal future was at stake. Again the Demon loomed before her — but, Dear God, could she have recognized him now? For how malicious had his eyes become! And how corrupted by the deathly blight Of enmity that never, ever ends! And how sepulchral was the blast of cold That issued from that dead, unmoving face! “Begone, O somber spirit of despair!” God’s mighty angel thundered in response. “You were allowed to triumph for a time, But now the time has come for God to judge, And in His judgment He is merciful; The days of tribulation now are past; As from her earthly robe of sinful flesh, She has at last been freed from evil’s chains. Know this: long have we here awaited her! For hers was one of those souls so designed To live a life that lasts but for a flash, A life of torment unendurable, A life of unattainable delight: From finest ether the Creator wove The living fabric of these precious souls; They were not fashioned for the world below, For was the world below devised for them! This weary soul has paid a cruel price For all the doubts it harbored while on earth... Above all, though, it suffered, and it loved — And Heaven’s gates stand open now — for love!” And with forbidding eyes the angel looked Once more upon the Demon come to tempt, And, with a joyous wingbeat rising high, He plunged into the radiance of heaven. The vanquished Demon could do naught but curse His dreams long-cherished  — his demented dreams! For once again he found himself alone — Alone, alone in all the universe — Without a hope — without a hope of love!

Could this, actually, play out in "Rings of Power"?

The answer is yes.

Sauron (in spiritual form or through visions, illusions or dreams) lingers around Rivendell (or Lindon), looming over Galadriel, calling for her (or something of that sort); 

The Elves would somehow realize this; and Gandalf comes into the picture to help (he’s a “Angel of Light” and a “agent of God”, literally, as Maia of Manwë); 

Eventually, Sauron arrives, in the flesh, to take the Three Elven rings of power and claim Galadriel as his; 

He fights with Gandalf (the guardian over Galadriel), and wins; 

He gets to Galadriel: he wants to take her to the Unseen world, where they can be together;

Galadriel succumbs to Sauron/darkness, at last, and he takes her spirit to the Unseen world, where she sees his true form (like Mirdania in 2x04), for the first time, and realises just how evil and corrupted he truly is (no chance of redemption);

Gandalf arrives to fight Sauron in the Unseen world (because he's also from that realm, and has the power to do this), and wins.

Galadriel realises her mistake, and terrified of Sauron's true form, sides with Gandalf/The Light.

By having Galadriel taken away from him, Sauron sinks into the depths of despair and suffering, and fully embraces pure evil as the new “Dark Lord” (forges the One ring?), and in Season 4, we would see him doing the most diabolical stuff yet, in Númenor (human sacrifices in worship of Morgoth to piss off the Valar).

[thewhumpcaretaker]

do you think sébastien lacroix has went into torpor against his will and had to relive some distasteful memories of being in a war as a young adult

Why yes! I do. Be forewarned, I had a long week and got a little overzealous so this is like 90% hurt and only 10% comfort, oops. I was BRUTAL.

Image Source | TW: claustrophobia, starvation, war PTSD, animal death

⚜ FAILED INVASIONS ⚜

The attempt on the Paris crown was the first real mistake LaCroix had made in his unlife. More than a mistake – a whole misadventure.

Things had gone decently up until that point. He had travelled widely, networking all the while. He’d accumulated allies, and leverage, and servants, all of whom were formidable but none of whom he trusted, as was only wise. But this city was too big a leap in power too soon, even for him. He made one too many enemies in addition to all those friends, and his little coup was revealed. In the end, the would-be Prince of Paris was separated from his followers and forced to flee, hunted through the catacombs under the city for two nights and days. The local Nosferatu knew those tunnels better than anyone, of course, and he never really stood a chance.

It was only because of one particular Nosferatu’s bitterness towards him that he happened to survive. The man found him already wounded and nearly bloodless, cowering against a wall. He seemed to enjoy hauling Sebastian around by the frills of his collar (the height of fashion at the time) while he begged desperately. “Non, non, je ne t'épargnerai pas. Mais vous êtes un véritable fléau avec vos intrigues depuis une demi-décennie maintenant. Ce ne serait pas amusant de te livrer à une mort finale rapide et agréable. [No, no, I won’t be sparing you. But you’ve been such a pest with your scheming for half a decade now. It would be no fun just hand you over to a nice quick Final Death.]” And, grinning wickedly with his uneven fangs, the man threw LaCroix into a secret side tunnel, and locked the entrance.

So there he was, trapped. He was in total darkness, but by feeling his way along the walls, he could tell he was in a narrow, claustrophobic, low-ceilinged tunnel, hardly more than a crawlspace between two larger rooms. The doors on either end were heavy slabs that could only be lifted by an apparatus on the other side. A few hours of examining the walls told him with more or less total certainty that there was no way out. Even trying to dig would be futile, as the walls were solid stone. The ceiling was too low to permit standing to his full height, yet there was nowhere comfortable to even lie down for the day, just dusty, cold cobblestones.

Well, no matter – he had no real desire to sleep anyway. His dreams lately had been even worse nightmares than usual, no doubt intensified by the stress of his plans. And now all that stress had been for nothing, too. He sighed, settled gingerly onto the floor with his knees curled against his chest, and waited.

It’s alright, he tried to tell himself. It won’t be long. People are coming for me. Definitely. Some of them are backstabbers, but someone must be loyal.

But as the hours turned to what must be days, he felt a creeping dread take hold. There were no markers of time down here, but it certainly felt too long. Maybe that man had told everyone he was already dead. Maybe he’d shown off some random heap of ashes and said it was LaCroix. Or even told them that he was alive and locked up, and they all thought it was a good joke. Times came when the frustration and humiliation inside him burned so terribly that he just started flinging himself at the door, threatening whoever might be outside that if they’d didn’t let him out soon they’d – they’d…they’d what? He was totally powerless, and eventually sank down again, defeated. Other times came when he just couldn’t take it anymore – the total darkness, the closeness of the walls, the abject misery. He pounded against the doors then too, begging for release, promising anything in return.

But it seemed that this area of the catacombs was not commonly frequented even by the Nosferatu, or else they heard him and didn’t care. There was never even the smallest sound in answer to his.

A bigger problem was already at hand: he was getting hungry. He hadn’t fed in a while even before this whole debacle began. And now the ache in his stomach was turning to an ache in his veins as his body spent up its blood on healing his own starvation. He felt sluggish. Tired. He would have slept but his mind was so frazzled that he didn’t think he could take the awful dreams it would produce. By that point, he’d been awake for many, many days. He just needed a drop of blood for energy, just a drop. He would eat absolutely anything, he thought.

What was most maddening was that he could hear things moving around him in the dark, squealing and skittering, presenting a plentiful source of blood. Rats. They smelled foul. They seemed to come from the door on the north end of the passage, from a small crack in the stone that they were just tiny enough to squeeze through (lucky bastards). They came and went as they pleased, and he was alternately disgusted and tempted by their presence.

He was quick enough to grab one once, and even held it up to his fangs, mouth open. But it smelled so repugnant he was almost sick just from the scent, and in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to bite. He just let it patter its way back through that little crack. With a whine of disappointment, Sebastian slumped over onto his side and let himself cry. Or he almost cried. There was no water left in him, he realized. He was just making pitiful, dry-throated keening noises without tears and he was too miserable to care.

In the last hours of his awareness, he was still lying there, on his side, staring into the blackness. His muscles had already ceased to cooperate, lacking enough blood flow to flex as they should. Something about being this hungry made the cold of his undead bones seem even more unbearable. A memory flickered through his mind, a familiar bone-deep cold... Such an unpleasant memory that he shied away from it physically, managing to jerk his head slightly. Don’t think about that. Not now. Please. Think about warmth. Anything for warmth in his veins… He almost wished his undead body would shiver, and eventually it did – from fear.

Torpor was almost upon him, he could feel it. He’d never experienced it before, nor talked to anyone in detail about what it was like. Would it be dreamless? He hoped so…

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

No dream had ever been as vivid as this. No nightmare. There were no distractions. His body was not at the edge of his consciousness grounding him, waiting to welcome him back again. No, there was only the memory, encompassing him on all sides. It was ancient and familiar and forever. Some part of him always lived in that time…

It was cold, a cold that painted itself across the horizon in icy blue-grey as the sun descended over the retreating Russian campaign. Where the black trees gave out onto white fields, sky and snow merged into one along that horizon. And why shouldn’t they? Why should the Earth and heaven be separated when so many of the sick and starved and freezing hovered on the point of crossing over? Didn’t he too, hover on the point of crossing over? It was cold, and Sebastian was so hungry, and not for the scraps of half-rotten smoked meat on which he had been surviving for so many weeks now. He felt the hideous weakness of his body driving him towards some survival frenzy. No, no, I am not on the point of death. Defiantly he turned his eyes to the sky, half grateful that the tears froze on his lashes before they could fall. I will be a general. A general does not die like this. I will be important. Too important to die.

He struggled with the terrible feeling that rose up in response: a feeling of just wanting to lie down somewhere warm and be held. He didn’t feel at all like a general. He was barely 18. Two years ago, he was a schoolboy at the École Militaire, marveling at history paintings of old battles. His Maman wouldn’t have wanted this for him, even as she wished him glory. She didn’t know. He didn’t know. How could anyone comprehend this without experiencing it?

But here he was, and there was nowhere warm to lie down for a hundred miles, and no one to hold him. Already, he had been promoted when his own commanding officer fell in Smolensk, and again when the next officer above him fell in Moscow. He was alive, and they weren’t. That was what mattered. His determination, it was all because of his own determination. Because of that, he had a horse and they didn’t. There weren’t many horses left in their column. Most had been eaten in desperation for food. But Sebastian had one, because he was high enough ranked, and so he kept his strength instead of marching.

It was then that a shot exploded from the distant trees. Chaos. Everyone scattered, screaming. “Cossacks! Cossacks!” There was hardly any hope of returning fire. They were already so devastated, and the Cossacks knew the terrain perfectly. He had to take cover.

But Sebastian couldn’t move. He was facing the open, white sky. He didn’t know how he got there. But his horse was sideways, on top of him. In a moment, he realized it wasn’t moving either. He’d been thrown a little ways into the snow, far enough that his legs weren’t fully crushed, only an ankle. But he couldn’t feel any pain. Some sort of total shock had dulled everything. He dragged himself out, wondering why he was shaking now, when his shivering had stopped hours ago. Wondering, as he sometimes did during battles, if any of this was real. He couldn’t hear himself speaking as he shouted at the mare to get up, shaking worse by the second.

It’s not enough to earn a place on a horse. It’ll be shot out from under you the moment you allow yourself to enjoy it. It’s not enough to attain power. One must maintain it, too. He came to himself and staggered away from the mare, shouting orders now. Leading. Miraculously, he was not hit today. Not yet. But it was coming. He knew it was coming if he let his guard down for even a moment.

Onward they marched, scattered and vulnerable on the open plain, into the blank of winter without end.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷

There was blood in his mouth. Warm, fresh, real, honest blood. Someone was pressing it to his lips, hand-feeding him. Sebastian felt the heat seep gradually through his limbs. Even when his body felt strong enough to move, the relief, the gratitude, and the lingering horror that still lurked at the edges of his mind overwhelmed him, and he lay limp against the rock, with someone’s enormous hand resting gently on his shoulder.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he would see five drained blood bags scattered around him. He would learn that he’d been in a torpor for over a month, reliving the horrors of the Russian campaign again and again while his rescuer secured a complete map of the catacombs and then searched them systematically, refusing to believe he was dead. That person was an associate he had met during his travels, one of many he employed and the only one who did not defect from him when the coup failed. And he would one day be LaCroix’s new Sheriff.

The man could have killed him. He could have brought LaCroix’s shriveled body to the Prince of Paris, and earned a handsome reward. Instead, he lifted LaCroix in his huge, tree-trunk arms like a precious doll, snuggled him safely into the folds of massive coat, and carried him safely through the catacombs, out of the city, and out of the country to begin the next chapter of his life in London.

There were so few moments in which Sebastian LaCroix ever felt that the world might show him mercy, that anyone at all could keep him safe if he late his guard down. But that rescue was one of them. A part of him would always live in that moment, as eternal as any memory of hunger and cold.

[eldritch-spouse]

[There's something in my drafts I'm hardly going to finish, so I'll just leave this here.]

Full: Option 1; Option 2

TW: Degradation; Public humiliation

You meet behind the local mall.

The same one he first stalked you in, of course. You're a sentimental sap, after all, but it also helps you remember to not feel bad about anything you do to Patches. He's just a creep, always been one, and creeps don't deserve anything.

Certainly not when they arrive 10 minutes after the scheduled time.

You watch him meekly trudge towards you, slightly shadowed by the more secluded nature of this location. Patches has the decency to look embarrassed, rubbing his own arm and refusing to make eye contact while his old boots all but drag on the rocky ground.

He listened to your advice from last time, at least, making an effort to look more normal by wearing only his shirt and pants. Putting aside the garish shoe wear and the fucking ridiculous hat he refuses to part ways with, he could almost blend in well enough with other monsters.

This style of clothing isn't his preference, if the way he's shrinking even more into himself is any indication.

" Oh goodie, look who finally decided to show up! "

The dullahan immediately starts scratching at the bold veins on his arms, irritating the pockets of magic beneath his skin.

" I- I'm so sorry, Ma'am. I didn't mean to be late- It's- My... " He chokes a little. " My work... There was a- "

" Did I ask for excuses? "

Your tone is your most powerful weapon. In the flip of a switch, sugary, sardonic babying can become a bitter, chilling warning. It always seems to catch the undead's breath.

" No, ma'am... "

" You know, this happens a lot Patches. I'm starting to think that maybe you don't want to see me at all. "

The words make him panic, wide sockets peeking from his downturned hat to gouge the seriousness of your words.

" Ne- Never never! I lov- "

" Then don't waste my time. " You smile. " Are you getting cocky because I happen to find you mildly entertaining? Do you think you have a shot with any woman out there? " You speak as if you're addressing a crippled animal. " Oh, you dumb little thing, there's nothing in that head except seeds, hm? "

There's already some color around his face. " ... Yes, ma'am. "

" Good. " Your hand reaches to pet him under the chin. " Good boy, we keep our expectations in reality, don't we? We know you're just a loser, and losers don't get to waste anyone's time. That's rude, isn't it? "

Just this once, you allow him to nod instead of verbally answering.

There's a silent beat, before one stocking clad leg raises and your heel collides with his knee, sending the monster tumbling down. It wasn't a particularly strong hit, just something to make him smarten up.

Properly trained, Patches stays down, looking up at you with poorly masked anticipation.

" Well come on, dummy. " A foot taps against the ground, shiny black pumps that he bought you, with a small moon-shaped jewel on the front. They're pretty, his eyes twinkle with happiness just looking at them on your feet. " We're not going home until I feel like you're sorry enough. "

Patches knows what to do. He flattens to the ground like no more than a worm. Anyone could realistically pass by this nook and see him prostrated before some woman, slimy green tongue out to polish already spotless shoes.

Annoyed, you swat that large hat away, putting it on yourself instead.

" My hat-! "

" How am I supposed to know if you're doing a good job if I can't see you? " He looks back down, defeated. " God, you're so stupid. "

That gets him to work. The dullahan is nothing if not dedicated, quickly getting into the task. He lavishes the sides of your pumps, tongue flirting with your skin and hands twitching on concrete when you warningly 'tsk'. The length of them is peppered in carved kisses, and he pays special attention to the jewels, huffing with what you already know to be pure neediness. His drool leaves a translucent yet slightly green sheen behind, which looks almost pretty under the light.

Or maybe you're just mildly depraved.

Not as much as Patches, at least.

" What a good job you're doing down there! " You coo, the same way you would at a golden retriever that just handed you its paw. " You've always been good at this, maybe it should be your new profession, hah. "

He makes some kind of breathy mewl, now just retracing his earlier work. You figure that's enough for now.

" Okay okay, stop, I can almost forgive you. "

Patches looks back up at you. " Almost M- Ma'am? "

" Stick your tongue out. "

He does, a rather lengthy magical muscle protruding from that gourd head. You suppose, had you the means to, you'd also give yourself a rather large tongue.

" On the ground. "

The undead makes a face, lowering it as told and likely getting a nasty flavorful of whatever filth has touched the concrete before.

One heel rises, the flat end of your sole perching against his face, the pointed end swiftly descending into that exposed clapper. You make sure to grind it in, sink it, hearing his garbled cries as Patches instinctively tries to retract his tongue. He doesn't know what to do with his own head while trapped like this, the lights in his sockets blurring when tears form around the edges, painting his face.

You don't stop until he's sobbing quietly, shaking yet defeated.

" There we go. I think I can like you again. You're always so obedient... "

Your heel punctured deep enough that you kind of have to give it a shake to release the dullahan's tongue. He makes another pained whine before moving back, holding the damaged muscle as it limply hangs off his wide mouth. It's a tad dirty, but the most striking detail is the hole on top of its flat surface, oozing some kind of thick gel that you can't quite call blood.

He rises awkwardly, back still curved, trying to wipe his own summoned tongue clean before putting it back in his mouth and swallowing his own magic.

" Huh, you could almost pierce it, pumpkin. I bet that'd look good on you. "

And like the flattery-hungry loser he is, Patches smiles faintly through the pain.

Your eyes rake down and find what comes as no surprise. He's already more than hard. In a way, it's kind of better this way, not having to work at all to get him in such a shameful state. You could give Patches a look, and he'd probably begin chubbing in seconds. The problem is keeping it that way, and preventing him from getting excited enough to end things prematurely. Your new pet won't become a disappointment, surely. Not if his discipline continues.

A decently sized cock strains against the tight fabric of his pants, already forming an unsightly patch -Hah- of wetness. You've always liked one thing about him. Well, that's a lie, you enjoy lots of things about Patches. But- The way the prominent veins along his body continue into his endowment is also very pleasing. It makes you want to hurry things along, in spite of your modus operandi of grinding out the maximum potential of every second in these encounters.

" Try not to ruin your pants before we get home, okay sweetie? " You mock. " Did you bring it, by the way? "

The dullahan nods frantically, waving his hands in front of him in a specific pattern that, upon the snap of his index and middle finger, summons forth a collar.

This velvet dark green circle with intricate leaf patterns on its exterior. Two small white jewels frame the silver hoop where the chained leash in your purse attaches. You spent some time designing this beautiful adornment, more time than he deserves really, oh but it's in your nature to be a perfectionist. There were some hiccups. Particularly around the fact that dullahans are apparently frightened by gold... Your first purchase was trashed immediately, needless to say.

Last time you met, Patches had forgotten his collar. This was a grave offense to you, punishable by sharply diminishing his time with you. See, to truly punish this undead, you can't just promise him pain or ruined pleasure, he enjoys those. To upset him, to make consequences tangible, you deny him your time- And it's wonderfully effective!

Exhibit A, Patches has remembered to bring his collar today, after the previous session lasting only half an hour.

" Good boy! Perfect. See? You can learn. " He actually preens at that. " Now put it on. "

When you clip the leash to the monster, he's staring deep into your eyes, sockets pulsing heart-shaped lights as his breath becomes shallow and hot. Oh yeah, he's checking out already.

Good.

" Walk. "

[the-case-book-of-fanfiction]

Love Bleeds

Love Bites, Chapter 7 // Love Bites {Masterlist}

Ship: Astarion Ancunin x fem!vampire spawn!elf!Tav/reader

Summary: Fangs gleam in the shadows and a coffin lies open nearby. Vampire lords are nasty creatures; even a changed heart can do very little when there are claws around it.

Word Count: 2,835 words

Warnings: Cazador, power imbalance, Cazador's a creep, Astarion's forced family, trauma responses, beating, mention of sexual abuse & sexual assault, threats of sexual assault, biting, fighting back, vampiric hunger & other instincts, vampire bite, purposeful injuries, reader's death, Dalyria, implied torture

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

As usual, Cazador was waiting on his throne. 

Dread had curled in Astarion’s stomach again and tears waited to fall from his eyes, but he kept pulling you along, his fingers digging into your arm hard enough to make you whimper. You desperately pawed at his hand, but you couldn’t loosen his grip. Yet when he stopped before Cazador’s throne, his head down and his eyes fixed firmly on his feet, you knew to stop thrashing. You stood still beside him, trembling slightly in his grip. 

“Cutting it close, boy,” Cazador snapped. His voice slid down Astarion’s spine, his anger all too audible. A tear slipped down Astarion’s cheek and fell to the floor. “Yet look what you’ve brought me tonight…”

Moving stiffly, Astarion shoved your forward. You yelped and fell to your knees. The shape of his fingers remained imprinted on your skin. You looked back at him, your pain and heartbreak on your face—and yet also determination. 

She’s scared, the most scared she’s ever been, and she’s still trying to stay strong for me so I won’t break. She doesn’t deserve this. I should be on my knees in her place.

But it was too late for that. Cazador was standing with his staff in hand, making his way over to inspect his new prize. Astarion felt his siblings’ presence the moment they entered the throne room, forming a line in front of the door. Did they expect him to try and fight this time?

“You’ve brought me your lover,” Cazador purred, grinning wickedly. “Your one true love, your fiancée, I see.”

Astarion’s head snapped up immediately, horror on his face. If Cazador knew who you were, his internal pain would not go unnoticed—or unpunished. Astarion began to tremble.

“Yes, boy. I know who she is. I knew everything about you the moment I decided you would be mine,” Cazador taunted. “Your little wife. I never saw her for myself, but I’d heard rumors she was pretty. I can see why you liked her.”

You looked up at Cazador with narrowed eyes, two hundred years of rage on your face. “You staged it. You staged Astarion’s murder!”

If Astarion’s heart had still been beating, it would have stopped then. All these years, Cazador had told him he’d simply walked across his dying body, left brutalized by the Gur he’d angered with his ruling. But it hadn’t been anything like that—Astarion’s vampirism had been intentional. 

His master snickered. “Oh, child, of course I did! I took your lover from your arms and brought him into mine. A handsome thing like him, I couldn’t help myself.” He sneered at the pain in your eyes. “If I had known more about you, I would have taken you then, too…”

A shudder passed through your body. “You’re disgusting,” you spat, your voice full of a venom Astarion was sure he had never heard before, not even two hundred years earlier. 

Cazador tutted. “You’ll change your tone soon enough, little one.” He put two fingers under your chin and tilted your head up. You threw yourself back, protesting his touch with a grunt. Glowing red chains encircled you instantly and brought you onto your knees, your arms restrained behind you. You thrashed against them but could do nothing as Cazador repeated the motion, the chains tightening around you, and gripped your head in his hand.

Astarion didn’t dare move or speak as he inspected you. Your eyes flicked between Cazador and Astarion, your desperation clear. Astarion shook his head subtly.

“He won’t help you,” Cazador said, noticing immediately. “He obeys me. Do not convince yourself that he is yours anymore; he has been mine these past two centuries and will be mine for another two!”

Yet Astarion caught your eye. I can’t help, he mouthed. Thrall.

You understood immediately and hissed to his master, “Not by choice.”

Cazador smirked. “Control is control, one way or another. You’ll understand his loyalty soon enough.”

Astarion heard a quiet murmur of surprise from his siblings. Cazador glanced at them, then at him, and then back down at you.

“You won’t be food,” he said to you. “You will join your lover and his siblings in eternal undeath. You will feel his two hundred years of turmoil and then some. You will join them in belonging to me forever.”

The malice in his voice made you shiver. Astarion admired your courage as you looked Cazador dead in the eye and spat in his face, even as his body tensed in preparation for the punishment his master would dole out for your actions. Cazador reared back and gasps filled the room. Into the deadly silence that fell, as Cazador wiped your spit from his face, you said, “I think I’d rather be food, if it’s all the same to you.”

To Astarion’s surprise, Cazador didn’t backhand you; instead, he began to laugh. It was a shrill, mocking sound that made him and the six other spawn cringe. The longer it went on, the more worried you became. You glanced at Astarion, who met your confused gaze with a look of terror. Slowly, your confusion became a matching fear. 

“You have a fire in you!” Cazador said when he could finally speak through his laughter. “Such rebellion in your blood. It shall taste divine. And it is all the more reason to keep you for my personal…entertainment.” The darkness in his voice made Astarion shudder; yet some small part of him felt a kernel of relief. Was this the end of his own torment? Was it a reprieve at the very least?

Astarion felt Cazador’s eyes on him and looked up. There was disappointment in his face. Astarion shrank back, curling into himself, whispering, “Master, please…”

“Don’t look so excited, boy,” he spat. “I’m not done with you yet. You and your bride will make a lovely couple during nights of debauchery.”

“No,” Astarion croaked before he could stop himself, his tone pleading. “Please, not her. Don’t do this to her. She doesn’t… This isn’t… Please, Master, don’t hurt her! Do whatever you want to me but not to her, please!”

Cazador sneered. “A single night with her and you think you can argue with me? You think to make bargains? Two hundred years of teaching, erased in a single night! All you are is the sniveling fool I watched crawl from his coffin, mewling and pleading and crying, begging for your little wife to save you!”

He raised his hand as if to strike Astarion and he whimpered, dropping to his knees immediately, curling up on himself. He shivered where he sat, waiting for the strike. But it didn’t come. Astarion looked up despite the small voice telling him not to, searching for the cause of his master’s mercy.

Thwack! Thwack!

The staff smacked into Astarion’s head twice. His vision blurred and he cried out, keeling back over. He had just barely shaken the pain from his skull when the staff slammed down on his back. The force of the hit sent him sprawling to the floor. 

You let out a strangled cry, straining against the magical chains to reach Astarion. When your efforts proved futile, you turned your face back to Cazador, your fury burning in your gaze. 

“Don’t touch him,” you spat. “He hasn’t done anything—”

The staff slammed into your ribcage and you wheezed as the air was knocked from your lungs. Astarion whimpered softly. 

“Insolent girl,” Cazador said, perfectly composed. “Trying to protect him is foolish.”

You panted heavily as you regained your breath. You gathered yourself enough to look back up at him. “Beat me all you wish, but leave him alone. He brought me to you. He brought you what you wanted so just let him be!”

“A logical one, aren’t you?” Cazador yanked you to your feet. You stared him down, lifting your chin defiantly. “I’ll whip that out of you.” His gaze slid to Astarion. “Or should I fuck it out of her like I fucked it out of you?”

Astarion whined, curling in on himself. Despite his hints at how far Cazador had taken using his body, he hadn’t exactly told you what happened. Shame settled in his gut and he was terrified to meet your eyes as you whispered his name.

“He didn’t tell you?” Cazador asked, his voice nearly a coo. He was obviously enjoying Astarion’s mortification—just as he always did after the deed was done.

“Astarion,” you whispered again.

When he chanced a look in your direction, he found you looking at him with sympathy in your gaze as you completely ignored Cazador’s finger stroking your cheek. Astarion shuddered, knowing that cold touch all too well. 

“It’s not your fault, Asty,” you whispered. “None of what this monster did to you is your fault.”

Cazador ignored the insult for the time being, electing instead to laugh. “Asty,” he repeated through his high-pitched giggles. He glanced at the other spawn. “They have pet names for each other!”

You snarled, turning your gaze back to the vampire still holding you close to his body. “You, on the other hand… You can go to hell.” Without warning, you lunged, throwing yourself at him. The movement caught Cazador by surprise; he stumbled backward and fell hard onto the marble floor. You had no use of your hands or feet, but your mouth was weapon enough; you bit Cazador’s neck hard enough to draw blood, ripping the skin above his jugular open. 

Cazador yelled in pain and threw you off. A chunk of his flesh came with you and you spat it on the ground, his blood dripping from your mouth. 

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other, both panting on the floor. Cazador groaned, a hand attempting to cover the sizable wound you’d left in his neck.

You glared at him. “I know I don’t have your refined vampiric palate, but your blood tastes disgusting. I pity the vampire who sired you.”

The smell of blood filled the air. It was tart and old, older than Astarion had ever imagined, but it was heady. His ever-present hunger tightened in his gut and pulled a whine from his chest. Behind him, his siblings all inched forward, spreading out into something of a hunting formation.

Through the fog of his hunger and the pain pulsing in his body, a few coherent thoughts formed. Was this her plan all along? Spilling Cazador’s blood to send the rest of us into a frenzy so we’d rip him apart with our teeth? Does she mean to free us all? Something akin to hope filled his abdomen.

Cazador recovered far too quickly for Astarion’s liking. He snarled at you as blood oozed from the wound and poured down his pale skin. “This is the game you’ve chosen to play? Practicing for the rest of eternity, eh?” His grin was wicked and every vain hope stirring in Astarion’s heart was dashed. “See how you like this!” He lunged for you, moving too quickly for you to get to your feet. It took only a second for him to have you pinned beneath him.

“No!” Astarion yelled, but his shout was very nearly drowned out by your scream of pain; Cazador had sunk his teeth into your neck.

You twitched and thrashed beneath him, desperately trying to throw him off. The scent of your blood joined Cazador’s in the air. You were sweeter, lively, and Astarion could still smell the arousal and the sex in your blood—a scent so distinctly him even though it was your scent. He glanced away from you for just a moment to see the other vampires hesitate despite their bloodlust. They could smell him, too, they could smell the permanent mark he had left on you. Even the impulse to obey Cazador faltered against vampiric instincts—never take what belonged to another vampire. 

Possessiveness curled through Astarion, nestling deep in his gut. You were his, the first thing that was his in two centuries, the woman who had always been his. And Cazador dared to take you from him? Yet still, Astarion remained frozen where he knelt on the floor.

Your scream rose in pitch before dropping off completely. The sound became pitiful whimpers, pained cries, and gentle pleas for help. No one dared move to help you and Cazador was too lost in your blood to hear you.

Astarion took advantage of Cazador’s distractedness to drag himself to his feet and stumble closer to you, his body still shaking with either terror or rage, he couldn’t tell anymore. You watched him through dazed, glassy eyes. You were getting terribly pale. Despite himself, Astarion began to salivate as he neared you, the scent of your blood nearly overpowering his desire to escape.

You met his eyes and whispered, with the last of your strength, “Astarion, please…”

Every ounce of self-restraint snapped. Two hundred years of conditioning drained away. Mustering strength he hadn’t felt in years, Astarion wrenched Cazador away from you. You cried out as his fangs tore your neck but Astarion didn’t slow down to check and see if you were alright. He grabbed your hand and hauled you to your feet while Cazador was distracted. Before his siblings could react, Astarion whispered to you, “Don’t stop running.”

He took off like a shot, pulling you along with him. You followed dutifully, but your blood loss slowed you down. As the pair of you ran through the doors and past servants that were thankfully human and too shocked to react, Astarion realized you’d never make it to the door in time. He wouldn’t either, unless he left you here and escaped alone. 

Leave her. Hide in the shadows until you can come back and steal her away tomorrow night when she has her strength back. Astarion glanced back at you, already hating the idea. No. She’d never leave me. I can’t leave her. I’ll carry her.

 Astarion stopped running. Confusion danced across your dazed face until he scooped you up in his arms. Moving sluggishly, you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him. The smell of your blood was stronger now and Astarion groaned in need, but he forced himself to keep running. 

Despite the adrenaline coursing through his body, pushing him onward, Astarion knew he was slowing down. He’d been starved for too long to keep up a fast enough pace to outrun Cazador, who fed until he burst every night, and now he carried your precious body in his arms. 

A sense of doom fell on Astarion’s shoulders as a clawed hand dug into his shoulder. His legs were kicked out from underneath him. He moaned, falling to his knees. You fell from his grasp, your prone body spilling onto the floor like you were made only of liquid. The door was just feet away from you, but you were unmoving, aside from the shakes induced by your blood loss. Astarion thought two words as soon as his master spoke them.

“It’s over,” Cazador hissed in his ear. He shoved Astarion to the ground and stared down at him. Astarion had never hated that beady red stare more. “Just so you don’t get any ideas…” Cazador stepped on Astarion’s calf and he whined as he added more and more pressure until— 

Astarion screamed as the bones snapped. 

Satisfied that Astarion was immobile, Cazador scooped you up. He latched onto your neck once more and drank deeply. You wriggled, fighting until your last breath, when your body went limp in his arms, your skin pale. Astarion heard the death rattle escape your lips and whined pitifully.

Cazador tutted at him. “Patience, boy. She’ll be with you again come tomorrow morning.”

Slowly, reverently, the vampire master carried you away, down a set of dark stairs the spawn were never permitted to use. Getting down the stairs with a broken leg would be a trial, but Astarion’s fear of the pain diminished the farther away from him Cazador took you. When he was certain his master would not hear or see, Astarion began dragging himself across the floor. 

He was healing quickly due to his vampirism, but it still wasn’t fast enough. Every movement coaxed a whimper out of his lips.

A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. Astarion looked up and found Dalyria standing next to him, her face half-obscured by her hair. Nevertheless, he could see the disappointment on her face.

“Dal,” he rasped, desperate and tired. “Help me get to her.”

“I’d hoped she would escape, too,” she said, her voice hollow. “But it’s too late for her now. Come on, Astarion. There’s nothing you can do. She is his.”

Those last three words broke the dam in his chest. He propped himself up, leaning as much as he dared on Dalyria’s leg, and let himself sob. She put her hand on his head, the only comfort she could provide.

Deep within the palace’s dungeon, you began to scream.

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin

Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the Astarion taglist!} @wayward-hel @cheeslyy @ofmyth-andmagicart @neetheslayer @whispering-depths @freesidexjunkie @lightsinmycity @the0ldmann @gobbodoggo @oooof-ifellforyou @beeblisss @fangboner @aquaarietes @fiercest-eigengrau-skies @niqhtfell @call-me-nyxx @lueji-m @ceres-xiv @tricksy-trinity @graynstairs @rosa-rubus @ynisthatyou @thegoodwitchs-blog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @kiyastrf94 @vincemachina @silverfangmarks @ravenswritingroom @hinata7346 @hellethil @caramel-hufflepuff @beemiilk @mypainischronicbutmyassisiconic @starwatch77 @julianmarie @sadexistentialism @supernaturallover15 @writinghound

[mlbigbang]

2023 Marichat & Ladrien Fic Rec List

It’s the end of the year which means it’s finally time for the ML Big Bang’s yearly fic rec lists! We’re really excited to bring you our contributors’ favourite fics started this year to supply you with plenty of reading material while you’re waiting for the Big Bang fics’ publication in January.

Boulangérella by @aidanchaser

Once upon a time, magic was wild. The two princes of the kingdom have been tasked with choosing their brides by the end of their 21st birthday celebrations. Crown Prince Adrien Agreste will have to choose between a woman who can protect his kingdom, a woman offering the power to wake his sleeping mother, and the woman he has loved and admired for the past year. Then there's also the seamstress that he is suddenly falling for. By the time he realizes he doesn't have the power to choose at all, it may be too late.

It's a creative Cendrillon retelling with the kwamis as fay, Adrien as the kingdom's prince and most wanted thief, and Marinette as the seamstess and superhero partner stealing Adrien's heart twice over.

Scary, like a little black purring kitten by @h-sunnywet-d

The calendar just turned into October, and Chat Noir has to make sure that his Good Friend Marinette appreciates the new season wholeheartadly. It sure won't backfire on the long run.

Just An Ordinary Girl by @kasienda

Chat Noir and the other heroes are in a bit of trouble, and Ladybug wanted just one weekend off! But luckily they know someone who can help. Someone who is just an ordinary girl…

you will never sleep alone (i'll love you) by @ladyofthenoodle

Marinette had saved up for months to be able to afford this vacation. Not only that, but she’d spent months trying to convince herself that it was okay to even take a vacation, that Monarch was really and truly gone. Which was why Tikki was at home with Alya, so that Marinette could actually relax and enjoy the plush amenities the hotel had to offer, such as a bed that looked like it cost five times her monthly salary. Or, she would be able to enjoy it, if she wasn’t standing in the middle of the villa she’d booked over a month ago, fighting for the bed with freaking Chat Noir, of all people.

May I introduce myself, Your Highness? by @chocoluckchipz

Whether picking up a stray animal off the streets or saving a dying child at the market, Adrien had always strived to be the best version of himself. Truly, he would've been the perfect candidate to be snatched up by a kwami, were he an orphan, dying somewhere remote after a short life full of nothing but suffering and misery. Yet as it stood, the sole heir to the French throne had little to complain about. Apart from, perhaps, a complete absence of a love life. That is until a mysterious girl, wandering around his gardens at night, catches his attention.

This fic has it all - Ladrien, royalty, fairy tale elements, magic and disguises! It's an enthralling read and one of my absolute favorite fics from 2023.

The Perfect Date by @peachcitt

“I dare you to ask this special someone on the date you just described.” “I totally will,” Adrien says with confidence, looking into the camera and nodding resolutely. “Scout’s honor.” He holds up the kitten as if swearing an oath. There is a space of silence. “Right now,” Hanna says. Adrien stares at her. “I’m daring you to ask that person out right now,” she says. or adrien has a little slip up during a live interview, and ladybug hears. for the golden hour zine!!

reserved by @luckyyoyo

“Don’t you think,” he coughed, a blush creeping up his cheeks, “this kind of thing should be.. reserved for my girlfriend?” He gestured to their poses. A squeak came from her mouth and her knees buckled, but surprisingly still had no struggle keeping Adrien up. “You know, you could always be my girlfriend.” Ladybug, saviour of Paris and local damsel-in-distress Adrien Agreste, suggests he gets a fake girlfriend to ward off his zombie fans. While lovingly holding him in her arms, of course. Adrien, far too comfortable in her arms, suggests it could be her. Introducing your superheroine pretend-girlfriend to your strict, uninterested father is a bit harder than Adrien realises.

Displaced by @kasienda

Adrien loosened his tie and dropped his suit jacket unceremoniously across the back of the sofa that was already cluttered with unopened boxes, mail, and unfolded laundry. He really should have listened to Nino and hired a maid or cleaning person of some sort. But well, he still had a secret to keep, and keeping that secret was more important to him than ever. He moved to his bedroom on autopilot without turning on the light, intending to collapse into bed immediately. But when he tried to slip into his space, he found it was already occupied. He flipped his phone flashlight on towards the ceiling to light the room in a soft glow. In his wife’s place, Ladybug lay sprawled diagonally across the bed.

here comes the rush before we touch (come a little closer) by @ladyofthenoodle

When an akuma attacks during Adrien Agreste's beach themed photoshoot on a dreary day in Paris, Ladybug is on the scene immediately. Unfortunately, with a glimpse of Adrien's alluring abdomen and without her partner, it's not long before she's hit, and Adrien with her—but maybe Ladybug can afford a little vacation with the boy she loves. He's certainly not complaining.

On Borrowed Time by @miabrown007

The life of Paris’ Golden Boy is all shine and glamour; blindingly bright smiles, neverending parties, bargaining for just a shard of time for being happy. But that’s alright; Adrien has long given up the false hope that someone will get it. That is precisely why it’s a spectacle when she does, when she barges in like a hurricane in crimson and turns his life upside down. Heaven knows, it’s time for the wind of change.

[tyran-the-tyranical]

I’m currently writing a fic and writing for Raphael is a little infuriating if I’m being honest.

Mostly because he has such a way about him, and unlike the other characters where there’s some room for deviation, he’s quite rigid in his mannerisms. So I’ve literally been scraping through his dialogue and ‘analysing’ his behaviour, and this is what I’ve ‘boggled’ it down to.

EDIT: This is actually really long, and in fact not boggled down at all, Keep Reading at your own peril...

(OK, So I've completely reorganized this post to be more readable) 

Raphael is a complex and multifaceted character, but here are some main character traits of his that I'll delve more into as we go on;  

-Manipulative and Deceptive 

-Arrogant and Condescending 

-Sadistic and Enjoys Suffering 

-Cunning and Strategic 

-Relishes Power and Control 

-Patient and Calculative 

-Dark Humor  

-Alluring and Subtly Flirtatious  

-Dual Nature and Contradictory  

-Hedonistic and Indulgent tendencies

-Ambition

Though Raphael wants to paint himself as an honest person, that still doesn’t mean he isn't Manipulative with us, he uses many tactics to gain our trust, from crafting this honest and helpful persona to literally threatening us and building pressure to make a deal to escape ceremorphosis. 

"I'm here to help, not harm” 

"I am master here. A prince of bargains cloaked like scarlet satin. All that hidden under sublimely obvious truths that cannot be discounted." (From Chapter 3 of his Diaries) 

“Come now, why playing hard to get when you're in deep over your tadpole head all those pretty little symptoms sundering skin dissolving guts they haven't manifested yet have they?" 

"I'll be around watching you squirm like a tadpole through a nice juicy brain" 

As we progress his threats go from subtle to outright fear-mongering, but this also goes into somewhat of his dual nature as when he moves past his honest persona to just pressuring you, he still wants to paint himself as some sort of Saviour. Of course, this is also just another tactic of his, painting himself as a friend or helper, as though he doesn't have his own ulterior motives, which sure he admits outright but in the ending where you do give him the crown he drops this façade and tells you he's planning on taking over more than the hells and will eventually come for you next. I also think this bleeds into his own needs to be adored, you can see this further in his little plaques he has around his house. 

"Am I a friend? Potentially, an adversary? Conceivably, but a savior? that's for certain. Try to cure yourself. Shop around - beg, borrow, and steal. Exhaust every possibility until none are left.  And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair that's when you'll come knocking on my door. Take all the time you need but make up your mind before you're counting down with tentacles"  

Additionally, this all just feeds into his performative nature - to the extent that he sometimes borders on narrator territory. He has his little monologues as he talks about us as though we’re characters in a story and he’s just recounting our actions to some unseen audience.  

[His speech before the Yurgir encounter is a good example of this]

 

"Through the dark, she went creeping and awoke what was sleeping" 

"The Shadows grow long and the hour is late" - also wherever this quote is from works well too 

There are even more subtle moments where he's still being performative, even when he's not physically present, which goes into his desire and constant longing to be seen as something akin to a True or Full Devil (or archdevil). Since he is a cambion he is restricted a lot by his mortal half. He is held back by his human needs like sleep and presumably food too. I think he tries to cover for this through excess, as if you go to the HoH in Act 3, you can see the food on the table is just filled to the brim of just rotten food, basically all of it wasted. Also, there are loads of scattered areas that have fruit or wine throughout his house. I believe he does this on purpose to try to come across as though food is nothing but a pleasurable activity he indulges in now and again rather than a necessity and he doesn't care if he wastes it (Also just saying he's rich, let them eat cake, L + Ratio). 

However his façade isn't perfect since he is still fallible, and he can fail/die. We can see this because, at every opportunity he possibly can, he attempts to convey this front of being omnipotent and powerful - as close as he can to an archdevil. To be fair, he manages to do this pretty really well, At times he can even come across as this truly unbeatable force, that we can’t ever truly defeat. This is exemplified by the fact that, even if we kill him, if we look in his logbook of previous visitors, it hints at him trying to find a way to cheat death by transferring his soul into a clone or something adjacent. 

Now whether he ever managed to accomplish this by the time we attack him is uncertain, (though there is a non-canon / cut content line where he begs for his father's help as we fight him, kinda of insinuating he never fully realized his backup plan in time and he’s actually afraid he’ll die, but that’s also not in the game so who can say for sure) 

“I cannot lose to you. Not here. Not in my home. I cannot die! Mephistopheles, hear your son! I am at your mercy - save me!” - NOT CANON BTW, but omg do I love this line 

Another slight hint that Raphael might not be as indestructible as he'd like us to believe is when he is playing lance board with Mol. 

"My, the double counter Gambit. Vicious. Exactly what I would have done" 

Now for all intents and purposes Raphael does not need to win against Mol, that wasn't the purpose of their game, either way he already had his eyes set on her to make a deal anyway. Yet it demonstrates that whether you cheat or actually manage to outwit him, he can be beaten, since he can't hide behind a persona when playing (Mostly). 

Furthermore, Raphael is like an English teacher, he loves his little similes and metaphors, and just talking in a verbose manner, and it’s not just word vomit, no no no, he makes it sound interesting, he is performing for us after all. For me personally tho, it’s difficult to replicate, unlike other characters or companions where you can deviate their dialogue, like hearing Astarion say ‘fuck you’ to Cazador, I don’t think you could get away with that for Raphael.  

"The mouse smiled brightly it outfoxed, then down came the claw and that love was that"  

"Perfect, one more rhyme for Old Time's sake; The master was slain within his own house, they dined on him both, the cat and the mouse."  

"Like a mosquito nibbling at a dragon, be gone"  

I also think it's so interesting that the man who does nothing but spout rhymes and poetry will say this if you call his poetry out for being dirt; 

"I admit it isn't my primary interest not, by any stretch" 

Excuse me, sir?  I do think he genuinely likes poetry/writing in general, he supposedly even wrote a play before sooo, also I just think that all these contradictory things he says are on purpose, he's trying to be mysterious to some extent, and he doesn't want you to be able to gauge or understand him, he just wants you to believe in his persona he's crafted for you and that's all. Though like I've said before, his mask can slip off, especially in private or when he's enraged. An example is when he's referring to his employees who have failed him.  

"[A record of various associates of Raphael's, listing their duties, and their respective performance.] 

Korrilla Hearthflame - field work - so far I've barely 

had to singe the tips of her fingers. This one shows promise. 

Archivist - naughty boy, supposed to be looking after the collection, 

but has a tendency to drift. May have to start breaking his neck to 

give his spine a chance to recover. 

Nubaldin - little shit let Gortash get away. Not letting 

him near the prisons ever again. Chamber of Egress will 

do fine until I find a replacement for him." 

Moreover, he’s also very condescending/patronizing. (I think even in one of his dialogues, the devs noted he should even come across that way). I think that’s just a part of his little superiority complex, he’s the chess player and we’re all just his little pawns (that is until we kill him ourselves, it almost makes me think that Tav/Durge is actually the other player in the game and to some extent Raphael knows this and tries to play accordingly). He constantly wants to portray this cool and confident personality, that he’s accounted for every possible outcome (and in a lot of ways he has) and that even if he doesn’t get what he wants, it doesn’t faze him, and in fact, he’ll try to make it seem like either way it benefits him, and sure in some ways it might, but I do believe he’s just saying that to mask his failure to achieve his goal. 

"I should snuff you out and make coin of your soul, but it will be more amusing to let you see the consequences of your actions. Do you really think that the crown is safer in the hands of a goddess than in the claws of a devil?" (Look, I don't like Mystra, but do I think the crown is safer with her? UH yea)  

"Such an eager little pup."  

"You really do think highly of yourself. My sights are set on something much more valuable than your soul, succulent though it would be."  

He's Definitely pissed at us for being a little shithead and giving the crown to Mystra (even tho in the game if you complete Gale's quests you rlly have no choice lol) But he still tries to play it off as this will be terrible for you but great for him, since if shit hits the fan, he's just gonna get more souls - Though I'm sure this is him just trying to save face, or at least to some extent. We can see him actually lose his composure if we ascend Gale. 

"Do not toy with me, Wizard!" - R 

"I thought you liked playing games? You can have the crown Raphael, but you'll need to come and collect it from my realm" - G 

"You can't do this!" - R 

"I hit him where he's most vulnerable, pricked his pride, and sent him back to the hells to lick his wounds. He'll be back, the question is will he find us side by side?" - G 

This is really fun to see since even Gale knows Raphael has no power over him and can just mess with him, and initially, Raphael tries to gain control by saying like 'Oh no, I'm not going to take the crown Gale's going to give me it, like we agreed' and then when Gale fucks with him and it utterly infuriates him because there's not much else he can do really since Gale, though he might not be as powerful as Mystra, is definitely more powerful than Raphael. I also think it's very interesting that, even though we've basically gone against Raphael and screwed him over, he doesn't plan on taking it out on us, and I know he says he wants us to see the consequences of our actions but I think there's a different reason to why he doesn't take action against us. I think he's genuinely afraid of us, let me explain. He was clearly already afraid of our potential before any of the endings, shown in his dream he wrote about in his diary, and when we manage to survive everything that the game throw at us and defeat the nether brain, we've basically become undefeatable (Not really but you get what I mean) The only time he even suggests he'll take one of our souls is if Gale explodes while trying to ascend and well, there's not going to be much resistance since he's already blown up. 

"There was one among them who spoke for the rest. They gestured to the melting hooks, suddenly glanced my way, and in their face I saw they had the best of me. 

In waking, my courage has firmed. I progress my plans for

the tadpoled even now. 

I am Raphael. I am not easily bested." 

Raphael is not only fueled by his ambition but his fear (I'll talk more about that later too) and so he acts accordingly, he plans and schemes for hundreds of years trying to account for every possibility, and at times he can even come across as a total control freak lol. He has Korilla literally stalk us throughout the game, he also knows personal facts about our companions (he’s done his homework), and he’s literally planned and orchestrated events in the plot to help lean towards us giving him the crown in the end (it’s implied he helped vlaakith chain Orpheus or idk some other devil did with infernal chains, and he’s the one who helps wipe Ketherics lil army to just one justiciar) he’s had a lot of time to plan and plan he has. He’s constantly aware of your movements since he picks very specific points to appear to you.  

"[Laughter] The good thing is though there's only one little voice you really should listen to, Mine" - Total control freak behavior  

"you'll be back, it's something of great importance to your master is it a love letter a warning or a deed of ownership I can give you all the Gory details"  

"Carved into that Ivory skin of yours is one part of an infernal contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master" 

"Karlach, why does that name ring a bell? hmm, perhaps I read it in a book somewhere." 

An interesting thing to note is that I think his controlling and performative tactics are the ultimate reason to why he inevitably fails (If you decide to kill him I mean) Since he's spent so much time controlling the narrative literally and figuratively, he's literally altered events leading up to our arrival so that we can give him what he wants and he even talks about us as if we are just a character in his story he's created, he's been doing this so long he truly believes he can control the narrative, that he's predicted every outcome and he really doesn't think we'd go against that we could go against him. He's been so out of the narrative himself, an observer who might nudge things to go his way now and then but never be in the action himself that he truly believed he was untouchable, that he could just float above it all like he did with Karsus’s folly happened. 

Now onto an aspect of Raphael I find very interesting – His relationship's with those around him. As I said before he’s a total control freak, and that’s clearly fueled (if not caused) by his narcissism and we can see that even outside of our protags. Look at Haarlep for instance, (there’s so much to dissect with these two) but Raphael strictly has Haarlep made to look like himself, and is the only form he’ll sleep with. There isn’t just one answer to why he’d do that, firstly, it just boils down to him being a narcissist sure, but on the other hand a point can be made that he’s doing it strategically. 

Haarlep was sent to distract him, and presumably to spy and report back as well (Hypothetically, it's not confirmed) and presumably, Raphael is clever enough to realize that. So why would he reveal anything about himself in such a vulnerable way, so why not just make the incubus be in one form and one form only? It also serves as a lil bit of a punishment I suppose, since Haarlep can be 1000 different people but is forced to stay as one. There’s also another angle to this, that narcissists generally find intimacy difficult, and being vulnerable with other people. So why be vulnerable when you can stick to the devil you know? 

Party member: How did you end up here? 

Haarlep: Sent by Mephistopheles... distract naughty son. 

He knows himself better than anyone, so why would he bother with anyone else? It’s a bit of a defense mechanism, he’s not willing to be vulnerable or let his guard down (and to be fair, for good reason) so it’d be better for him to stick to what he knows, what he’s comfortable with. I’m just going to throw this out here but he comes across as a total hedgehog dilemma sorta of guy, gives off real Shinji Ikari vibes tbh. (NOT REALLY, He's more Gman than anything but just without the charisma 💅) 

Party member: Did you ever turn into forms besides Raphael's? 

Haarlep: Raphael... loves... only... Raphael. 

Now, this is just supposed to be a Raphael analysis but I find it impossible not to mention Haarlep and their motivations as well, since they are arguably the closest person (Literally) to Raphael. Haarlep comes across as a complete gossip type since they seem to just love to air out Raphael's little secrets, they even say how Raphael can Deny them nothing so either Raphael does trust them to some extent to make them his confidant or well, Haarlep just Wittles it out of him during their sessions. Either way, they hold some closeness to Raphael, yet I find it revealing that they immediately will expose him and actually help you (for a price ofc) and intentionally try to help you kill Raphael. Now whether they believed we could actually kill him or not is up for debate, but after you give them your form they do say that they'll enjoy misusing you and they do tell you what will happen when they use your form, so if they believed you were going to die why bother? 

Haarlep doesn't seem to be the only one as in their letter to you in the epilogue it's revealed that even the devils in Mephistopheles's court seemed to hate Raphael. 

"Since the timely end of Raphael's reign, I've gone back to Mephistopheles' Palace in Cania. Many of his Father's court are celebrating the demise of my little brat - behind closed doors. And I'm making a fortune selling evenings in his form now there is no contract binding me to secrecy. Rather tasteless to desire a dead man like that, even amongst devilkind, isn't it?" 

Haarlep even calls Raphael their little brat, though perhaps it was out of endearment as even Haarlep remarks how low it is to desire a dead man when they use Raphael's form. This could possibly show some sort of remorse towards Raphael's death, but it's pretty unclear, yet that's also to be expected since Haarlep is a full devil and they even state they're a crueler master than Raphael so perhaps that was true as well. It genuinely seems that no one actually cares for Raphael, besides perhaps Korilla, and I mean that's fair in all honestly, considering how he treats most of his employees (Hope too) but it's also funny that the people he wants to impress or become most, the devils, also hate him or want to well.. Have some fun times with his form after he's already dead.  I also think it's interesting that Haarlep refers to Raphael as a dead man rather than a devil, they don't even say 'amongst his own kind', It's interesting because Raphael himself is so adamant on calling himself a Devil rather than cambion or whatever (tbf he's not the only one, Mizora does the same or at least out characters don't care to make the distinction) Yet Haarlep doesn't care to make that distinction. Now, of course, man doesn't necessarily mean a mortal man or whatever, but it's still intriguing to note.

An interesting thing to note about Devil society is that, unlike Demons who usually just outcast or kill their cambions, Devils at least allow Cambions to intergrade into their Hierarchy, but at the same time it's a system that wasn't built for them to succeed in since cambions can't physically be promoted, they aren't guaranteed anything form their work, so everything they have, they've had to work hard for. Unlike those around him, Raphael has had to work extra for his position (though I'm sure his title of Son of Mephistopheles did help somewhat) he seems to have it quite good, and tbh I even initially thought he was his own free agent, and didn’t even have to serve under Zariel (but he does) he just has it really good, or at least better than most cambions from what it seems. At the same time, I find it intriguing that he sparsely even mentions who he is in relation to his father. Through subtle hints throughout that game, it's clear that Raphael actually probably hates his father or is perhaps extremely jealous of him, since at the same time he mirrors him in some aspects.  

I think the Dungeoncast said it best when examining the devil's mindset that I also think apply to Raphael quite well too;

"Their dogma essentially revolves around seeking power over others, always adhering to an eye-for-an-eye principle. They exploit any kindness shown to them and show no compassion for the weak, exhibiting traits of a sociopath. Winning at any cost is their mantra, often cloaked in the guise of promoting personal excellence and independence. When they harm others, they rationalize it as providing motivation to succeed."

Even though his society basically looks down on him, whether he's successful or not, Raphael still believes in their mindset, mostly since that's probably how he's survived and thrived in the Hells. This mantra that the devils have has warped who he is as a person entirely and also his ambitions, he doesn't want any other than control, he sees no point in forming meaningful relationships or other interests, and he only sees domination and power as his goal since that's all his society has told him is important.

Another thing I’ve read about cambions is their sense of entitlement, especially over mortals, and well Raphael certainly fits the bill. Which might contribute to why he wants what he wants. I mean, why does Raphael want to take over the hells? To end the blood war? Sure, almost all devils want to rise the ranks but Raphael’s goals are a lot more lofty than that, and why is that? Is it solely his ego? To be seen as something kin to a god-like Asmodeus, or is it to best and humiliate his father? Perhaps both, or perhaps neither, it’s somewhat unclear, but perhaps he just feels entitled to something greater or maybe he wants out of the rat race that is the Devil's Hierarchy.  

"It's the Fatal flaw of mortal kind take away their free will and they call you a tyrant, allow them to indulge it and they become tyrants" 

 

A final point is since he’s a narcissist, he’s obsessed with his image, yea I know, very obvious. And it’s been mentioned a few times that this is probably why he and Haarlep look so different, it’s either insecurity or wanting to come across as something more mature, why he’d look older than Haarlep when they should be an exact copy. It’s the whole reason he’s been performing, curating this image to us, one that he barely even allows himself to break at home unless he’s enraged. If you look at it for what it is, it’s just insecurity and almost desperation. A desperate desire to be seen as something greater, something akin to his father (daddy issues are making their appearance) and it honestly comes across as erratic, and extreme. 

 

He’s so obsessed with his image that perhaps when Haarlep said they’re a perfect copy of Raphael they didn’t mean as an exact copy, they meant they’re are literally a perfect version of Raphael, a better version (most likely a result of insecurities of how he's perceived). Who can say for sure what the reason is why they look so different if they’re supposed to be mirrors of each other. His whole obsession with is image really matches his father, since Mephistopheles is known to change his appearance and curates it for mortals as well (It's why he's confused with Asmodeus a lot since he just goes for a basic generic devil look). 

One more thing, considering all the characters we meet throughout the game, Raphael is or is one of the oldest characters in-game, seeing as he's possibly 1000+ years old. Considering this, it makes sense that on top of him being a devil anyway, he finds himself detached from mortals as well as his own mortal half. Though he is quite proactive in his contract seeking seeing as he not only seeks us out but characters like Mol and Lyrthindor (Tho that was more towards orchestrating his own goals) Otherwise he can just sit up in his Ivory tower devoid of mortal's strive, I mean he even says multiple times that his house is a safe haven for the tired/sick/restless/etc. On top of him already trying to detach himself from his mortal half, he also has the benefit of being so old that he probably has already become numb to it, to mortal thoughts and feelings. He wouldn't be able to emphasize or understand it (tho him being a devil wouldn't have helped either) all he would understand is how to use their suffering to his own benefit. Any possibility for humanity within Raphael is either so faint it's practically not there or there is none left entirely.  

"Never have I been so attracted to mortals as I am to those infested by the tadpole." 

He even says this himself. Mortals have never had any impact on him, physically or emotionally. Yet in saying that, they've never really been given the chance to. The closest a mortal besides us the player to have ever gotten 'close' to Raphael or have impacted him is Hope. Raphael is not only a complex character but he has so many complex relationships with the few people he lets around him. As I said before Raphael is completely blinded to humanity, he's definitely a person who believes the ends justify the means and that has never been more evident than in what he does with Hope. He doesn't care what It takes just as long as it gets him what he wants, that's why he helps orchestrate the plot to lean in his favor, why he basically tricks Yurgir, and why he has no problem torturing Hope even though she's basically no one to him, she isn't even a debtor.  

Though Raphael is almost completely removed from being anything close to a human being, even after all this time, whether he likes it or not, he still does have some human traits. His interests for one help humanize him (Which tbh he is probably aware of and uses to his advantage) Sure he likes poetry and literature, but he's also just obsessed with everything surrounding Karsus and Hope (or at least the concept) He even names his house The House of Hope and whether he renamed it that after Hope or whether that was it's original name isn't clear but either way he really likes the idea of hope in hell. You can see this throughout his house on the little plaques he has scattered throughout, he definitely wants to be people's last hope or perhaps just hope in general, it would make sense as well since he wants to literally break hope and bend her under his will. 

"Karsus's folly the Bard and Scholars call it. I call it hope, the hope of creating a better world, and The Perils of unchecked hubris"  

(Karsus and Hope are basically his only two special interests that he starts to literally combine them) 

Another very human trait of Raphael’s is that Raphael has a fear of failure. He even has dreams about us destroying everything he's worked for and killing him.  

"There was one among them who spoke for the rest. They gestured to the melting hooks, suddenly glanced my way, and in their face I saw they had the best of me. 

In waking, my courage has firmed. I progress my plans for the tadpoled even now. 

I am Raphael. I am not easily bested." 

Even though he reassures himself that he is Raphael and cannot be easily bested it's clear he's still very desperate. The only variable in his plan that he can't truly control is Us and he definitely knows this. Even other characters like Gale can tell how desperate he is. His facade of Invincibility is one of the tactics he uses against us to keep us in check against him. To be honest, all these things lend to humanizing him far greater than any poetry or quote he could ever spout because it shows his vulnerability, it shows he's not as invincible as he'd like us to believe, that he does have weaknesses and can in fact fail. A very mortal trait to have in all fairness. 

Also on another quick note, he totally has a special interest (obsession) in Karsus, like him seeing Karsus accidentally kill thousands of people in the netherese cities became a core memory for him, one that he’s never let go, even now.  

"The archdevil Mephistopheles snatched up the crown and squirreled it away in one of his vaults. He is not more than a frigid archivist"  

"I want the crown that dominates the Elder brain and then we all Gather in the House of Hope me dressed in my finest silks, you skinless, hanging from a hook to watch as your world dies"  

"you would have been Heroes if you only dealt fairly with me, instead you're not so different to doomed Karsus, overreaching your limits and burning your world to Ash"  

"The screams oh the screams hundreds of thousands of people watching in horror as the ground came up to meet them" 

His ambitions seem to be fueled a lot by his narcissism and this belief that he can achieve all he's set out for and actually do a good job in implementing order, etc. Whether this is a founded belief or not is debatable, since we don't really know what he achieves past supposedly Avernus. 

"Though with the crown, I would impose perfect order, Unity, efficiency, control, my kingdom would control its borders and stay within them" (Sure pal) 

OK, onto the kicker here; Raphael is a very alluring character, he can even come across as flirtatious at times (Also through his body language and I obvs can't demonstrate that here but u get it) Throughout the game he's saying how he'll wine and dine us if we give him what he wants, yet In the ending where we actually give him the crown, I think it's so telling that after all his promises of dining with him and getting to see him again if we deliver it, he literally doesn't follow through at all (There's a debate for this since we don't know if he might've once his plans were done) and this just proves what we were to him; that we were in fact just pawns to him. Even if he does invite us to dine with him, it'll most likely be with a purpose, that he wants something from us or for us to do something for him because otherwise he's gotten all we wanted from us, the facade has been lifted and he doesn't need to try charm or threaten us, he's effectively done with us (literally, since it is an ending). It's all just another aspect of his manipulation and Persona he uses against us (And I mean, It worked) We're all just a means to an end for him. 

ALSO, A little side thing I should note is the silly lil Dark humor Raphael has. Raphael, being a devil and all, definitely has a dark humor. You can defo gather that from his dialogue but also the way he comes up with creative punishments for his debtors. Now some of it is just basic evil shit like the guy who does the Self-flagellation stuff and the one who's forced to act like a dog, but some of it is more than that, like the guy who worships his chamber pot which just so happens to be under the statue of Mephistopheles or the debtor who's forced to dance (which I think is a reference to The Red Shoes story/movie where the character is literally forced to keep dancing) or the chick who just voyeuristically watches what goes down in the boudoir, like yea it's horrible but sometimes it just cartoonishly ridiculous and you can't help but find it somewhat amusing. 

"Hope [Laughter] such a tease" like when he says this, unbeknownst to us, he's referring to the real-life Hope, more of an inside joke to himself really. 

On top of all that - this specific paragraph isn't really poignant to Raphael's character necessarily, it's more of a personal observation but - I think if there were to ever be a romance with Raphael the best option is to not give him the crown (tho I do kinda wanna see him with his lil crown being the prince of hell). It's similar to Gortash, in that if you want to be his equal you shouldn't grovel and just give him the netherese shards, you need to challenge him and show your mettle basically. Now I'm not saying Raphael would be pleased with this, but if you wanted to be an equal, this is the best route, otherwise, there's always going to be that power imbalance like with ascended Astarion. (AKA, kill him, Do It) 

My final point that I wanna make is, that all the characters in Bg3 are designed with a fatal disbelief. Y'know Gale believes if he becomes a god he can prove himself to Mystra, Lae'zeel believes that  Vlaakith is righteous and will allow her to ascend, Shadowheart believes she can find herself/ her purpose in Shar, and Astarion believes he'll finally be safe if he becomes the vampire ascendant, yet we that these believes are all unfounded and end up being untrue wif they achieve them, and the same goes for Raphael. Now, if Raphael achieves his goal of getting the crown, he most likely will still end up not getting what he wants, for two reasons; Asmodeus literally cannot be defeated - Let me explain; So there are a few origins for Asmodeus and to most popularized one (and the one I prefer) is the one where he and some of the other archdevils were actually previously angels that got corrupted while fighting demons. 

Yet, in earlier editions, it's stated that all of that is just speculation and mythos surrounding Asmodeus and his real origin is that he is literally a cosmic force that was there at the beginning of time. OK. Now personally I don't care for this origin but either way, whichever one you believe I think my next point still stands the same. Whether Asmodeus is just a being that has achieved something as close to godhood as he can or a literal cosmic force of lawful evil, Raphael probably would still be unable to defeat him even with the Crown and scepter and any other of Karsus's little items, he most likely if anything could only get to the eighth layer. Now in saying this, this is still not his disbelief, because his personal belief is also one that all devils share, which is a complete lie, that being the entire hierarchy they abide by. Every devil abides by this meritocracy hierarchy, and the belief that if they become more powerful, and ascend - that they can reach Asmodeus status, but this is a complete an utter lie. Asmodeus keeps this facade that he could be defeated, but in truth, he's kinda way too powerful for any of the devils in hell, and he knows this and uses it as a tactic to keep them in his control.  

Now Raphael to some extent knows that he has to basically cheat to be even able to ascend, since he's a cambion and the hells system wasn't exactly designed for him to be promoted. Yet even if he manages to conquer every layer up to Cania, he's still going to lose since he's basically destroying the hierarchy and therefore he won't have control over the devils beneath him. Now the crown can be used to literally dominate people but that's not what Raphael necessarily wants - He wants to be adored and willingly followed, and of course, he'll use the crown when he has to, but to wholly subjugate everyone in hell to mindlessly obey doesn't seem to be his goal. There are more practical reasons as well why there are certain devils that have control over the layers, and Raphael, no matter what power he can possess, is still just one individual, and inevitably it seems as though there would be a lot of chaos rather the perfect order he believes he can achieve. 

I know that the crown can basically make you a god, and if Asmodeus has powers akin to a god and Raphael can theoretically do the same, then why can't he just defeat Asmodeus? well, it goes into Raphael's fatal flaw, his arrogance. If we look at Gale, for example, he made himself a literal god and still wasn't powerful enough to defeat Mystra, and yes, Raphael 'Is no mortal' but this is what I mean, he believes is above Karsus and Gale, that he'll succeed where they failed but that's just not the case. Like I've said before, Raphael desperately wants to be seen as more, his ego won't let him accept anything less but that still doesn't change the fact that he is fallible, and we don't have to look any further than when we managed to defeat him. Now in saying all this, this is all theoretical and kind of bleeds more into an opinion, since we don't know what plays out after he gets Avernus, perhaps the other archdevils managed to kill him before he achieved anything, or perhaps he really did manage to conquer Baator and the other realms, Who knows. (I might be cooked for saying this, especially since I do wanna see him be a lil prince of hell, but arguably giving him the crown, besides being our bad ending, is also his bad ending - No further explanation) 

Like I know I said, this is what I’ve boggled it down to and well, it’s not very boggled, but that’s what I mean! There’s so much going on with this little guy, it’s almost hard to keep up with, you gotta write him as suave and mysterious but also somewhat threatening and intimidating, he has to be articulate and persuasive as well as theatrical, while also keeping in mind his manipulative and narcissistic/egotistical tendencies, which doesn’t come easy to write for. 

This isn’t a slight by any means either, he’s a complicated character and that’s why I like him, but my sorry ass struggles to replicate it 🥲 though I hope this post will be a good reference to circle back to when writing for him. 

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Hello, *sigh* I keep upsetting myself with these made up situations in my head, I’m in need of some serious angst to fluff right now 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ (only if you want to write it of course🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️) a miguel x reader where reader’s in love with him and reader doesn’t want children, but assumes mig eventually does. Is already heartbroken and hasn’t even told him yet, they’re probably over, right? What if he finds another variant of Gabriella who needs a father? He’d obvi choose her 😵‍💫…….. 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ angst 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ to fluff please 🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ happy endings only haha

Obvious conclusions - Miguel O’Hara x reader

Warnings/tags: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader. Reader does not want kids. Angst, fluff, mentions of breaking up. Miguel and reader are in an established relationship. Mostly what you would expect from this. Very hurt-comfort.

No, I didn’t scream over someone requesting something and actually wanting to read my writing- you did.

You had always assumed Miguel wanted kids. Because… well- obviously.

You’d walked in on him watching the old videos of him and Gabriella one to many times to just…write it off.

And- yeah. It got to you.

You love him. You love him so much. You’d move mountains for him, you’d do any and everything in your power for Miguel. This is the man you want to spend your life with…

And it was easy to forget that you couldn’t. It was easy to block out the dark voices in the back of your head reminding you that it would never work. It was easy to just love and be with him for a night.

But for every night you did, your guilt only grew.

You were misleading him- practically playing with him. you were going to break his heart. You knew he loved you too, you’d seen how he’d linger by the engagement bands any time you two were near a jewelry store.

Because one day, you’d have to tell him. One day, you’d have to tell him that you… just didn’t want kids.

Maybe he would end things right then- immediately. Or maybe it wouldn’t happen right away. Maybe he’d try to convince himself he was okay with it at first. But you knew that feeling- that dark, creeping sense of wrongness. You knew that it would build- slowly and steadily until it was too much. Until he’d finally break and tell you that he couldn’t just be okay and accept not having kids.

But either way, you’d have to tell him… and it was probably best to do before he got even more attached.

Of course, you’ve been saying that for the past two years, and it’s yet to happen. It’s easy to make excuses, and you have a lot of them… but they won’t last forever.

It all came to a head one particular summer’s night.

It had been a… rough day. Miguel had been working more than usual lately- and you had worked yourself into a bit of a fuss. It had all just- built up. And now you were face down on you and Miguel’s bed, sobbing your heart out as your mind ran wild- creating worse and worse possible reactions for when Miguel found out you didn’t want kids.

One of your friends had brought it up, actually. The two of you were talking over the phone, and they brought up you and Miguel having kids.

They weren’t trying- but their words had weighted heavy on you the entire rest of the call. When you two finally said good bye, you couldn’t do anything but collapse and sob.

Full-on ugly crying. Your pillow was soaked in tears, snot, and a bit of drool. You laid there and bawled, mourning the loss of a relationship you hadn’t even lost yet.

You hadn’t heard Miguel get home from work, you hadn’t heard him call for you as he set down his stuff, and you didn’t even hear when he tentatively cracked the bedroom door open. You only, finally, noticed his presence when he came up behind you and pulled you into a massive bear hug- his calm, soothing voice rumbling through you. “¿Amor, qué pasa?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to put up a fight and try to convince him everything was okay- the words “it’s nothing” died immediately on your lips. Because it wasn’t nothing. Miguel deserved to know- he deserved to know the truth and be allowed to move on- to move on to a woman who would happy to give him the children he so desperately wanted.

You took a second. Relishing in the love and warmth of being held in Miguel’s arms for possibly the last time. You wanted to freeze time on this moment- because you wanted anything but for Miguel to leave you, but you couldn’t keep… pretending that you wanted the same future he did.

“I-I don’t want kids!”

Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop. It was like a dam had burst inside you, and all the pent up pain was coming rushing out.

“I love you so much- I love you more than anything and I’m so sorry- I’m a liar- I led you on. I-I always knew you wanted kids, and I knew it would never work between us, but I never told you- I-I just let you assume that I wanted that too. I’m sorry Mig- I’m sorry! I-I couldn’t tell you! I didn’t know how! I-I wanted to keep you and pretend it would all work out!”

Miguel let you finish your break down, stroking your hair and holding your from behind as he listened to you lay your heart out bare for him. Once you finished, you were only crying harder. You were practically shaking in Miguel’s arm as he held you close. You were too choked up on your own tears to notice but, Miguel was looking a bit shocked.

“Sweetheart… first of all, I love you too. Second of all, where is all of this coming from?” He asked, his brow furrowed as he continued to stroke your hair.

You sniffle- coughing wetly as you choke on your own tears before managing to respond.

“I-I’ve seen you- watching t-those videos-“

Miguel cut you off, pulling you tighter against his chest and burying his face in the crook of your neck as he reassured you.

“The ones with Gabriella? Oh love… you thought I was gonna leave you if you didn’t want kids?”

You nod weakly- sniffling as Miguel continues.

“Of course not- if kids were non negotiable for me, I wouldn’t have gone nearly three years dating someone without even bringing the topic up!” - Miguel kissed you cheek, wiping away a few of your tears before nestling his face back into the crook of your neck and continuing- “I’m not going to leave you because you don’t want kids, sweetheart. Hell, I don’t even know if I want kids in the first place at all! ¡Estás trabajando sobre nada!”

“B-but Gabriella-”

Miguel once again cuts you off, giving you a quick squeeze and moving his hand to hold your waist- the other one still stroking your hair soothingly.

“But what? Gabriella isn’t my kid, and never was or will be. When I took her father’s place… it wasn’t just for her. It was what came with it… not being alone, being happy.” -Miguel pauses for a moment, swallowing thickly before continuing- “You know how all that ended… but that was a long time ago, and I’ve found that same happiness with you. I don’t need a kid to be happy- especially not if that kid doesn’t make you happy or would mean loosing the love of my life.”

You couldn’t help but feel shocked. You could hardly stop crying- let alone process what Miguel had just told you.

“Y-you…”

“Sí, amor. I’m staying right here.”

You squirm in Miguel’s arms, turning around so you were now laying on your side facing him- looking up into his loving eyes as he tried to wipe the tears from your face- only for you to bury your face into his chest and give one final sob. This time, one of relief.

Because your world wasn’t falling apart- because everything was going to be okay- because Miguel was here and holding you and he wasn’t gonna leave.

You feel his lips on the crown of your head- hear the sound of him pressing a kiss to your head as he strokes your back and holds you close.

“I love you.” He says, tugging the comforter over you two and making sure your head had a pillow beneath it.

“I-I love you too.” You respond- still hiding against Miguel’s warm chest.

“I want to talk to you about this a bit more later, just to make sure there’s no other misunderstandings or worries eating away at you, okay? But for now, how about we take a nap, alright?”

You sniffle, nodding weakly as the warmth of the heavy blanket and Miguel’s body pull a haze of drowsiness over your senses.

“I love you.” You say, mostly into Miguel’s chest rather than to him.

“I love you too.” He responds, gently petting your head once again as he presses yet another sweet kiss to it- cradling you against him tight as you doze off. As if, if he could hold you close enough, you’d be safe from all the doubts and worries he’d only just noticed that plagued you.

[ornii]

Killer queen anon here.

I meant more of a quiet reader who is really good at psychological evaluations to the point of him just looking at someone and knowing them, so Enid just points them out to Wenesday and tells them that they can help and then they just kinda do. Maybe romance. Maybe not. Who knows. But the serial killer thing is cool too. Maybe the Hyde injures their cat and then they just go out and beat the crap out of it and that is the exact moment Wednesday appears. Who knows.

/\__/\

(=^·^=)

(") (")__/

Cat.

Ah okay, I appreciate the clarification.

A Peaceful Life

Wednesday Addams X Male Kira Reader

To live a normal life, wasn’t in your deck of cards unfortunately

I am so sorry it took this long to finish this! But we’re here!

Wednesday had been in a bit of a slump, not sure on how to continue her investigation into the Gates, the school itself or anything of that nature. It seems that the mystery has finally eluded her. Wednesday was in the quad sitting by herself looking though book after book of any sort of information to assist her with the Gates, but nothing came to mind, it was Enid to instructed her to one person; Mr Kira.

(Y/n) Kira, Better known as “Kira.”, was a student in Nevermore just like Wednesday. Quiet, Kind, and a bit of a Shut in, your classic personality. Wednesday took note of his schedule and decided to pay him a visit as he exited the Cafe in Jericho, Kira stepped out, and looked around as he felt a bit of unease. It was rectified by a meow. Looking down he spotted a beautiful charcoal Bengal Cat.

“Well, how are you?” He said with a smile, the cat putters off and he follows, following the beautiful, whimsical animal. Turning into an alley he followed, unbeknownst to him, Wednesday was as well. As she watched, she saw him kneel down to look at the cat, and unfortunately he let his guard down. The ruffle of trash bags alerted him, turning quickly he caught a hard punch to the face. The impact and him to the ground and in a daze for a moment.

Opening his eyes to the sound of shuffling he looked to his side his backpack was emptied, full into the trash and muddy water, sadly ruining his biology project. A disgusting old man was shuffling though his things and sees the boy wake up. Kira stood up, feeling blood trickle out his nose, his mercy was wore thin. The creep drew a makeshift knife, he looked dazed, out of it.

“Just gimmie your wallet kid.” He wheezed, but still had this unnerving smell. Kira calmly reached into his pocket and grabbed a coin, and flipped it over to the old man. He caught it. “This can’t be! Gimmie the fuckin rest!” He said with a straight face. (Y/n) wipes the blood from his nose, and spoke in a very.. calm tone for a boy who was just punched.

“That’s a dollar coin, they’re rare… that’s your incentive to leave, I recommend you take it.” He says, but the man grips the coin and prepared to stab the young man, and Kira began to.. speak.

“My Name is (Y/n) Kira, I’m currently 17, I reside like most students in Nevermores Boys Dorm. As per usual I’ve yet to marry and am single. I attend my classes with zero punctuation on being late or tardy, no write ups, no suspension. I am very peculiar about my grades and lifestyle, after a long day of class I spend most of it by myself, ready or watching the local cats of our school. I always in bed by 8 PM to get the maximum hours of sleep, before I rest I drink a class of warm milk and stretch to decompress after school.”

“Why.. why are you telling me this?” The man’s hand was shaking, fear entering his voice, but (Y/n) was as calm as ever. But a dark, sinister aura began to emulate from his body, something Wednesday saw. It was as if pure evil had manifested from his body, given form.

“I’ve done everything in my power to live a calm and simple life, everything I do I plan meticulously to avoid an unexpected change. This may be a foreign concept, but I could truly care less about the concepts of winning and losing, rather enjoy my life to what I am capable of. That is how I cope with my life, is what brings me happiness.. it if I ever were to engage in something like this.. I would win with little effort..” (y/n) monologues, and that sinister aura transforms into a being that resembles A monstrous cat, with power beyond what this man could comprehend.

“You sir, have made me lose my biology homework, I simply cannot allow that to continue, and it seems you won’t take my offering of peace willingly.. so it seems there’s only truly one discourse left.. I will eradicate you, no one will remember you, nobody will find your body.. this, is Killer Queen.” (Y/n) holds up his hand, like a detonator for a bomb. With one smash of his thumb, Wednesday watches in a mix of delight and surprise as the man explode in a scream of gutteral pain and fear, and as if he never existed, nothing was left. (Y/n), after murdering someone, calmly picks up his belongings and went back to school, Wednesday quickly hides behind a bush to avoid detection. She seems to have caught a break in her case, or found the final nail in her coffin. Serial killers attempt to kill away from the public, the only way to get his cooperation is to force him in a public setting. And Wednesday waited for her opportunity which came the next day.

Sitting in the Quad center, Kira penciled notes down to remember for Biology, he felt a presence darken his mood and looked up, Wednesday Addams, in the living, or dead.

“Hello, you must be.. Wednesday correct?” He asked, she kept that unnerved demeanor.

“Yes, (Y/n) Kira. May I sit?” She asked, Kira shrugged and nodded, his eyes noting her, pale hands. As Wednesday sat across from him, he kept writing, ignoring her presence for the most part.

“I’m doing a thesis on, serial killers.” Wednesday began, “And I wanted to hear your thoughts on my findings.” She explained, (Y/n) looked up.

“I.. suppose.” He placed his pencil down and sat attentively, Wednesday reveals a notebook and things she’s written down.

“Something ive noticed about Killers all of them have some unique qualities, be it their victims, killing style, or or method. What I find most interesting is their, blending.”

“Blending?” (Y/n) raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.. you see in order to remain under the eye, Killers tend to blend in with their environment, to seem normal. Or to seem normal in the place they’re in, like a high schooler in a boarding school. He’d present himself as a normal student, wouldn’t stand out too much to avoid being seen in a, Light.”

(Y/n)’s smile slowly faded, it was silent in the quad between them, and Wednesday continued.

“If you were a serial killer, I think you’d do your best to not stand out, keep your head down, and be meticulous about everything to avoid you being noticed, but if some drugged man were to attack you in an alley, you could defend yourself.. couldn’t you?”

(Y/n) and Wednesday stared at each other, his murderous glare compared to her stalwart gleam. (Y/n) looked ready to take the pencil and stab her, but saw the students around and took a less lethal approach.

“You saw that? That’s unfortunate… I’m not a serial killer, that was my first and hopefully only, he didn’t give me much of an option to run or escape. Although I suppose that doesn’t matter.. there’s no trace of him, no evidence that I even did anything.” (Y/n) replied, and looked at Wednesday hands.

“But.. I have a question, why does it pertain to you? I doubt you knew him, unless you want to seek out some social justice.”

“No.. Enid recommended you.” Wednesday replies.

“For what?”

“I need help with.. an issue that you could assist me in.”

“.. You want me to make someone disappear?” He asked calmly, she shook her head. “No, not yet.. but that could be useful in the future. You’re smarter than most here and I need your killer instincts to help me with this mystery.. about me, and it seems there’s another killer among us.”

“Was that a joke? You do have a sense of humor.” (Y/n) smiles, but Wednesday keeps her calm Demeanor.

“Okay.. I’ll help, I suppose I’m exchange you won’t ruin my peaceful life.”

“That’s the deal.” She said, (Y/n) nods reluctantly.

“Then I suppose we must shake on it.” (Y/n) sighs and offers his hand, Wednesday shakes it and she attempts to stand up.

“I suppose as partners we should know each others strength and Weaknesses.” He said, and smiled. “Mine, is that I can make anything I touch into a bomb, like your hand I just shook.” He said with a hushed smile, Wednesday slowly looks at her hand and back to him. The boy laughs and stands up.

“But.. I don’t wanna do that to you, you’re.. actually pretty cool. So I will help you, because if there’s someone else killing, the peace I seek won’t end until they are.. I’ll be seeing you turn Miss Addams.” He said, Wednesday reluctantly stood up and walked away, (Y/n) gently tilted his head to the side.

“Man… what a Killer Queen..”