#it's just not a very rational assessment

[iscratchdoors]

i know this is the trans website and im preaching to the choir here but there is something to be said about the medical gatekeeping around transition being largely based on the idea that transitioning medically is the risky, dangerous option, while denying that transition to people actively seeking it is safe and harmless. all the medical professionals i've dealt with so far seem to understand the harm that comes to a cis person who mistakenly transitions and makes irreversible changes to their body, but the idea that that same suffering is also experienced by trans people who have not yet been allowed to transition, to a greater degree even, seems basically non existent. a cis person's ideal gendered appearance is treated as a thing inherently worth protecting and maintaining, while that of a trans person is treated as something they deliberately chose to pursue and don't actually need. the harm that comes to a trans person through putting off any sort of medical (and as a consequence, legal) transition is a thing that does not exist to these people. only the harm that comes to people who regret it is deemed worth considering. that's been my experience anyway

[akpaley]

Made smooth and slick of seas and strands Tides that turn at your commands A heartbeat held by heavy hands

More Kaijja character writing. Roughly 1200 words on the beginning of her romantic relationship with the flesh god.

---

He does not mind solitude, but when you lack other obligations he does not mind your intrusion either. It is perhaps not usual, but it is natural to be fascinated with a god. You intrude often. You call it an extension of work, and the two of you do work through problems together. He was surprised, once upon a time, when he inflicted experience on you to demonstrate the severity of his edicts and you, not unshaken but still engaged, asked if he felt such detail in the experience of every person he faced. He had not been asked to use his power as a tool of empathy, not after imposing such suffering, not in centuries, but it is commonplace between you now. You wonder to what extent he can feel you enjoy it, even when it is excruciating. And the intellectual exercise is useful. Many times simulation of similar encounters has helped you watch for signs of tension, has made you more perceptive to the way your interlocutors conduct themselves and react to you. It is practical, and there is a quiet selfish pleasure in understanding the way he sees and feels the world.

Mirjat tells you it is unusual for Iokhar's Advocate to be his friend, or even to like the man, and you understand that but you do not relate. He is beautiful when he attempts to be terrifying, he is rational when he cannot intimidate, he is deeply intensely perceptive, and in his own stoic way he is oddly soft. Perhaps kind is a better word. He cares much more deeply than he shows. There is a selfish little thrill in that as well, knowing that you have brought out in him qualities most others never see. Knowing that you surprise him, a man who can feel everything but your thoughts just standing across from you. You accomplish a great deal in your tenure, but it is this that most often produces that quiet sense of pride.

He shows you change. In theory this is to make a point, but the point is unnecessary. You are not asking about something of immediate importance. It is after hours and you are asking about a story, about old scripture, from a primary source. This is not uncommon, and alongside speaking in words he chooses to sate a curiosity he knows you will have. When he has pulled you back together into the right shape you grin up at him. He studies you, near expressionless, and says "This is inappropriate." It is the strangest declaration of love you will ever receive, and you see it for what it is immediately. It should shock you, but somehow it does not. You agree. The evening ends with a veneer of stoic professionalism.

You will talk about it the next day. You will talk about it for the next week. You will see a degree of begrudging openness from him that you will not realize has been kept from you until you see it for the first time. You seek counsel, as is the responsible thing to do, but find that there is very little doubt as to the choice you will make. Mirjat appeals to your career, to the work that you've done, to the work that you might still do, and you find the arguments that have driven you all your life unconvincing.

You split your evenings between discussions with Iokhar and your own private consideration. You know the thrill of new intimacy will cloud your judgment, and he does too, but you both recognize that no matter what decision the two of you make your relationship will change. The idea of a purely professional relationship absent discussions of philosophy, history, art and other work feels galling, having experienced a relationship that is mutually irreplaceable. Later the idea of being irreplaceable to him will raise warmth in your chest and bring a smile to your face, but in that week while you assess it is simply a fact to be weighed. You are problem solving. Your feelings are data, but you do not have time to feel them fully. Only that they tell you what you want. You will resign with two weeks left in the season and half a term unfinished. It will take you most of the remaining two weeks working with your Clericy to choose Devadas as a successor, swear him in as Kalidas, and get him up to speed.

You already spend a great deal of time working during the on season, but for the better part of two weeks private time is practically nonexistent. This is a major adjustment, expected by no one, and by the time Iokhar leaves Kalidas must be prepared to represent him fully in the Council of Advocates. Anything you knew, anything you were working on, must be written down in such detail that it can be picked up where you left off. While you will join the Clericy of Iokhar, thus becoming available as a resource, it will take another month for the Clericy of the Petitioner Saints to determine this is the appropriate course of action and you must prepare for the contingency in which your full abdication from governance is determined necessary. It is not until the final night that you and your god finally have proper time together again. You sit quietly for much of it. He holds you and seems unpracticed, which to be fair you are as well. A decade is not a short time. A century and a half is longer. Yet, for all that, the mere ten months in front of you suddenly seems very long indeed.

"I would hear your voice when I am gone," he tells you, and it is less vulnerability than simple truth.

"I'd love to hear yours too," you say with irony, "but I suppose one of us will have to wait."

"I will not shirk my duties," he says, "But--"

"I would not ask you to." He pauses and then drops the apology. "Come back next season with stories for me." You smile as if this is a usual farewell, a friendship set aside to be picked up where it left off upon his return.

Very calmly, he takes your hand in his and matches his gaze to yours. For the first time you can feel the sensation of his own body mapped to yours, and you feel his quiet simmering hunger for you, individual fibers of his being humming beneath his skin for touch that a human lover could never even pretend. You feel it in the strands of your own muscles, suddenly yearning to rise up from beneath your skin and embrace the man in front of you. It is nearly overwhelming. Your breath catches and you do not dare break his gaze for fear it might stop. His voice is a low rumble in his chest. "I will." 

It is a greater promise than you asked for. It will stick with you during the long months of his absence, haunting your prayers and quiet moments and intruding on your activities unprompted.  

Upon his return, he will admit that this was the point.

[evielmostdefinitely]

hiiii could you please write something about aftercare with young snow? like how in jealous girl it says he babied her afterwards, but a whole fic about it? i just wanna see how sweet a cruel man like snow can be 🤭

tip of my fingers |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|

prompt: as requested above, aftercare with snow.

contains: fluff. mentions of dom/sub themes. possessive snow.

Coriolanus sat on the edge of the bed, body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, chest still rising and falling with every ragged breath from his post orgasm. He always got flushed like this after a night of particularly rough sex. 

“‘M going to the shower, my love.” Corio muttered, curls matted to his forehead, muggy and sweaty. His hand patted the top of your thigh, gentler than before, your skin still raw and sensitive. 

You didn’t move, didn’t utter a word, really didn’t make a sound besides a pathetic whine. Corio’s head snapped around, turning to you in an instant. His eyes narrowed carefully, scanning over you like he was assessing his latest plans. “Are you alright?” 

Your glazed eyes staring off, face turned, smushed into the mattress, a pool of your own drool beneath you. Normally he’d mock you, tease you for being so messy. “My messy girl, look at you.” He’d give you a grin that felt more like a sneer. 

Not this time. 

Coriolanus called your name, softly but firmly, crouching in front of you. His hand rubbed over your clammy forehead, heated cheeks still flushed from your climax. “Look at me, darling.” Corio muttered, fingers tracing over your cheek down the slope of your neck. You shuddered but didn’t turn to him, still lost in your own haze. “Can you hear me?” 

Your own mind was miles away from that very bedroom, lost under roaring waves and a hazy fog that Corio always got you in. Usually you snapped back quicker, a few loving kisses, the shock of a cold rag cleaning you up. Other times, it was more difficult. 

Coriolanus moved to the bathroom, swallowing down the venomous bark of spewing orders that threatened to fall from his lips. He didn’t like this feeling, when he was out of control, especially with you. When something was wrong and he didn’t know an immediate fix. The rational side of himself told him to stay calm, do what he knew to before spiraling into a panic. 

Corio tried to swallow down his beating heart, wringing the cold water out of the cloth, before walking back into the bedroom. The air was still thick and hot, sticky with the lingering musk of sex. He moved beside you, wordlessly, smoothing the cloth over your forehead. 

The icy feeling shocked your system, leaving your shuddering, mind lurching back, vision clearing. Corio was before you, brows pinched with a concerned frown, studying you carefully. Your eyes met his, blinking helplessly before him. He swallowed a groan at how it made his cock lurch, seeing you so weak and needy. 

“My love,” Corio’s hand slid down your cheek, thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek. “Are you alright?” 

You blinked, moving into his touch, nearly instinctively. “You’re alright?” Corio pressed, head tilting in a much softer way to look at you. “Yes?” 

You nodded, pushing off the mattress, groaning at the uncomfortable stretch of sore skin on your ass and thighs. Coriolanus had used his belt, your favorite, tonight. 

“Be careful.” Corio clicked, hands wrapping around your biceps, much softer now than before. “You’re going to be sore, darling girl. Careful.” His tone softer now, hushed mumblings as he helped you up. 

You winced when your raw skin brushed the silk of the sheets, the ghosting of a whimper on your lips. Corio shushed you gently, sitting next to you, pulling you into his lap. His hand brushing down your hair, your skin sticky on his own. 

“How are you feeling?” Coriolanus muttered, lips brushing against your scalp, breathing in the sweaty scent mixed with your perfume from before. 

“‘M alright.” You muttered, your cheek against his pec. You could hear his heart rate, how it fluttered and stilled to a steady rhythm. How it would erupt in an excited crescendo when you finally spoke, making your veins fill with ooey gooey rushes of adoration. For all of Coriolanus’ cruelties, his harshness- he did love you. It was evident in moments like these. 

“Do you need the healing ointment? I can get it from the servant’s quarters-” 

“-I’ll be alright, Corio.” You hummed, eyes pulling heavily. The exhaustion washes over you in thick waves. “I just want you to hold me, please.” Your eyes lifted, rounding sweetly. 

He’d be a fool not to, Coriolanus decided, pulling you closer into his chest. He liked you like this, pliant and at his every whim, completely reliant on him. 

Corio moved to the bath after, quieting your whines of protest with a small tut, coaxing kisses to your temples, testing the bath water with great show while you sat on the ledge. 

You stayed pressed to his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline, like you might float away or dissolve if he let go. Corio let you, ego swelling off the dependency. 

“Did I go too hard?” Corio hummed, a sudsy hand rubbing down your spine. The bath filled with the tonic fresh from District Eleven, dried orange peels, lavender, and rose. Coriolanus brought it to you, after his last visit to the district. You had swooned over it, smothering him sillily in kisses that made him blush. 

“No,” You shook your head, inhaling the scent that was entirely his. “I think it was the teasing and the spanking, at the same time. I just- I wasn’t ready for it.” You knew what he wanted to hear. Coriolanus had always been adamant after your rough play that you debrief him. It felt very professional, which is why you were reluctant, but that type of blunt, straight forward reporting is what Corio responded best to. 

Corio nodded, a low hum vibrating out of his chest, tickling your ear. “I see. I won’t do it as much next time.” He wouldn’t apologize, but you could hear it in his unspoken words. 

“Just not as much at the same time.” You whispered sheepishly, as if he didn’t know every part of you. 

Coriolanus nodded, a wet hand rubbing the base of your neck, scratching your scalp gently. He knew you loved it, knew it would have your head tipping back into his touch so he could kiss you. 

You let him wash you, dry you off- only whimpering when the towel brushes over your ignited skin. He shushed you, a silent apology, pressing a kiss to the back of your thigh. He put the ointment on anyway, muttering flippantly about how “you had obligations tomorrow, and didn’t need to be squirming the whole time”. You knew it was because it made him feel better. 

Corio dressed you in your nightgown, slipping the powdery blue, soft fabric over your skin, trailing kisses from the back of your shoulder to your ear. 

Underneath the silk of the sheets, you slept in his arms, face to face, whispering in the darkness of the room. It always brought out the vulnerability of Coriolanus in these moments, holding you, feeling you, smelling you- he’d bear his soul to you. 

“I’m unsure about the games.” Corio muttered, arms tightening around you. 

“Unsure in what way, honey?” You hummed, finger raking through his curls, behind his ear- his favorite spot. 

“Unsure that they’ll be as successful as they need to be.” Corio hummed, and even through the dark you could see the concern on his features. “Unsure that people will watch.” 

You paused for a moment. You decided not to tell him how you truly felt, not then, anyways. Selfishly, you didn’t want to ruin the intimacy, the softness of the moment. “I’m sure they’ll be everything you hope for them to be.” You hummed, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Everything always does.” 

Your words, as forced as they were, brought comfort to Coriolanus. His head falling back into your hair, pressing a kiss to your scalp. Fingertips brushing skin, hushed words, and soft kisses all exchanged under the twilight of the night. Tomorrow, you’d be prim and proper. You’d stand beside Corio respectfully, hide your grimace at the mention of the upcoming reaping, refrain from rolling your eyes at the suck ups that flocked to Coriolanus in a giddy, exaggerated manner. You two would be the picture of perfection that Panem wanted you to be. For now, you’d be content to lay in each other's arms, being yourself instead.

[soupblr]

Displacement

Denial

Projection

Rationalization x x

Regression

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Practice On Me — Part Nine — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Roza’s arrival in Windhaven brings some home truths crashing down on Reader. She just needs a hug, someone to talk to, but it all goes very, very wrong…

Word Count: 3k.

Warnings: None.

Chaos evades logic.

There is no rationality to be found here. No sense to be made of the ample feelings that begin to chew you up and spit you out.

All you know, as you lace your breeches up and correct yourself, is that you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut.

“Are you decent?” Roza calls, her back still to you.

You tie the last lace. Clear your throat. “All good.”

The closest person you’ve ever had to a mother figure turns on the spot. She’s absolutely beautiful — fucking glowing — her swollen belly visible through her thick coat, and her eyes alight with a quality you’ve never seen before.

Rhysand really is the mirror image of her.

“I actually cannot believe I just witnessed that.” She grouses. “And just when I thought the morning sickness had finally come to an end, too. My poor, poor eyes.”

Cassian makes a noise. “Roz, that’s a bit dramatic—”

“You be quiet.” She points a finger at him. “Your mouth has done quite enough tonight, thank you very much.”

The two of them stare at each other — Cassian wanting to be a little shit and push his luck, and Roza wanting to…

Well, to gouge her eyes out with a rusty spoon, probably.

But then Cassian cracks a grin, and he’s bounding over to the female like an excitable pup. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“Watch your language.” Roza scorns, but she happily accepts the hug that Cass yanks her into. “Gods, you’ve grown even more.”

You…you are rooted to the spot. Unable to move.

You want to go over there, too. To embrace her. But…but just seeing Roza makes the previous couple of months come hammering down on you in an unwelcome downpour of unwanted realisations.

You think: Roza caught me fooling around with Cassian.

And then you think: Fucking hell, I fooled around with Cassian again.

And then you’re wondering how — how you’ve let the recent events of your life veer down such a beaten, broken path.

It’s like Roza’s appearance brings a clarity that has been very much absent as of late. She’s always been a figure of reason and wisdom, always stopped you from spiralling.

And now she’s here, you’re looking at Cassian — your damn friend — and wondering just how much damage you might have caused.

He’s mid-conversation with Roza when he seems to notice you staring at him. Roza notices, too.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She says.

You open your mouth, unsure how you intend to respond. All that slips out is a rasped, “I’m just…so glad you’re here.”

Cassian snorts. “Tell that to your face.”

You can’t bring yourself to laugh at the jibe. And it would seem that Roza can’t, either. She’s studying you in that assessing way you’ve seen her wear a thousand times before — the one where the motherly instinct kicks in, and she’s sensing something is wrong. It seems to be a subconscious act, the way she slides her hand over her bump.

“So what are you doing back here, anyway?” Cassian asks her, slinging an arm round her shoulders. “I thought the High Lord wanted you to stay in Velaris for the pregnancy.”

“He does.” Roza says. “But then I found out Y/N had somehow ended up homeless and that he hadn’t bothered to help, so he and I aren’t on the best of terms right now.” She eyes you again. “I’ve come to move you properly into the cottage — including retrieving your belongings from your father’s house. I will not have you freezing your ass off in this dump.”

Gods, you love her.

She’s so fierce, so passionate. This is a female who housed three lost, rowdy children under her roof and offered them the same amount of love as she felt for her biological son. This is a female who does what she believes is right and damns the consequences. This is a female who doesn’t hesitate — not for one second — to help somebody in need.

She’s the exact kind of female you want yourself to be. And she’s the only person you wish to see in that moment.

“Perfect.” Cassian chirps brightly. “I’ll help. Let’s go fetch Y/N’s stuff from the bastard’s house right now.”

He takes a step towards the door, but Roza is laying a hand on his arm. She doesn’t look away from you once. “Cassian, my darling, I love you endlessly. And so, I say this with the greatest of adoration — fuck off to the mead hall, or something, and leave Y/N and I to have some girl time alone.”

“What?” He squawks in outrage. “But you just got here.”

“And I promise you we’ll catch up properly later. But right now, Y/N and I need some time alone.”

“But—”

“Do you want to stay and discuss the ins and outs of childbirth?”

Instantly, he falters. The change of tune would be comical if you were actually capable of feeling anything but despair in that moment.

“You know what?” He cracks a grin. “The mead hall sounds great right about now.”

Roza chuckles. “I thought it might. I’m taking Y/N back to the cottage. I’ll come and fetch you when we’re done. And if you see Az or Rhys, be sure to tell them to stay away, too.”

Oh.

This is going to be a serious talk.

You can’t remember the last time Roza was so insistent about it just being the two of you.

Probably when you got your first ever cycle, and she held and soothed and bathed you through it.

Will she still be so tender when she hears of the full scope of the mess you’ve created for yourself? You’re not sure you’d deserve it.

“Go easy, Cass.” Roza warns. “Don’t get into any fights.”

“Pff. As if I would.” Your friend lands a kiss on her cheek. “You look beautiful, Roz.” He says, and then he’s bustling out of the door without a care in the world.

You stare after him. Wish you could be that carefree. It feels…it feels impossible.

Gods, you just want to fucking cry.

Roza can see that. She holds a hand out.

“Come, my little dove.” She says. “Let’s get you home.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

It kind of feels like walking into the cottage for the very first time, all over again.

You remember that night like it happened only yesterday. Remember how the cold had felt as you’d followed Azriel through the snow. The noises of bickering coming  from behind the door.

Even at eleven, Az had always seemed so much taller than you. You’d noticed that as he’d strode ahead and led you inside.

Roza had been standing in the kitchen, and she’d turned to you with a curious expression. “Oh.” She’d chirped, with more warmth than you’d ever heard from your own kin. “What have we here, then?”

You, Azriel had explained to her, had been set upon by a group of males far older than you. Az had defended you, and then he’d invited you to share his dinner.

Roza had taken one look at the dirt packed beneath your fingernails and told you to thoroughly wash your hands before taking a seat. You’d done just that.

And it was at that very table that Rhysand had introduced himself.

“I’m Rhysand. My father is the High Lord.”

Roza had scolded him for showing off.

And it was after that that Cassian had eyed you with a wild, feral look and simply said, “I bet I could beat you in an arm wrestle. I beat everyone.”

“Not at my dinner table, you don’t.” Roza had put a stop to that immediately. And then she’d placed a steaming pie in the centre of the table, and High Lords and arm wrestles were all but forgotten, and Azriel had been quiet and shy at your side, but dutifully offering you different foods before he took any for himself—

Standing at the threshold of the cottage, now…it’s like watching that entire scene play out before you. The ghosts of your younger, wayward selves feast greedily on a wholesome meal that lets you forget your harrowing experiences for a little while.

How things have changed.

You finally step in. Kick the door shut behind you. The smells and warmth of your sanctuary envelop you, and you know — you fucking know that you won’t be able to keep a lid on your tears for long.

“Don’t know how many times I’ve told those idiots to put the fire out before they leave the house.” Roza mutters, but she goes striding straight towards that burning fire and welcomes its warmth. “Although, I must admit, I’m a little impressed. I expected this place to be far messier in my absence than it is. Don’t tell me they’ve actually been cleaning—”

“Roza.” You cut in, your voice shaky, desperate. “About what you saw—”

She turns back to you. Says nothing as concerned, violet eyes sweep the length of your body. She’s letting you speak, but you don’t know what the fuck to say.

You open and close your mouth as though the act will make some sense of…any of this.

It doesn’t.

“I didn’t realise you and Cassian were…” Roza clears her throat. Pauses. “I just…what of Azriel, Y/N?”

You blink at her.

Roza’s very good at knowing things she hasn’t been told, but for her to know about you and Az when she’s been in Velaris this whole time, and when, as far as you’re aware, these things have been strictly kept between you and Azriel only—

“What?” You breathe.

“Perhaps I’m wrong, I don’t know.” She frowns. “But I always suspected that you and Az would be…something more. Your connection with him has always run a little deeper than with anyone else. That’s why I was so shocked when I found you…and Cass…”

Is she wrong?

No.

And fucking damn you for taking all these years to see it. Fucking damn you for only realising you wanted Azriel as more than just your friend when somebody else began to recognise his brilliance.

Fucking damn you for all of this, and damn Azriel, too, and damn everyone.

It all comes showering down on you in an instant, harsh and unwelcome.

You love Azriel. Not just in the way you love Rhysand and Cassian. You’re in love with his soul, his spirit. Who he is will always be tethered to who you are, even though he isn’t yours to cling onto. It’s been that way since you were old enough to harbour such feelings, and you’ve been burying it all these years, burying it under bad choices and regrettable actions, because all of that seemed easier to face, than…this. The fact that you were never able to control your heart, stop it from feeling such things, and now you feel them so intensely that it hurts.

Had your deal with Az ever really been about helping him, or had it been a selfish ruse under which you could have some small experience to remember him by when he inevitably gave his heart to somebody else?

Because you are just Y/N. You’ve always just been Y/N.

You are not Kaeda — Kaeda with the wings, and the strength, and the excellence.

Just Y/N. Just Y/N—

“Speak to me, my love.” Roza steps closer. “I’m worried about you.”

Your eyes blur with tears. Your legs buckle, and you’re bracing one hand on the back of the couch while the other flies up to cup over your mouth.

“Oh, gods, what have I done?” Your voice breaks.

“Speak to me.” Roza says again.

“This is all such a mess.”

“What is, Y/N?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know what—what to do!”

“You need to breathe.” She responds firmly. “Deep breaths. Now.”

You try. Gods, you try. But your chest is constricting, and the air won’t reach your lungs, and all you can hear on a constant loop inside your head is one, bellowing sentence.

Everything is irreversibly changed.

Roza closes the gap between you and cups your face. The touch is soft, but firm. She forces you to look at her, and her face is blurred by your tears, but you know she’s looking at you how she’s always looked at you — with love.

“Tell me what’s going on, and I can help you through it.” She pleads.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” You sob back.

She yanks you close, arms wrapping around you. She’s held you like this through so, so much. This is no different.

But it feels different, in that it feels worse. Not only is it possible that your actions could change your relationships with both Cassian and Azriel, but also that they could change their relationship with each other, too — change the strong, steadfast dynamic between your three closest friends.

You tremble, clinging to Roza like you may just collapse. Your heartbeat gallops in your ears like rhythmic footfalls.

“Y/N—”

“It all turned into a total mess.” You choke out. “I was feeling things — I am feeling things — and then Azriel had Kaeda and I was jealous and stupid and I — I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have slept with Cassian.”

“You did what?”

Those three, outraged words are not spoken in Roza’s voice. The sudden interjection of Azriel’s is enough for your sobs to catch in your throat.

Every single inch of your body goes cold as you step back to look at him. Blink at him. Roza fights to keep hold of you.

Normally, he would have hurried over to embrace her. But he stays rooted to the last step of the staircase. He’s staring at you. Only you.

You’ve never seen him look so pale.

“Az.” Roza sighs softly. “We didn’t realise you were home.”

He doesn’t look away from you — not once — as he asks, “What did you just say?”

Roza inches towards him. “I think we all need to sit down and talk about this—”

“You fucked Cassian?”

Tears spill over, roll down your cheeks. Your voice doesn’t want to show itself as you croak out, “Az, I can explain.”

“You fucked Cassian?” He’s repeating it like…like he needs to. Like it won’t get into his head any other way. “You had sex with him?”

“Yes, but—”

“Around the time you and I were doing similar things?”

Roza’s head whips round to you in surprise. You’d failed to mention that bit. After a moment, she rights herself once more. “Azriel, you should let her speak.”

“I can’t fucking believe you.” Letting you speak is the last thing on his mind as he steps down, storming past the two of you. You reach out for him, but he’s jerking away, heading for the door.

“Azriel, please.” Your voice cracks. “Let me explain.”

“Explain that you fucked Cass? At the same time that I was sharing such…such huge things with you—”

“At the same time you were sharing them with Kaeda!”

He falls still, hand faltering on the doorknob, shoulders hunched.

And then he glances over his shoulder at you with an expression so bleak, you’d do anything, make a bargain with anyone, to wipe it from his face.

“Except that I’ve never touched Kaeda like that.” He says. “Not once. I couldn’t.”

Before you’re capable of summoning an answer, he’s yanking the door open and thundering out into the snow.

Shock pulses through you, ice-cold and harrowing. You blink, and blink and blink and blink, and you think Roza might be saying your name, but you can only choke out another sob that grates against your throat, and then your legs are moving forward, stumbling out of the door.

“Az, wait!” You cry, but he’s already striding far into the distance. “Please!”

You try to move, but it’s like the snow is binding your ankles, grounding you firmly to the spot. You sob. Try to move. Fall. Get up. It’s cold and wet. You’re hurting. Everything’s hurting.

And somebody’s yelling — yelling at you.

“Hey!” You know the voice. It’s a voice you don’t like. But you can’t put a face to it until its owner is stopping in front of you, sneering at you. Lord Devlon. “What did I tell you about staying away from these parts, girl?”

You’re incapable of answering him. You’re not even looking at him. You just stare and stare in the direction that Az disappeared in, fat, hot tears rolling down your cheeks.

“I’m talking to you.” Devlon grabs your chin between his fingers, hard. “Insolent female—”

“Remove your hand from her face at once.”

He blinks at the sight of Roza stepping out of the cottage. Clearly, he had no clue she’d returned. And even he won’t speak out against the High Lord’s pregnant mate.

He drops his hand immediately.

Roza steps up to your side and narrows her gorgeous eyes at him. Her hand sits on her swollen belly. “Look at you, Lord Devlon — following orders like a good dog. Now, go on. Fuck off.”

There’s a slight twitch of a muscle as he clenches his jaw. He hates every second of it, but he obediently turns away from you.

“Oh — Lord Devlon?” Roza calls after him.

He stops. Turns. “Yes, lady?”

“I decide who can and cannot live in my house.” She stares him down. “That call is mine and mine alone. And if I hear of you giving Y/N any more trouble? I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”

She turns her back to him with utter dismissal. If you weren’t so devastated, you might laugh at his stunned expression.

But Roza sees the pain in your eyes, and she pulls you into her arms.

“Come, my love.” She murmurs  softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

az tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes

[ddarker-dreams]

Can you please rate the current husband rotation (scara,blade and chrollo) based on highest sex drive to lowest?

Btw i love your work your amazingggg <333333

thank you very much!!!!!!!! i'll throw gojo in there for good measure. whether anyone wants him, that's up for debate, but he's slapped into the mix now.

warning for not SFW beneath the cut, obviously, and afab reader. dubcon if you squint.

alright, so, this'll be ranked from 10 as the highest and 1 as the lowest.

scaramouche — 9.

it's bad. it's real bad. you weren't expecting it either. from what little scaramouche has allowed you to know about himself, you considered him the type to look down at sex as debased and pointless. this assessment of yours would've been accurate had you not been in the picture. sadly, you are very much in the picture, and it's a picture he'd stare at until his eyes ceased functioning.

he is clingy, he is needy, he is relentless. it's embarrassing and he'll never admit it, but he views sex as the ultimate connection lovers can experience. two becoming one. he places far more sentimentality on it than you'll ever be privy to. or so he'd like to think, because the tears he sheds into your neck as he enters you for the first time give him away. he'll hold you in an uncomfortably tight grip, almost in a trance. he's inside you, the closest anyone can physically get. sure, there's pleasure to be found, but that isn't the main allure. he can move forward and you'll gasp. pull back and feel how you squeeze him, as if you couldn't bear to let him go, not even for a second.

deep down, does he know this is an involuntary muscle spasm and not some long-awaited reciprocation of his awful love? yes, he knows. he ignores that rational explanation, as he so often does when you're involved. from the second his tip began pushing in, he knew he'd become addicted. for you to encourage him, declare your undying love between moans and gasps, reassure him that he's all you can ever think about.

he'd deliver the seven nations to your feet if it meant experiencing that.

if anyone were to interrupt his time with you, even if it's a report that the sky itself is cracking open, he'd kill them for the infraction.

basically, every second that passes without him being inside you further sours his mood. his underlings dread long missions away for this very reason. one of them made the mistake of consoling his lord that it's just a few more days until he can see you again. scaramouche ordered that his tongue be cut out for daring to speak your name. he's the only one who deserves the privilege. anyone else is entirely unworthy of the right.

when he comes back, you won't be leaving the bedroom for hours. he cannot detach himself from you. he's insatiable, utterly insatiable.

gojo — 8.

satoru thinks you're hot. like really hot. call-to-wake-you-up-at-four-in-the-morning-for-phone-sex hot. he cannot behave and he doesn't want to. if he's driving you somewhere, his hand is on your thigh. when you're taking an important phone call, his fingers will rub circles into your clit through your panties, no matter how desperately you try and shoo him off. the type to send you those memes that if he died in between your thighs, it'd be a happy death. he loves your body, how his name sounds when you sigh it, the scent of sweat on your skin, the taste of your favorite cocktail on your lips.

for as long as he can remember, he's never been the type to resist doing what he wants. he'll be late to meetings with the higher-ups because you fell asleep in his arms and he refused to wake you up. he'll tell a special grade curse he's fighting to wait a second because you sent him a cute text he wants to reread. should he notice someone checking you out, he'll appear beside them, praising their excellent taste. throw in a comment that they can have your phone number if they just approach you. then, every time they try, he'll warp them back a little further at a time.

this isn't to say no one is allowed to admire you, though. that wouldn't be fair. he likens it to if leonardo da vinci kept the mona lisa hidden in some dark, dusty corner. others can appreciate your beauty, so long as it's on his terms. poor nanami gets texted to pick between what dresses he should buy you, with the unnecessary addendum that 'it'll get ripped off at a later time wwww.' the very first time nanami heard gojo speak your name, he knew the strongest sorcerer was going to become infinitely more grating.

satoru just finds every second he spends with you worthwhile. whether it be the two of you lazing around in pajamas and watching a b-movie, or if you've been teasing him relentlessly all day, earning you a sleepless night. you're like air to him. there's something about being around you that has him hooked. which is why he never wants to put out that lovely flame burning within you. no, he stokes it, savors the burn that only you can leave on his skin. if you're his world, he has to be yours.

chrollo — 6.

you can call this man all sorts of negative labels and each one will apply. immoral? depraved? a murderer? all are perfectly true, he won't claim otherwise. from all the potential insults to sling his way, however, impatient can't be found among them. he's anything but that. his patience is impeccable. otherworldly, at times. he will sit there with a soft smile as you get upset in any manner you wish. he doesn't rush you or interrupt, you're allowed to get it out of your system. it's then that you realize the threat you're dealing with can't be properly understood.

from the list of real winners here, chrollo is the closest to being 'classy.' he holds doors open for you. takes your jacket off when you walk inside. pulls your chair out on dates. for anyone else, these acts would be hollow performances, but for you? oh, he adores every second. he wants to make your heart flutter. feel how your breath hitches as he clasps a necklace around your neck, the chain cold against your clammy skin. observe how your pupils dilate when he rolls his sleeves up to help cook, revealing toned arms.

he takes his time with you. would he love to bend you over and rail you against the nearest surface? absolutely. what he absolutely loves, though, is foreplay. testing how long an indulgent man such as himself can deny his base urges. chrollo wants to see the exact moment you realize that despite everything, you want him. you want him bad enough to discard your pride and accept the affections of someone you once called the devil. the thought alone makes him shudder with anticipation. it's how he maintains control when your skirt rides up or when you brush against him in your sleep.

eye contact is a must when you abandon your inhibitions and let him bed you. the expressions you make when his fingers curl against your walls, as he sinks into you for the first time, when you clench and come undone around him; everything is a delight that gives him such a rush. then there's your visage after you're done. how you wince when he pulls out, his cum seeping down your legs. it's like he can hear each neuron of yours firing away to form a rationalization for why you just let him fuck you.

he's patient, but that just means when he does get what he wants, he'll be starved for everything you can give.

blade — ???

blade either wants to go at it like rabbits or has the self-restraint of an ascetic who committed themselves to celibacy for life. there is no in-between.

his mara suggests that he break your legs and fuck you until eternity itself comes to an end. he possesses enough lucidity to realize he shouldn't do that, regardless of the tiny part of himself that coos over the idea. due to the extreme fantasies that'd cause you irreparable harm should he ever carry them out, blade shoves down his desire that's become intertwined with his mara. this works for a time. sure, you might be unnerved by how he's always staring at you, but at least the integrity of your legs is ensured. how romantic.

because truthfully, no matter how curt his words are or sharp his glare is when you test his patience, he likes you. it's such a childish sentiment that it makes him want to groan with embarrassment. he tried suffocating the budding attachment, going as far away from you as he could, only to come crawling back each time. what if you fell in love? what if you opened your legs for someone else? these fears grow to such a degree that it influences his swordplay. he may or may not have allowed his opponent to skewer his heart, to see if that'd get the traitorous organ to stop pounding away at the thought of you.

this cycle of denying himself of you -> returning with an intensified obsession carries over to his sex drive. even blade doesn't know what will tip him over. it could be you saying his name in a particularly cute voice, how you bite your lip while thinking about something, or just him getting a whiff of your shampoo as he walks by. the next thing he knows, he's throwing you over his shoulder and taking you to the closest bed. or couch. even a countertop will do. the abundance's curse on his body extends to his refractory period as well. he gets hard again almost immediately after he cums. especially because you'll be underneath him, out of breath, looking like you're meant to be ravished.

he'll do all the work, you don't have to move a muscle if you're too exhausted. he gives you his release in every way possible. inside you, on your chest, face, mouth, and inside your stomach from all the times you've swallowed his spend.

[shaesinflames]

🌥️ Rainbow Factory Infection AU🌥️

Hello everypony!! Ive been loving the infection stuff and wanted to jump onto the trend myself with an AU that came to me very suddenly. I'm gonna try and get all my thoughts out here:

☁️ Scootaloo fails her flying assessment by getting disqualified for checking on her injured friend who had crashed during their turn. The two of them get taken to the Rainbow Factory as a punishment for their failure, and quickly realize the deadly situation they're in.

🌈 There are few dozen pegasi there already. All of their wings have been torn off of them, their cutiemarks are branded over, and chains are fastened around either their legs or neck. They all seem so... dull. As if the color has been stolen from them.

☁️ Rainbow Dash enters to examine the new sacrifices, and is mortified when she sees Scootaloo. She had trained her every day to prevent this from happening; she never wanted the pony she thought of as a little sister to end up here. Dash had to quickly decide if she was more loyal to her career, or to her friends.

🌈 She chooses Scootaloo. This does not go over well. Whether you enter the Rainbow Factory as a prisoner or an employee, you were not allowed to leave until you died. Rainbow Dash grabs Scootaloo and attempts to flee with her.

☁️ A chase ensues. She realizes that even if they do escape, they wouldn't be free. They would be hunted for as long as the factory existed. The answer suddenly seems obvious. Dash veers away from the exit and heads deeper into the building, straight for the core.

🌈 Because of her high status in the company (and a lot of kicking), Rainbow Dash gets into the restricted access room and corrupts the core, sparking a reactor meltdown. Her and Scootaloo manage to escape seconds before the core collapses, and the Rainbow Factory is lost to the rainbows it created.

☁️ Not long after, ponies begin to emerge from the ruins. Well, they seem to still be ponies. Mostly ponies. The Inital Victims. The pegasi who had been deemed useless and dispensable in one way or another, and had been put through torture for weeks or months in order to drain them of their very magic and soul.

🌈 The Victims seem to have a symbiotic relationship with the Rainbow Infection in their body. They live just out of reach of death; gaunt and hollow, yet somehow surviving. Blind, weak, and terrified, they seem to believe they're still trapped in the factory, and will viciously maul any living being they sense with a newfound strength. So far, they don't seem to be curable, or killable.

☁️ The Infected pegasi have a much more unpleasant experience. Every waking moment is nothing but agony as the infection consumes their magic and feast on their vessel, reducing them to nothing more than another fluffy white cloud looming in the sky.

🌈 The Infected aren't hostile, and seem to still be lucid up until their death. However, they are incredibly contagious, and the final stage of the infection seems to be designed specifically to further the disease.

☁️ Unicorns and Earth ponies are completely immune to the Rainbow Infection. Alicorns are not. The princess's have been barricaded in Celestia's castle to protect them all.

🌈 Without any pegasi to moderate the weather, it has become increasingly unpredictable and harsh, making typical farm work almost impossible. The Survivors are getting low on rations, and they're getting desperate and hungry.

I think thats about it. Idk at the time of writing this its 3am lol.

[fushitoru]

geto lore in the bridgerton au is crazyyyyyyy ‼️‼️ (gently asking for more if you’re up to it 🥺🥺)

omg nonnie ily for this ask thank you for letting me yap

geto is a lady KILLER. whenever he enters a brothel, prostitutes are throwing themselves at him, and all the eligible ladies in the ton would KILL to be wed to him. unfortunately, geto has not secured a match (yet!). while gojo also attracts a lot of ladies, geto attracts even more despite only being the heir to viscount. if im going to be honest, geto's also gotten action with men at some orgies but stopped because he was scared of getting caught.

he's a sweet talker, very charismatic, but he's kind of like gojo in that he's looking for someone capable but within reason. he doesn't see himself falling in love but would be open to it.

when he went on his tour of europe, he did in fact appreciate art. bridgerton!geto is very artsy, and he would go to art school if he wasn't the eldest son. regardless, he enjoys composing poems.

he's also a hopeless romantic. he dreams of sneaking into his future love's room late at night by climbing a tree, reciting sonnets just like romeo. but no one would know this, geto is a bit private even with his friends (gojo would tease the fuck out of him).

gojo and geto are best friends ever since they both became eligible and started to see each other on hunts. they were easily the best and the strongest, forming a relationship.

he respects nanami a lot because nanami is very rational, mature, and a much needed break from gojo. they met because the geto family and nanami family are close. their mothers share tea at least once a week! however, he is likely to join gojo in an endeavor to prank nanami.

geto didn't really agree with gojo's assessment of miss itadori at all. he thinks you are smarter, more cunning, and more dangerous than you let on. it kind of amuses him because gojo's usually very adept at reading people but he definitely misread you. it kind of makes him intrigued---he thinks gojo was overwhelmed with some sort of emotion for him to be so wrong about you. he also thinks that you and gojo make a good match.

geto also REALLLYYY likes tea. like he loves to gossip. he gossips a lot with his mother over tea, and he is actually anticipating going to the gojo manor, as is the rest of the ton, to see what the result was of your early visit. he's also not above involving himself in the tea. is this a bad quality or good one? we'll find out. perhaps even through him getting involved in you and gojo's quarrels

[adifferentsortofstrength]

The Chase

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Someone made a post a few days ago musing about Elain and Azriel being into primal play. I’ve had very little exposure to this particular kink, but the stuff I have seen was… enlightening. It just seemed like something Elriel would absolutely be in to, so I ran with it.

And now here we are.

Fair warning, I haven’t written much smut since my peak Wattpad days in high school, so I’m a little rusty. But I had tons of fun with this piece, and I hope you do too.

Pertinent tags below. ♡

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Come, find me.

Those had been Elain’s parting words that night, whispered into his ear as she left their family in the manor sitting room. They had been sneaking around for months now, and as far as Azriel knew, no one was even suspicious. Being discreet was his specialty, and it turned out Elain was a quick study.

Half an hour after she departed, he excused himself, claiming he had paperwork to attend to. Instead of heading for his room, however, he bid his shadows to deposit him in Elain’s chambers, just one floor up.

But her room was empty.

A breeze caused the curtains to billow around the window, and Azriel strode over to peer out. He cast his gaze over the expansive garden, finding no sign of her. A quick sweep through the rest of the house yielded the same result.

Come, find me.

Azriel mulled over her words, as he stood now at the edge of the garden. He had checked it again, just to be sure he hadn’t missed her, and found only her robe draped across the back wall. It was still warm to the touch, leading him to believe she had recently left it there, but he couldn’t begin to understand why.

The sound of a branch snapping drew him from his reverie, and he whipped around to face the darkness of the forest that lay beyond the garden. Azriel’s head tilted to the side, assessing the inky blackness for any sign of movement. Right as he was about to turn back, something white and smooth flashed in a pool of moonlight, just past the tree line.

He leveraged himself over the low wall, and stalked forwards, one hand resting against Truth Teller, the blade sheathed at his waist. In a sudden flurry, something took off running, deeper into the woods. At first, he thought he had startled a deer; sending her sprinting towards the unknown dangers of the forest, away from the immediate threat of the predator approaching. That was, until he heard… laughter.

Elain’s lilting voice drifted out of the trees, “Come, find me!”

Closing in on the spot where she had been, the heady scent of her arousal hit him. When he found her nightdress discarded in the tall grass, something feral within him roused. Azriel inhaled deeply, dizzy with how quickly need had coiled at his core. He imagined her out there, running through the forest of the human lands, in nothing but her lacy little underthings.

He could almost see the moonlight illuminating her creamy skin, her unbound hair as wild as her eyes, feet bare as she fled between pines and oaks. Elain wanted him to chase her, to hunt her through the dark, and he was powerless to resist.

Azriel felt rational thought leave him then, replaced by the carnal beast that lurked under his skin. His senses honed in on everything that was Elain. The jasmine and honey scent that haunted him each day, it was like a beacon in the night. He took off after his prey, a lone wolf hunting in the woods.

⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰

Elain was consumed by her desire for Azriel. They had been at the manor, with the Band of Exiles, for far too long. She had borrowed some of Nesta’s books to take the edge off, but something she read in the most recent novel had stuck in her mind.

She had never attempted anything like this before. The urge to try had been stoking a deep, feral heat within her for days. To fantasize about being hunted was one thing, but to initiate this roleplay felt like a line she could never step back from. Elain was all too familiar with actually being prey, having needed to be rescued far too many times for her ego to withstand. Taking control of it like this, choosing to be hunted down, felt like a necessary part of healing from all that she had experienced.

Though she had considered discussing it with him first, it wasn’t the easiest thing to put into words and actually speak out loud. Her cheeks had burned every time she even thought about bringing it up with him, in the few moments they had been left alone here. Azriel knew her better than anyone, and she knew him too. Knew that he wouldn’t balk at the prospect of chasing her through the woods.

All she had to do was get him there.

Standing at the edge of the forest, waiting for Azriel to track her down, she had almost called it off and snuck back into her room. She was nervous that he wouldn’t figure it out, that she would be left out there, in the dark, and have to admit defeat. But she should have known better than to doubt his ability to find her.

When he lingered at the garden wall, where she had draped her robe, Elain dropped her nightgown around her ankles. Her skin was bare except for the white, lacy scraps of fabric that stretched across her breasts and between her thighs. As she stepped clear of her clothes, a dry branch snapped under her foot.

Elain held her breath as she watched Azriel’s head tilt to the side, as if searching the darkness for her. Worried he wouldn’t be able to see her in the shadows, she slipped quietly through a beam of moonlight that broke through the canopy. Her heartbeat accelerated as he lifted himself gracefully over the wall, and she felt her arousal dampen her thighs as he palmed Truth Teller, moving slowly in her direction.

An instinctive need to flee overwhelmed her, and she submitted to it, turning to sprint into the unknown depths of the forest. In one last lucid moment, she called out over her shoulder, “Come, find me!”

Elain wove through the trees, her feet nearly silent beneath her. Her breath came in pants, and her legs burned from the effort it took to maintain her speed, but knowing who hunted her gave her the strength to keep running. Azriel was an elite warrior, the Spymaster of the Night Court, and a powerful Shadowsinger. He would have little trouble chasing her down. It was only a matter of time before she would be caught, but she threw herself fully into the hunt, giving herself over to the role of prey that she had assumed.

A carnal fear took over, driving her deeper and deeper into the woods. She could hear him faintly, some distance behind her. He had no need for stealth, and his boots crashed through the overgrown vegetation, the sound slowly growing as he gained ground.

Hoping to throw him off her trail, Elain veered off to the left, into a dense thicket of willow branches. Leaves tore from the tree, snagging in her hair as she ran through it. Azriel growled from the other side, the noise startling a cry from her lips. Fearing the sound would draw him straight towards her, she pushed herself to move faster, gasping for air as she exerted herself.

The mounting anticipation sent a renewed flood of need through her, the lace covering her sex completely saturated, her thighs slick. Each stride created a delicious friction there and Elain could hardly contain a desperate moan that gathered in her chest. She chanced a look back, and that moan turned into a sharp yelp as she realized that Azriel had been silently keeping pace with her.

A wicked snarl tore from his throat in response, a wolfish grin spreading over his face. She cried out again, nearly losing her footing, and in a final effort to escape, lunged for an opening in the trees. She found herself running through a large meadow, tall grasses and wildflowers whipping past her legs, nettles stinging her bare skin. Elain nearly sobbed as she felt him closing in, her legs trembling with the effort it took to keep moving.

With a guttural growl, Azriel had lunged for her, catching her around the waist. Unable to contain the visceral sound that ripped from her lungs, she screamed as they tumbled across the clearing. He had absorbed the impact as they landed, and for a moment she had a fleeting hope of breaking free. She kicked and tried to wrench her arms from his grasp, but in one smooth movement she was pinned.

Elain writhed beneath him, her arms restrained in one of his large hands, stretched above her head. She cried out as his other hand gripped her face and turned her head to the side, cheek pressed into the grass, her neck bared. Azriel lowered his mouth to her, his hot breath ghosting over her skin, the only warning she had before he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of her shoulder.

The sharp pain sent her hurtling towards the precipice of her pleasure, her core tightening in response. A purely feral sound came from her chest, somewhere between a moan and a sob. She bucked her hips below him, his legs on either side of her, still holding her in place. Azriel replaced his teeth with his tongue, soothing over the hurt.

He shifted his weight, using one knee to press hers apart, and settled into the space between. The combined scents of their arousals filled the air around them, driving Elain to the edge of sanity as she continued to struggle against his grasp. Every other breath came out as a keening cry, tears slipping from her eyes as her need for him became overwhelming.

Elain watched, eyes wild, as he took the hand that had held her face and unsheathed his dagger. Azriel drug the flat of the blade up the soft inner skin of her thigh, the cold metal feeling so at odds with the heat radiating from her core. His eyes locked with hers, waiting for any sign of refusal, and finding none. He drug his gaze down her body, taking in the white lace and bare skin.

He growled low, a sound of approval, as he beheld the shining wetness between her legs. The tip of Truth Teller now slipped beneath the fabric that encircled her hip. Drawing it up, ever so slowly, the fine woven material giving way easily to the edge of the blade. She watched as her chest began to heave, each breath more ragged than the last.

One side of her bottoms fell away, and he repeated this move on the other side until he could tear them off completely, tucking them into a pocket in his leathers. She thought he would use the same method to remove the lace that covered her breasts, but he only replaced the dagger in its sheath.

Suddenly, he released the hold he had on her wrists, but she still found herself unable to move. Elain tilted her head back, only to find dark shadows twined around them now. She tore her eyes back to the male above her, a wicked grin spreading across his mouth. Azriel began to slowly undress himself, removing his jacket and shirt first. The sight of his bare chest drew a pathetic mewling sound from her, her arms once again struggling against the bonds, desperate to touch his skin.

He then worked on undoing the laces at the front of his leathers, drawing each one fully out before moving on to the next. She had never known true torture before, but in this moment felt as though she would give him anything he asked for, if only to relieve the immense pressure building up inside her. Elain was not one to resort to begging often, but she was not above it at this moment.

Drowning in desire, desperate for any contact to bring her to release, she tried to move her hips up, a feeble attempt to grind herself against his thigh, his hand, anything would be better than the painful emptiness that clawed within her. With no more than a glance down, Azriel sent shadows to restrain her hips, adding to the mounting frustration.

He stood then, finally, finally removing his leathers, now fully naked before her. Elain tried to choke out a plea, but words did not come to her. He kneeled again, lowering himself over her, his hard length coming to rest against her. She rocked up into him, as far as the restraints would allow, gasping at the friction as his cock dragged across her clit.

In one swift motion, he had aligned himself at her entrance and began to push into her. Her slick arousal coated him, the stretch bringing her back to the edge. Azriel released his shadows, her hands and hips now free to move, as he bottomed out within her.

Elain’s hands flew to his shoulders, digging her nails in, urging him on. Understanding her need, he set a punishing pace, driving her into the ground as he fucked her. She lost all awareness of anything but the pleasure coiling at her core. He wrapped one arm under her hips, tilting her up to give himself better access, hitting that sweet spot deep within her.

The world went black as she came, her head thrown back, the sounds leaving her mouth unintelligible and raw. As the first wave crested, another swept in, leaving her trembling and limp. Azriel was unrelenting, his hands now finding purchase in the soft flesh of her hips. She was completely at his mercy.

Without warning, he lifted her, sitting back on his heels and seating her in his lap. Elain managed to wrap her arms around his neck as he continued to thrust up into her. Needing to please him too, she let her fingers trace over his wings, down the ridged flesh, to the joint where they connected to his back. He snarled against her neck and bit down on her shoulder once more, layering the marks left there by his teeth before.

Azriel’s movements became jagged as she grazed her knuckles down the membrane, her pleasure building again as the sharp pain of his teeth mingled with the ecstasy of his cock filling her. She purred in his ear before her tongue flicked over the pulse point in his neck. Elain kissed the line of his throat, sucking and licking her way to the soft skin just below his jaw. Her hands were both at work, gently stroking up and down the crest of his wings.

Growling against her neck, he came, his hips surging up, release spilling inside of her. The feeling of it was enough to send her toppling over the edge one more time. Azriel wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against his chest. They sat there, catching their breath, each trailing their fingers in soothing circles on the other's skin.

Elain couldn’t remember a time she felt happier, more sated, more at peace. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing to remain in this moment forever. He gently shifted them, laying on his back, his wings spread out beneath them, as she curled against his chest. His hands ran up and down her arms, her back, her legs and Azriel kissed the top of her head.

Language slowly returning to her, Elain tipped her head up and mumbled, “I knew you’d find me.”

Azriel shifted to look at her, amusement and affection shining in his eyes, “What the fuck was that, Elain?”

She smiled up at him, “That was fun.”

He just shook his head and relaxed back, seemingly content to lay there with her beneath the stars, where only the Mother might witness them.

[shipping-receiving]

On vulnerability in Love Scout

I’ve been seeing a few comments here and there asking what Jiyun “offers” to Eunho and what she can bring to their potential relationship, especially considering how much he does for her both materially and emotionally. While this is one method of determining if their relationship is truly balanced, I wonder if a straightforward measurement of give-and-take can effectively assess their dynamic, especially given their current employer-employee status. After all, since Eunho is Jiyun's secretary, so much of his caretaking can be seen as a natural extension of his job scope, although of course he has gone above and beyond professional expectations (and boundaries).

Jiyun can’t easily reciprocate Eunho’s acts of service within the limits of their (thus far) professional relationship – even if she is starting to do so by buying him food and coffee etc. On top of that, she is an inherently guarded person. It’s difficult to say what she can “offer” because she’s not in a position to offer anything besides his salary. It’s also much easier to see the value that he has added to her life because her struggles were emphasised from the start in very visible ways (messiness, insomnia, her trip to the hospital), while he seemed to live a very full life with Byeol.

Therefore, perhaps a better measure of their mutual compatibility and support is in the vulnerabilities that they allow themselves to show around each other – when they let themselves to be something other than the ‘perfection’ that they’ve defined for themselves. Again, it’s more obvious when Jiyun’s walls come down (expressing joy, letting herself be helped/comforted, falling asleep), because it is such a contrast to her stern, no-nonsense, ultra-professional demeanour. With Eunho, it’s not so clear, because his warmth and compassion can easily be mistaken for openness. Yet his pleasantness can also be a shield; a way to deflect uncomfortable feelings by minimising himself for the well-being of others. The most obvious example of this is when he maintains his amiability even in the face of outright mistreatment from his former boss. But it’s also in how he defaults to being the pillar of strength and the ‘fixer’ in social situations. 

In fact, almost all of Eunho’s true moments of vulnerability and honesty have come only in Jiyun’s presence. First, and more circumstantially, the frustration and anger at her for trying to poach the developer in Episode 1, and his desperation to keep his new job as her secretary in Episode 2. Then, more purposefully, when he tells her about why he took paternal leave; the challenges of his previous job; the fact that he was orphaned at a young age; his worries about fatherhood. These are not the only times he’s discussed his anxieties with another character – he did so with his ex-colleague when he was in danger of losing his first job, and with Suhyeon when Jiyun was still being difficult – but both of those times, he was also binging something sugary as a coping mechanism, and speaking in generalities with a tone of resigned acceptance. He’s simply not in the habit of showing so much of himself (i.e. his ‘imperfections’) to another person; even his beloved senior/Mi-ae’s husband doesn’t know why he got divorced.

Of course, everything he has revealed to Jiyun has been in response to her very direct questions. But I don’t think it’s just about that. As much as Jiyun can be a mess, she is also a very stable and confident person who is a good judge of the characters and motivations of others. That’s what makes her so good at speaking to both clients and targets, which Eunho himself has observed first-hand. Jiyun inspires trust and respect, which is (part of the reason) why he feels comfortable revealing the parts of himself that aren’t so ‘put-together’. Furthermore, he’s seen that she’s not incapable of the sincerity that he so readily offers to other people, even while being very rational and principled. This is not just Eunho “rubbing off on her” as Jiyun observes in herself in Episode 6. It’s just that her sincerity, which is a form of emotional vulnerability for her, has often only felt ‘safe’ to use as a strategy in appropriate professional situations.

Jiyun’s interactions with Byeol shed further light on the positive aspects of Jiyun’s personality. It would have been easy for her character to be written as cold or awkward around kids. Instead, there is a mutual respect between her and Byeol, with whom she’s not afraid to discuss more difficult personal topics (at least in an abstract sense). Jiyun treats Byeol like a fully-formed person with agency, takes genuine interest in her independent of any connection to Eunho, and is able to be supportive in her own way without pandering or patronising. It’s the very things that make Jiyun “cool” in Byeol’s eyes that gives us clues about what Eunho admires in her.

In a recent interview (a very cute one conducted by Ki So-yu, who plays Byeol), Han Jimin says that with Eunho in her life, Jiyun’s “sharp and prickly points have softened and become smoother”. Conversely, I think Jiyun is someone who gives Eunho room to show the roughness beneath his rounder, gentler exterior, which he otherwise takes such pains to smooth over.

[christopher-bangnaldoskzz]

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader 

Genre: Dark Fantasy x Enemies to lovers 

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: This story is about to get real dark so if you don't like that shit stay clear. 

Summary: Inspired by the amazing Fourth wing novel's, take a deep dive into my fucked up brain. 

Her whole life, all Y/N wanted was to use her powers to heal those who had been broken. However, she didn't expect her life to be completely turned on its head the moment Han Jisung walked into that hall. He forever changed the way she viewed the world, altering her life in ways she could never have imagined.

Welcome to oddinary!

Your heart pounds in your chest as you wade through the thick, heavy mud, each step a battle against the sticky earth that clings to your legs. Panic grips you as you desperately try to reach him, your voice breaking the stillness of the air as you cry out in despair, "Nooooo!" The sound echoes around you, mingling with the noise of your frantic breathing—the harsh rasp of air filling your lungs as you push onward.

The weight of the mud slows your progress, each movement requiring more effort and determination. Sweat beads on your brow, mixing with the muck that splatters your clothes. Still, you refuse to give up. Your thoughts narrow, laser-focused on the body ahead, a silhouette just out of reach. The world around you blurs and fades, becoming an indistinct backdrop to your singular goal. Every ounce of your being drives you forward, fuelled by a desperate hope to reach him before it’s too late.

“Please.” Your throat tightens painfully as you kneel in desperation, raising your voice to the heavens in a heartfelt plea for mercy. With every fiber of your being, you urge the higher powers to intervene, to grant him the strength he so desperately needs to hold on for just a little longer, to fight through the overwhelming darkness that surrounds him every second.

He lays there choking on what looks like his own blood, fuck he’s bleeding internally, you think, making the final steps towards him. “Ji, I need you—please, he’s dying!” Panic laces your voice as you turn to see him standing there, his brow furrowed with urgency. You catch a glimpse of the bender looming behind you, a menacing figure shrouded in shadows. Without hesitation, he raises his hands, summoning two ice daggers that glint ominously in the dim light. With a swift, precise motion, he launches them towards the bender, their sharp edges slicing through the air as you feel the weight of desperation pressing down on you.

With a gentle tone that conveys both comfort and reassurance, he softly says, "It's okay." Kneeling on the damp earth, he carefully strips clean water from the muddy area. After filling his cupped hands, he hovers them over the wound, taking a moment to assess the injury before beginning the cleansing process.

With deliberate care, he starts to flush out any debris or dirt that may have settled into the wound, making sure to rinse it thoroughly. He watches closely for any signs of pain, doing his best to be mindful and minimise any further discomfort as he gently cleans the area. The cool water flows softly, washing away the remnants of the muddy surroundings, while his touch remains steady and reassuring throughout the process.

As the grim realization dawned upon you, the words "I can't heal him" reverberated in your mind like a haunting refrain. Each syllable felt like a heavy stone dropping into a still pond, sending ripples of anxiety throughout your being. An overwhelming tide of panic began to swell within you, threatening to drown out all rational thought.

Every second that ticked by felt like an eternity, amplifying the weight of the situation pressing down on your chest.

You could feel despair seeping into the very core of your being, a dark shadow that loomed larger as you desperately searched for a glimmer of hope. No matter how hard you tried to muster the strength to do something—anything—the stark reality remained: you were powerless to alter the tragic outcome. The anguish of knowing it was beyond your control threatened to engulf you completely, leaving you gasping for breath amid the crushing tide of sorrow.

“You can… just give me -“ 

………..

*1 year earlier *

“Y/L/N.” The sharp, authoritative call of your last name reverberates through the lecture hall, cutting through the low murmur of voices and rustling papers. You instinctively lift your head, your heart quickening as you lock eyes with your professor. Their intense gaze pierces the crowd, focused solely on you, leaving no room for distraction. The weight of their attention makes your palms slightly clammy, and you feel a rush of both apprehension and curiosity about what comes next. The moment feels suspended in time as you try to gauge their expression.

You pause for a moment, the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air as you gather your thoughts. With a hesitant breath, you finally say the words, "Right, sorry." The sound of your voice is tinged with apprehension, and you can feel a knot of unease forming in the pit of your stomach, twisting tighter with each passing second. As you glance at the group of second-year students, an unfamiliar wave of nervousness washes over you, making your palms slightly sweaty. You wonder if they will even welcome your presence. The chatter around you feels overwhelming, and you can feel your heart racing as you consider your next move, torn between the desire to connect and the fear of being overlooked.

As you walk over to the group, the whispers of students surround you. Passing by a group of second-year boys, one of them suddenly calls out with an exaggerated mock-seriousness, "We don't bite!" His words hang in the air for a moment, and then he adds with a cheeky grin, "MUCH!" This playful jab sends the entire group into fits of laughter, their gleeful voices echoing around the hall.

You are practically shoved in-front of the group as the professor moves you along “Chan, Minho and Changbin… we will not be having this discussion again, just because you have served you first year here does not mean you will live to see your second through…do I make myself clear” he says just low enough so only myself and the boys could hear.

Chan nervously gulps and apologizes, "I'm sorry, sir. I understand my mistake and I assure you it won't happen again."

The professor smiled and said, "Good to hear that. I believe you have a lot of talents, and it would be a shame if they went to waste." He paused for a moment, looking into the eyes of the student to convey his point, then turned on his heel to continue the task at hand, resuming the calling of names from the list with a practiced ease.

You stood there and watched as one by one the first years are being split up into the groups The air was thick with nervous energy, and you could see the mix of excitement and anxiety on everyone's faces.

Amidst the chatter, you heard Changbin let out an exasperated groan beside you. “Good, I hope we don’t get the element bender,” he muttered, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. You could only imagine the eye roll accompanying his words as he glanced over at you, before turning his attention back to the stage where names were being announced.

As you waited, your mind raced with thoughts of what it would mean to have someone powerful like the element bender in your group. Would you be able to keep up? Would they be friendly or standoffish? And as the minutes passed, you felt the tension in the room rise, each name called out making the stakes feel higher. You looked on, hoping the next name wouldn't be his, but knowing that fate always had a way of surprising you.

As the professor surveyed the vibrant sea of students milling about in the busy atrium, his gaze landed on a young man with tousled brown hair, slightly disheveled from the morning rush. "Han," he called out, his voice cutting through the hum of chatter. The boy hesitated for a moment before making his way through the throng, weaving past clusters of students engaged in animated conversations until he finally reached the professor's side.

With a subtle nod towards our group, the professor gestured confidently, saying, "You will be joining section 3 over there," Pointing right in your direction.

From the back of the group, Changbin let out an exasperated groan, his frustration palpable in the way he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Oh, come on, sir," he complained, his tone a mix of disbelief and impatience, echoing the sentiment shared by many around him.

A look of deep frustration is etched on his features as he levels a piercing glare at Changbin, his voice sharp and laced with barely contained anger. "I've heard quite enough out of you, Mr. Seo," he snaps, every word dripping with resentment, as if he has reached his breaking point.

Changbin, undeterred, mumbles something under his breath, his eyes darting away. Meanwhile, a first-year student hesitantly approaches our group, retrieving his belongings with trembling hands and laying them down just in front of you.

“Y/n,” you call out gently, leaning in to engage him.

“What!” he whispers, his voice loud enough to draw attention yet filled with surprise.

With a sweet smile that contrasts the tension in the air, you introduce yourself, “Hi, my name is y/n.”

“Jisung,” he replies curtly, his expression stone-faced and devoid of warmth.

As you retreat to your place in line, a soft murmur escapes your lips: “Trying to be nice, but whatever.” The weight of the moment lingers heavily in the air, wrapping around you like a thick fog.

Chan leaned closer, his voice low and urgent, “If I were you, I’d steer clear of him. Element benders like to stir up trouble.” His eyes narrowed, conveying an unspoken warning.

“MR. BANG... if you or your... entourage so much as make another peep... I will have the entire third section excised. Do I make myself clear?” Chan’s arms flexed at his sides, tension rippling through his body, as he stood firm and unwavering.

“Sorry, sir... I’ll... it won't happen again,” he replied, the fight draining from him as his rigid posture finally eased. You notice the first years filing through, and the third years begin to move over to their assigned sections, a mix of excitement and anticipation in the air.

“My name is San, and I’ll be your section leader,” he announced confidently, gesturing with a welcoming smile. “This is Jamie; she will be your team leader. If you encounter any issues, we’ll be just down the hall.” San’s gaze swept across the group, making eye contact with nearly everyone, his demeanour both reassuring and commanding.

“Alright, listen up, everyone,” Jamie calls firmly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the first years like a knife. She turns on her heel, her long hair cascading behind her as she begins to stride confidently down the hall. “If you would kindly follow me, I’ll get you sorted into your bedrooms.”

“That’s your cue, little one,” Chan says playfully, giving you a gentle nudge from behind as he pushes you out of the throng of students. You glance back at him, ready to snarl, but instead you find him grinning and giving you a thumbs up, his smile annoyingly cheerful.

“What a jerk,” you mutter under your breath, grinding your teeth in irritation as you reluctantly follow Jamie. She leads you into the vast expanse of the first-year quadrants, her authoritative presence commanding attention as she calls out names and assigns students to their respective bedrooms.

“Y/n y/l/n,” she announces, and you step forward, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

“Jackson’s little sister, right?” Jamie beams at you as recognition dawns on her. You nod slightly, dragging your heavy bag along the polished wooden floor. Jackson, your older brother, had graduated at the top of his class the previous year, celebrated for his exceptional skills as a syphon.

“Cute,” she remarks, her smile warm as she gestures for you to keep moving. As she continues to navigate the massive crowd of first years, her enthusiasm is contagious, drawing you into the excitement of what lies ahead.

“Han Jisung,” she blurts out suddenly as he strides toward the door, his bag slung casually over one shoulder. The name hangs in the air, thick with unspoken tension.

You can’t help but smile at him, your spirits lifting as Jamie walks away, leaving you alone with the new neighbour. “Looks like we’re neighbours now,” you say, emphasizing the word ‘neighbours’ with a playful grin, hoping to coax a reaction from him. But instead of engaging, he merely glances back at you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he turns away and shuts his room door with a soft thud.

“Dick number two… okay,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes dramatically at his closed door. The moment feels a little ridiculous, but you can't shake off the intention to break through his stoic demeanour.

With a huff of annoyance, you close your own door behind you, the click echoing in the quiet hallway. You take a moment to collect yourself before beginning to slowly unpack your bag. Each item you pull out—a few clothes, a couple of books, and your favourite Pen—feels like a small step towards claiming this space as your own. Yet, the encounter with Han still lingers in your mind, a mix of curiosity and determination pushing you to try again.

…….

“Yo …..y/l/n” you turn to look at the table where majority of your group is sitting. Well basically everyone but Han jisung.

“Hi!” you reply, your smile warm and inviting as you spot Minho shifting in his seat to make room for you. He gestures towards the empty spot next to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Your brother was our leader last year,” Changbin chimes in, his mouth half-full of food, crumbs scattering as he grins at you. “He was absolutely amazing!”

“Definitely one of the best,” Chan adds enthusiastically, leaning forward with a look of admiration. The way he speaks conveys not just respect but genuine pride in your brother's leadership. You can’t help but feel a swell of warmth at their commendation, knowing your brother made a lasting impression.

“Super dreamy,” a girl you’ve never really noticed before suddenly exclaims, her eyes glazed over as if caught in a daydream. Just as quickly, she shakes herself back to reality, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks.

“Sure, whatever you say…” Chan replies, an eyebrow raised skeptically. He shifts in his seat, sliding as far away from her as he can manage without causing a scene, as if her words were contagious.

“Anyway… he told us to keep an eye on you, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he says, trying to maintain a friendly grin. But the look on your face, filled with irritation and annoyance, reveals just how his words are landing. You feel an overwhelming frustration bubbling up inside you, ready to burst.

“I don’t need you to look after me… I’m an adult!” you snap back at him, your voice sharp and filled with defiance. As the anger flares, your eyes begin to glow a fiery golden hue, a tell-tale sign of your rising emotions.

“Careful now…..” but you are fighting the urge to use your powers to brake his arm.

“Ouch okay….i get it i won’t protect you” he says lowering his voice.

“I didn’t know healers could cause damage like that” chan leans across the table. You tilt your head to the side in confusion.

“Chan is a mind reader” Changbin interrupts.

“Get. Out” you shoot your thought right at him.

“Okay Jesus… I’m out I’m out” your eyes narrow at him.

“Yes healers can also hurt….we have the ability to cripple or destroy bones if you get us angry enough” chan gulps.

“You’re terrifying” he almost stutters on his word. 

“I suggest you stay out of my head then chan” you saying scooping some much needed food into your mouth.

“I like her….can we keep her?” Minho grins, his smile so wide you take it in knowing well this is probably the only time you will see Minho smile.

You giggle as chan slaps Minho’s arm “are you trying to get me killed” he grinds through his teeth.

Not that you could ever kill anyone, besides the threat you don’t have the ability to put bones back together yet let alone break them. The whole room goes silent, and you immediately know who has just walked into the room.

Han jisung is walking through the cafeteria door, it doesn’t take long for people to go back to talking “talk about terrifying” Changbin says.

“I heard he’s an incredible fighter” Minho interjects

You can help but stare at the boy his soft curly hair sweeping over his face. “We will see at training tomorrow” Changbin shoves a stack of meat into his mouth.

“You any good with a blade Y/N” Minho says trying to spark up a conversation.

“Oh ah….honestly I’m not much of a fighter” you say snapping out of your trance.

“Well I can help if you want to learn” his lip twitch into a soft smile.

“That would be lovely if you could” you scrunch your nose at him in a sweet smile.

You swear you see his cheeks go a light shade of pink before he says “okay sweet…I’ll see you fight tomorrow, and we’ll go from there” before he is back to eating again.

“Make sure you get some rest kido” chan says before getting up and cleaning his try.

You scoff at the use of the work kido “I’m 20 actually and you’re not that much older than me” you shout over the crowd.

“Okay noted….no terms of endearment” he chuckles. You shoot him a look and he suddenly remembered you conversation you had not but a couple of minutes ago.

……….

“Okay… it’s just a sparring match, right? There’s no way they’re going to kill me, right?” Anxiety prickles at the back of your mind as you watch the others. They stretch, limbs fluid and poised, their expressions a mix of focus and excitement as they prepare for the randomised testing matches. The atmosphere around you crackles with energy, and the sound of feet hitting the mats and the soft thud of fists meeting pads fills the air. You gulp, trying to shake off the unease that tightens your chest. Each participant seems so confident, so seasoned in this routine, and you wonder if you’re truly ready for what lies ahead. The questions swirl, relentless and insistent, as you try to calm the tumult inside you.

You let out a silent sigh of relief as you reflect on the fact that first-year students are only permitted to spar with one another. It seems only fair; after all, facing off against more experienced second or third-years would undoubtedly be an uneven contest, putting newcomers like you at a significant disadvantage.

The professor’s voice breaks through your thoughts, crisp and authoritative as he announces the next sparring match. “Han Jisung and Park Sung-hoon,” he calls out, gesturing to either side of the mat. The tension in the air shifts, as both students step forward, preparing to take their places on the mat. You can sense the anticipation building in the room, as fellow classmates gather around, eager to witness what promises to be an interesting duel between the two. The atmosphere crackles with energy, and you can’t help but wonder how each of them will use their skills in this competitive setting.

“Take your positions,” the referee announced, his voice cutting through the tension in the air. “You can start the match at any time. No weapons…no powers…hand-to-hand combat only.” A rush of relief washed over you at the mention of the rules; without the chaos of weapons or the unpredictability of powers, you might actually have a fighting chance.

The arena was charged with anticipation, a ring of eager spectators surrounding the Sparing mat. Your heart raced, but you steeled yourself for what was to come.

“I heard he was an amazing fighter,” came a soft voice from behind you. Turning slightly, you caught sight of a young blond first-year student. He seemed almost ethereal, with  hair that glowed in the light and eyes that sparkled . His delicate features were like a finely sculpted statue, and the freckles sprinkled across his nose added a charming touch to his perfectly symmetrical face. He had the kind of beauty that made people stop and take notice.

You couldn't help but feel a flutter of nervousness at his admiring gaze, mixed with the thrill that perhaps, in this moment, you were about to prove yourself as a fighter—if you could keep your nerves in check and harness your instincts.

“Well, we are about to see,” the baby-faced boy replied, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

As the scene unfolds, you can’t help but be transported back to the intense dinner conversation between Minho and Chan just yesterday. The two boys circling each other like cautious predators, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Nearby, you catch a glimpse of Sung-Hoon, who swallows hard, the tension evident on his face. Across from him, Han’s lips curl into a teasing smile, his confidence radiating outward.

“Are you scared of me, Sung-Hoon?” Han taunted, his voice dripping with playful mockery as if he were savoring the moment.

With a flash of determination, Sung-Hoon challenges the laughter rising in his throat. “Why don’t you just yield now and we can call it a day?” he retorts, his bravado barely masking the nerves flickering beneath the surface. In a sudden burst of resolve, Sung-Hoon lunges toward Han, throwing a punch in his direction. But Han, quick on his feet, effortlessly dodges the blow as if it were nothing more than a gentle breeze.

“Good…” Han said, his tone surprisingly serious as he eyed Sung-Hoon. “Next time, don’t step forward before throwing a punch. It's a dead giveaway.” You can’t believe he’s actually taking the time to teach Sung-Hoon.

Sung-hoon lunges forward, delivering a sharp jab followed by a powerful hook, but Han effortlessly blocks both strikes, a smirk playing on his lips. "FIGHT BACK!" Sung-hoon snarls, grinding his teeth in frustration, yet Han remains unfazed, standing like a statue, patiently anticipating Sung-hoon’s next move.

The hushed whispers from the guys behind you resume. “He’s toying with him,” one mutters, barely containing his excitement.

“It’s like he’s analyzing every single move,” the second one replies with wide eyes, captivated by the unfolding match.

“Quick to anger, I see,” Han taunts, his voice smooth and taunting, continuing to play these mind games with Sung-hoon. Confusion washes over you. What was Han trying to accomplish? Then it dawns on you: with each punch Sung-hoon throws, Han is meticulously studying his opponent’s fighting style, pinpointing the weaknesses lurking beneath the surface.

As the fight progresses, you catch subtle details about Sung-hoon’s technique. He fights with an aggressive flair, yet his style is flawed—he leaves himself vulnerable, exposing his body before lunging in to strike. His footwork is clumsy, a lack of balance that makes you wonder how one wrong step could send him crashing to the ground, defeated by his own mistakes rather than Han’s skill.

Jisung snaps a punch to his wide open rib cage and you swear you hear the snapping of bones. Everyone stands still when the blood curdling scream escapes sung -hoons mouth.

“Okay Han…. I think he’s had enough” the professor steps in between the two, jisung had barely even broken out into a sweat.

“Y/L/N on the mat,” you feel as though your heart is beating out of your chest, you begin to sweat there is no way you can fight that good.

“Rowyn you too” rowyn was a rather lanky person. A feeling of self conference washes over you as you take you mark on the mat, looking over to your team where Han now sits in your seat.

“Ready……..FIGHT” your heart beating at an alarming rate, you were not a fighter in the slightest. Yes of course you knew how to fight, your brother had made sure of that but you had never actually been in a situation where you had to before now.

…….

As you lay there on the fighting mat, panting and exhausted from the intense sparring match, Minho extended his hand to help you up. You grasped his hand tightly and he pulled you up with ease. However, as you both stood up, you noticed a look of disappointment etched on Minho's face.

"Well, that was a complete disaster," Minho said, his voice tinged with frustration. You could tell that he was disappointed with the way the match had turned out.

Suddenly, Chan interrupted. "Minho, stop," he said, snacking Minho's shoulder. "I have to agree with Minho, that was pretty brutal," Changbin added.

You couldn't help but feel a little disheartened by their comments, but you knew that they were only trying to help you improve.

“You attacked when you should have been defending” a voice echos from behind the boys.

“Rowyn had the advantage on every front, you should have defended and tired him out” just like that the group turns around to jisung strapping his wrists as if he’s ready to go another round.

“Excuse me?” you retort, folding your arms tightly over your chest in a gesture of defiance. The fire in your eyes reflects a mix of indignation and determination. How dare he question your skills? You’ve trained tirelessly, pushing your limits day after day, and yet here he stands, dismissive and skeptical. You can feel the muscles in your arms tense as adrenaline courses through your veins, igniting a spark of challenge within you. What does he truly know about what you are capable of?

“Ha,” Han chuckles before he looks up from his hand. “Cute, you think because you're Jackson’s little sister that you're going to get a free ride?”

“Excuse me!” you exclaim, your voice rising with anger. Your heart is racing, and you can feel the heat flushing through your cheeks. You've always prided yourself on being calm and collected, avoiding conflict whenever possible. Yet, something about this guy, with his smug grin and condescending tone, sends a wave of frustration surging through you. It’s as if every nerve in your body is ignited, and the usually reserved part of you can’t help but react. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but the simmering rage only intensifies, pushing you closer to a breaking point.

Han scoffs lightly, a mix of amusement and disdain flickering across his face as he pivots towards the gym. He peels off his jumper, the fabric sliding down his arms to reveal a snug tank top that clings to his brawny frame. As he rolls his shoulders back, the powerful muscles ripple beneath his skin, showcasing not just strength but a sense of readiness for the challenge that lies ahead. The air around him shifts with an electric energy, hinting at the intensity of his workout as he prepares to dive into his training routine.

“Come on, Y/N! Let’s get you out of here!” Chan and Minho exclaimed, pulling you away from the training room. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Chan added with a warm smile, trying to ease your worries. “I’ve got your back and I’ll make sure you get the training you need!” His reassuring words filled you with a newfound sense of energy and determination.

“We all will” Minho adds

Taglist: @daceydeath @krishastumblernow @armystay89 @bakedlilgoonie

[atopvisenyashill]

Worst thing dany did? I’m a little torn. My gut would have me jump to the execution of mmd but I’m not sold. I’m also tempted to consider her agreeing to take a cut of profits from slavery or agreeing to allow those people to be tortured. Other things she did wrong seem more like inexperience and things that were results of her imperfect but not wrong actions. Burning someone alive is pretty cruel, but dumping burning oil and tar is also something Jon and the other boys at the wall do, and I think Dany believed she might die in that fire as well—kind of like a moment of if I am wrong may I suffer the same fate moment. I guess her intent doesn’t really matter in the assessment but I think I’m a bit swayed by the fact that in that moment her world had fallen apart twice over and she also had suffered a miscarriage versus her comparative safety and stability when making seemingly cruel decisions in Meereen

Ya i go back and forth too.

The thing with Mirri is that Dany is well aware that what happens is not Mirri’s fault and that’s a bit of a pattern with Dany - she lets her anger run away with her & she does some heinous shit because of that. I don't think Mirri was purposefully trying to kill Drogo and Rhaego. They specifically don't listen to her advice-

His eyes were fixed on distant brown hills, the reins loose in his hands. Beneath his painted vest, a plaster of fig leaves and caked blue mud covered the wound on his breast. The herbwomen had made it for him. Mirri Maz Duur's poultice had itched and burned, and he had torn it off six days ago, cursing her for a maegi. The mud plaster was more soothing, and the herbwomen made him poppy wine as well. He'd been drinking it heavily these past three days; when it was not poppy wine, it was fermented mare's milk or pepper beer.

He takes her poultice off with his dirty hands and she puts a soothing - but likely not antibacterial - poultice on it instead.

Mirri Maz Duur studied Drogo, her face still and dead. "The wound has festered."

That's not a woman who is purposefully trying to get one over on Dany. That's a woman who is frustrated that her patient is not doing what she told him to do while her life hangs in the balance. Mirri warns Dany not to come in the tent, Jorah brings her in anyway, and Dany recognizes that this was Jorah's fault. The very first "if i look back I am lost" comes during this moment-

Ser Jorah had killed her son, Dany knew. He had done what he did for love and loyalty, yet he had carried her into a place no living man should go and fed her baby to the darkness. He knew it too; the grey face, the hollow eyes, the limp. "The shadows have touched you too, Ser Jorah," she told him. The knight made no reply. Dany turned to the godswife. "You warned me that only death could pay for life. I thought you meant the horse." "No," Mirri Maz Duur said. "That was a lie you told yourself. You knew the price." Had she? Had she? If I look back I am lost.

This is why I think it's kinda crazy when people make her "if i look back i am lost" into some sort of powerful rallying cry of justice or feminism or whatever. It's a rationalization. Instead of confronting the fact that Drogo got himself killed and that Dany understood very well the consequences of the magic she asked MMD to do, she buries it, and burns Mirri alive. I get she just had a miscarriage. I get she's young and upset. But Mirri is nothing but good to her and dies for it.

That's why I tend to come at this as being her worst moment, even if it doesn't have quite the level of destruction as sacking Astapor or torturing the wineseller and his daughters. Those are like, colossaly bad decisions but they're ones she's making on a political level. This one is all personal and all the more cruel for it to me.

[its-time-to-write]

Hello! Maybe one where Nate kisses the reader like he did Keeley but they’re dating Jamie and he gets very upset but then they call him down and it’s sweet at the end ❤️

This one got real intense, real fast. Deals with some trauma after an unwanted kiss, so be discerning when deciding if you want to read this. Jamie’s really sweet, but this mostly ends up as a look at how it feels when someone does something you have a hard time laughing off.

i can’t breathe without you

It all happens so fast, really. One minute you’re alone in the boot room, talking to Nate about his day, and the next his lips are pressed against yours. Your entire mind freezes and all you can think is Jamie, and you must say something to that effect because Nate is bumbling through an apology, something about misreading signals and being an idiot, but what you’re really hearing is that he thinks any girl who is nice to him, is attracted to him. 

You’re not. 

He should have known, your mind reasons. He should have known you were with Jamie. 

All rational thought is overshadowed by tears threatening to fall. You say, “I have to go,” and then flee the boot room, leaving Nate standing there all alone. 

You’re not really sure where you’re going, but you’re running, pushing past people in an effort to just get out and get away from the feeling of his lips on yours. 

I didn’t want it, you tell yourself. Didn’t want, didn’t want, didn’t want. 

You knock into Ted in your rush. “Hey there, darling, you alright?” he asks, all fatherly concern. You nod your head once and then are gone, pushing through the door and out into the parking lot. You’re running, running fast. Anything to have control over the way your body feels, to hit the reset button, to forget. 

Jamie will understand, he loves you, he’ll understand, your mind tells you. 

You push it away, because now is not a time for hope. Jamie is a man, and they are all the same. Your ex, Connor, broke up with you when a boy kissed you at a frat party. Never mind that you were shoving him off you before his lips even made contact. Never mind that you had been trying to turn your head away. Never mind that he had seen the whole fucking thing and still decided that you were, in his words, “too easy.”

You’re so distracted by your thoughts and your desperate escape that you barely register Sam’s voice and sprint to catch you until his hand has reached for your arm and you violently shake it away, saying, “don’t touch me,” voice hoarse. 

He instantly lets go and backs up, hands in the air. 

You must look feral, eyes wide, hair flying. Face white. 

Sam’s face has concern written all over it as he asks, softer, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you say, just a bit too forcefully. “I’m fine, I just, his lips and I didn’t want it, I swear I didn’t, I didn’t even do anything, but I feel them, and I didn’t do anything I promise, please, please don’t tell Jamie.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until tears fall onto your shoe. Sam’s previous concern has nothing on how he is now. He is downright worried. 

“Do you need me to call someone?” he asks. 

“No!” you reply. “No. I’m fine. It’s just- Nate kissed me, and I promise I didn’t want him to, he just did, and it’s probably my fault but I love Jamie, not Nate, and I need him to know that, ok? I can’t, how am I supposed to keep going, I can’t-” You’re beginning to hyperventilate now. Sam’s hands are up, like he’s calming a wild animal. 

“Hey. Hey now. Why don’t you sit down. It’s alright, it’s just you and me. Take a deep breath for me, alright? Follow my lead.”

You follow Sam’s directives and sit with your head between your legs. Sam takes a moment to type out a message to Coach Beard, while you’re distracted. It says, Find Nate before Jamie does, because who else would it be, and Sam knows Beard will be able to assess and handle the situation properly. Meanwhile, he’s got to calm you down. 

—

Inside the locker room, Beard’s phone dings. He looks away from where Ted is talking to Jamie and then frowns. What are the odds this text is related to you bumping into Ted? Beard, betting man that he is, is sure they’re good. He goes to find Nate. 

Nate is still in the boot room, acting as if nothing’s wrong. 

He looks up in surprise when Beard walks in. 

“Oh, um, hello,” he says. “Is everything alright?”

So he’s clocked Beard’s angry face. At least he’s not a complete imbecile. 

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Beard replies, arms crossed and face stony as ever. “What happened to Jamie’s girlfriend?”

One stammer from Nate is all Beard needs to hear. 

—

Ted tells Jamie, and Jamie is livid. Ted’s phone dings with a help please text from Sam because he has no idea how to help you, and Jamie’s anger reaches a whole new level. 

Beard thinks they should let Jamie have a go at Nate. Roy agrees, and thinks maybe Jamie could use some help. Nate isn’t present, Beard says something about being stuck in the boot room with the handle broken off. Ted knows Beard well enough to know exactly what happened, but now isn’t the time to comment. Beard has both punished and protected Nate, and there are more pressing things at hand. You, for starters. And Jamie, with murder on his mind. 

“Jamie,” Ted says, “I’m gonna need you to listen real good. I don’t know your girl very well, but I do know she has a sweet spirit. You go out there guns blazing, and it’s just going to validate every crushing thought she has about herself.” 

Jamie opens his mouth to speak but Ted puts up a hand. “Doesn’t matter that you’re not mad at her, she’ll take it that way. Things like this are tricky. You want her to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are 100% on her team.” Ted stops. “You are on her team, ain’t you?”

Jamie stares at him. “You think I fucking blame her for that prick mistaking her bein’ nice for flirting?” 

Ted shrugs. “She ever told you ‘bout her last boyfriend? Matter of fact, she ever tell you about any of her other relationships? You might be surprised what kinda boys are out there pretending to be men. Now, I gotta go make sure she’s gonna be ok. You,” he points to Roy, “don’t let Jamie out till he’s calmed down. You,” he points to Beard, “go figure out a way to get Nate unstuck from the boot room.”

Beard says, “consider it done, Coach,” and Roy just grunts. 

Ted is gone, and it’s just the three of them and their separate manifestations of their anger. 

—

Your head is still on your knees when you hear footsteps approaching. Sam has been sitting on his haunches, two feet away from you. Close enough so you’re not alone, far enough to give you some space. 

The footsteps make your head jerk up. The fear in your eyes is enough to break Ted’s heart. He’s never had a daughter, but he’ll be damned if this isn’t how a father must feel. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, crouching down, voice soft. “What can I do you for?”

His voice is just reminiscent enough of your own father’s that you launch yourself into his arms, crying. 

“Sh, sh, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” Ted says. You have a death grip on him. “Just let it out.”

You’ve almost completely cried yourself out when Ted says, “What do you want to say?”

You pull away and sit back on the curb, hand covering half your face. You shake your head. 

“It’s alright, darlin’. I’m not gonna hurt you. Just want to know what’s wrong so I can help.”

You choke out “Jamie,” and both Ted and Sam are surprised enough that neither of them know what to say. They wait for you to continue. 

A few more tears fall before you say, “I just love him so much. I don’t want to lose him. I need him to know that I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want it. I wasn’t flirting, I swear. He just kissed me out of nowhere and I can’t get rid of the feeling, I just can’t-” You start wiping your lips violently with the back of your hand. 

“Hey, hey listen- listen to me,” Ted says. You lower your trembling hand. You’re vaguely aware of the fact that your whole body is shaking. 

“None of this, and believe me when I do say ‘none,’ is your fault. Jamie ain’t like those other boys you were with. He knows who you are. You did nothing wrong. He’s hopping mad, sure, but not at you. His hearts in the right place. He loves you, and I’m pretty sure if you gave him half a chance, he’d love you forever. There’s nothing that’s going to change that.”

You’re beginning to register Ted’s words. You’re glad he and Sam are out here, and that you’re not alone. Vaguely, you hear the building door open from across the parking lot. There’s a different set of footsteps now, running ones, that come to a crashing halt in front of you. 

You flinch. 

You hear Jamie inhale jerkily and dare to look upward. 

He looks a mess, eyes red and hair mussed. He kneels down slowly to where you’re curled up. 

He doesn’t even know where to begin with you flinching, but by god every breath Nathan Shelley draws is just one closer to his reckoning. 

Jamie breathes out your name, and finally, finally, you make solid eye contact. He reaches for you, and you take his hand, letting him draw you into his lap.

He holds you and rocks back and forth, whispering into your hair while the others quietly get up and back away. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s just you and me. I love you and I’ve got you.”

He’s got you, you tell your mind. 

Yes, your brain agrees, he’s got you and he loves you.

[whysperingwoods]

Fear-mongering and herbalism

Herbalism is a crucial element for many practitioners of witchcraft, and lately I've seen a lot of fear-mongering in the #baby-witch and #witchblr tags that it's raising some serious red flags. Caution is necessary, yes, but over-simplified warnings against herbs that have a very long history and tradition of safe and effective use can rob people of accessible, beneficial ways to take an active role in their own health and wellbeing.

True: People absolutely need to be cautious about what they are putting in their bodies. True: "Natural" does not equate to "good" or "healthy". True: You need to speak to a medical professional regarding medical issues.

All these things being true do not mean that you cannot find plants that are safe to ingest, and that can benefit your health and support you. You can use herbs safely and you do have the power and ability to find information about them.

I've literally seen posts that say not to ingest any kind of herb because "you don't know what's in them" and "you don't know dosage, so it might harm you".

This lack of nuance is precisely the type of thinking that breeds misinformation and unnecessary fear, as if there is not enough of that to go around! It seems like because MAGA and anti-vaxx folks have been using the line "do your own research!!" so much, people are associating research with... right wing conspiracy theory? Somehow? Don't forget that being capable of doing good research also means being capable of evaluating your sources, and thinking critically about what you're reading.

Here are some of the misconceptions I've come across in the last couple days:

Laypeople can't safely use herbs

Fear of toxicity in herbs is common and rational, but herbs that you can find in your kitchen are food-grade and widely available. You don't need to eat them in enormous quantities to experience their benefits.

For example, thyme can help support the lungs during cold and flu season. Ginger tea is great for minor digestive upsets. These are things you have access to and can provide a safe means of relief.

Local apothecaries are very knowledgeable about where they source their herbs and what dosages are safe. They are also able to tell you if their herbs are pesticide-free, organic, etc.

Where you want to be cautious is ordering herbs online, especially places like Amazon or Etsy where there is no control whatsoever. Even supplements have been found to frequently not contain what they are said to contain, and you really have to do research about the company you're buying from beforehand.

If you don't have a local apothecary, you can still buy herbs online! Just make sure you are using a reputable website such as Mountain Rose Herbs where you can get bulk herbs.

Lesser known herbs require more caution, but there are fantastic books about herbalism and they provide information on dosage and various ways the herbs can be used responsibly. Your local library is almost guaranteed to have several books about herbalism, and if you aren't sure about a particular herb, look it up in multiple other resources to see if their information matches up. You can even find information about many commonly used herbs on WebMD.

Also, don't forage herbs that you plan to ingest if you are not experienced. This is a recipe for disaster, and incredibly dangerous. I'm not going to go into super huge detail about this, because it would merit its own post, but seriously, just don't do it until you have experience. Plant identification apps are not sufficient to identify herbs you plan to ingest.

Herbal remedies cure major illnesses

Herbs can play a supportive role, but it's crucial to recognise their limits. Herbal medicine should complement, not replace, medical treatment for severe chronic conditions. Clinical herbalists are trained to assess what's appropriate for herb-based support and when a situation requires immediate medical attention.

Herbs are not a panacea that will cure every ailment. Every person is unique and any single herb can have wildly different effects on the body. Some people might find incredible relief, while another person may find no effect at all, or may even find an herb doesn't agree with them.

Herbalists think they are medical practitioners

Because there is no federally regulated body for herbalists, people sometimes think it's the wild west out there and anyone can do anything, but that's not the case. Herbalists are not exempt from the law, and no one is legally allowed to practice medicine if they are not licensed to do so. Period. No amount of traditional knowledge changes that.

While the herbalist profession is not regulated federally, there are regulating bodies that are run by herbalists and that set standards for what is expected and permitted. If you search for "herbalism guild Canada" you will find the Canadian Council of Herbalist Associations which has tons of information, and some provinces also have their own guilds. Most guilds will have a list of reputable herbalists that you can access and they have strict requirements for being added to those lists. You can find these requirements on their websites and gauge them for yourself.

Part of training to become a clinical herbalist is knowing you are not a medical practitioner. You are taught not to diagnose people, and how to recognise when something is outside of your scope of practice.

From the CCHA:

9. A registered herbal practitioner will  offer interdisciplinary collaboration with other health professionals

Herbalists focus on holistic, complementary care, rather than taking on the role of medical practitioners. A qualified herbalist works alongside them to support the body's systems, rather than attempting to independently treat or diagnose medical systems. For example, they might work with clients to ease side-effects from medication, but they won't independently treat serious conditions like infections.

Herbalists are anti-vaxx and anti-science

The vast majority of clinical herbalists are not anti-vaxx or anti-modern medicine at all, and focus on combining traditional knowledge about plants with modern science. Are there herbalists out there who are anti-vaxx? Absolutely, just like any demographic you can find people who are spouting nonsense, but that is not the norm.

Thankfully, herbalism schools and herbalists are pretty up front with their beliefs. The CCHA has these requirements for herbalists in the guild:

3. Herbalists have an extensive knowledge base combining traditional wisdom and modern scientific perspective       [...] 7. A registered herbal practitioner is trained in herbal safety, drug interactions, and possible contraindications [...] 10. A registered herbal practitioner is accountable  to a professional organization, must maintain annual continuing education and must abide by professional standards 

When I was looking for a clinical herbalist myself, I always checked their website information and whether they were registered with a guild, and what the requirements for that guild were. The herbalist I chose also had a clear section on her website where she stated that she had experience working with people on psychiatric medications.

You can also often find their stance on other things such as LGBTQIA+ issues (such as statements on their website regarding their approach to HRT).

The school I ultimately selected for my education was one that had explicit information about how they integrated new science into their curriculum, and how frequently it was updated.

If you are not finding the information you're looking for, just ask! It's completely acceptable and not rude to contact an herbalist and ask them what their approach is on the things you are concerned about. They will be happy to answer these questions and give you any information they can to help you decide if they are a good fit for you.

Conclusion

Herbalism is not about replacing medical care or promising miracle cures. It's about tapping into centuries-old knowledge and combining it with modern insights. Embrace herbs with curiosity, responsibility, and respect, and you can have an incredible and beneficial relationship with them.

I'm sure there are plenty of points here that I have omitted or not sufficiently covered. I hope readers will take this as an indictment of the author, me, rather than one against herbalism as a whole.

[space-blue]

I still cant wrap my head around how vi eventually joined enforcers after years spent in prison and cop brutalities she experienced first hand. I’d try to rationalize it but The only logical reason i can think of is because of Cait and vi’s bias towards her that influenced her to join enforcers

I think, the issue that Arcane presents with Vi is one of archetypes.

Some fans have a tendency, even in my own posts notes, to defend and construct Vi as a real person. But she isn't. She's a fully fictional character, part of the great human art of storytelling.

I think that the issue at hand is that Vi's story as depicted in Arcane, doesn't follow very normal/standard/popular archetypes.

Her backstory is that her and her family are relentlessly harmed by cops, she spends half her teenage years in the worst prison. It would be a great backstory for someone like say, SILCO!!! Someone who goes on to hate Piltover and go to great and terrible lengths to oppose and fight them.

Transitioning her to her "game end state" is extremely hard, because her in-game status is that of a cop who polices her own people for Piltover;s sheriff. Ekko has barks that call her out for betraying Zaun. Vi used to have barks that were police brutality jokes. She has art where she's a US like donught eating cop. It's a vibe, and not a vibe that screams "I was abused by police my entire life!"

In the show we're not there yet, and we may not even go there at all (I'm of the opinion that if they make her Vander 2.0 it'll be more palatable and also provide a new skin to rack the money in with.)

But the transition is pretty brutal because they hurried to sell us on a Caitvi romance in season 1.

I think more people now are feeling iffy about Vi's actions because she goes along with the whole gassing operation, but IMO it is consistant with what we see from her in season 1. I'll explain.

I've seen the argument around that she only joins because the other option would be worse and she's basically a limiter for Cait, but no, sorry, she could argue with Cait for Zaun's protection, and be happy she decides on a smaller strike force while being horrified/opposed to the use of the Gray. She could be grateful Cait reduces her actions and still refuse to join her. She could not kiss her in the pipes while they probably both smell of mustard gas lol.

All of Vi's actions put together depict a picture so far, out of 12 episodes, and that picture just isn't very heroic or very nice. It's also very much not archetypal, so it's a lot more unpredictable. Some of her fans also have a tendency of defending her every action instead of embracing the darkness we see peeking through, which muddies the waters.

But I'm now pretty comfortable in my assessment that she's a good Vander 2.0.

She had a hard and broken childhood, ends up hardening and getting skills in prison, but not class consciousness. This isn't shocking, because Silco is taking over Zaun, and she hates that everyone seems to be working for him. Vi has zero awareness that her young self and Silco share the exact same goals (a Zaun that's not inferior to Piltover, where someone like Powder could live happy and safe).

Worse, Vi has her priorities all mixed up. The story is just complex and human. Vi is forced to raise Powder and also lead Claggor and Mylo her entire childhood. That's not great... She basically didn't get to be a child at all. Vander put a shit ton of responsibilities on her. We know from the Enemy video that she was pretty rough at times, which is a realistic depiction of a kid struggling under a lot of pressure in a rough environment. Then the sister who is so difficult to care for goes and kills the whole family seconds before they could all escape, the blow is dealt, they're separated…

And when freed, Vi has now 3 things on her mind:

-find her sister,

-kill Silco and destroy his operation/get revenge,

-and, oh wow that cop lady sure is hot!

Rescuing Zaun from Piltover is nowhere in her head. She complains about the Lanes having easily fallen to Silco, but at no point does the show hint that Vi may have greater goals of rescuing the Lanes from Silco.

Despite Vander's dying wish being "Take care of Powder", Vi's priority list is spoken right to Silco's face: She's going to find Jinx and undo what he's done to her head, but FIRST she will dismantle his business. Like, do you think Vander would be good with that agenda? lol

And don't come into my comments to argue that she's only saying this because she's facing Silco. Vi follows up by hitting Silco's factories and then wiping out the Last Drop and beating Sevika. Let's not forget name dropping her sister to the Council.

Saving Powder just ISN'T HER PRIORITY!!!

So what is her main drive? If it is "getting revenge" then the enemy of her enemy is her friend. Ekko, and Cait.

Vi going to Ekko's Firelight hideout and not becoming an instant member and not returning to them after season 1 also speaks VOLUMES about her priorities and her lack of "belonging" within Zaun.

You'd think she doesn't feel at home in the Lanes but may want to join and help the Firelights, right? They're the hope of Zaun… They're against Silco. But no. In season 2 she remains with Cait, hanging out awkwardly at her palatial home.

She goes and drinks in the street rather than seeking out the Firelights to see if they are fine or if she can help. As far as we can tell, she never saw Ekko after he took a bullet for Cait's plans and then a bomb to the face to stall Jinx!

So she just doesn't have any sense of home, any attachment to Zaun as a place or concept, despite being raised in it. She has resentment for Piltover and enforcers, but not enough to not fall for Cait and bend her principles. She cares for her family, but when it becomes complicated and difficult, she caves and changes her mind. She's also all talk about killing Jinx. She just can't, and after 2 missed opportunities, Cait is also mega fed up with it xD

Now Vi is going to go destroy her life with booze while rising and falling in the pits as a fighter. Then, from the trailers, seems like she'll get her shit together and fight Noxus.

I think in that way she's a Vander-esque character.

Rough start in life. Very angry. Prone to punch first ask later. Then, lacking guidance, they latch onto someone who is happy to give them direction (Silco/Cait). Then comes a breaking point (whatever triggered the drowning of Silco/Cait dumping Vi after the Jinx fight) and they switch to other occupations (running the Lanes/Pit fighting) and this is followed by another trigger that produces their end state as a collaborator (The bridge and adopting the girls/Whatever will happen fighting Noxus).

I think Vi can be given the space to basically gain a healthier view of Piltover (as an occupying force that can't be trusted for Zaun), while also being close to an enforcer for the good of Zaun (Vander worked with Grayson, Vi can work with Cait after Zaun becomes independent).

Vander is also a very flawed character. Lots of fans like to just see him as a sweet loving daddy, but he's a brutal killer who runs a racket business in the undercity lmao. We first meet him killing a man with his gauntlets, and the second scene he's threatening 2 people of death if they don't behave on his turf. Vander lacks the incentive that Shimmer is, so you bet your ass he was staying in power because "hound of the underground" had a gnarly reputation. Even foreigners know him by name.

He's the guy who was insane and violent enough to coldly drown his best friend with his bare hands. And let's not project any fanon here: He straight up apologises to Silco, says he's always regretted his actions, never says he was justified, and never contests Silco calling his actions a "betrayal".

Vander BETRAYED Silco, who trusted him. And Vander tells us he respected Silco, everyone did!

If we saw his arc live before us, I fucking bet it would be as swivelly and mystifying as Vi's. Poor slum kid becomes second in command to fanatical Zaun wannabe leader and revolutionary, creates the Lanes with him, then betrays him by trying to drown him with his bare hands, then takes over the business alone, hides his injuries, then leads a revolt due to some unknown inciting incident, then adopts kids, keeps running a smuggling/racket/protection business, whatever it is, while also collaborating with enforcers in secret, before being killed when his demons catch up with him???

I'm sure there's plenty of moments on such a journey that would make people scratch their heads. It's not very archetypal either.

And as a result Vi also only work if you see her outside archetypes. She's not an abused kid turned revolutionary, Silco style. Or abused kid turned freedom fighter/gang leader, Ekko style. She's not a very good sister, never was, never could be, simply from her circumstances. She's not super loyal because she has pretty weak principles. She's not driven by a strong sense of justice. She gives her word, then goes back on it. Acts strong and talks big and then buckles. And Cait can't have that, since it gets in the way of killing Jinx twice now.

Vi is mostly self interested, and driven by revenge and anger. Now that Silco is dead and revenge obtained, she's falling back on her sweetheart, and her lack of strong principles or loyalty show again, like in scenes where a bit of buttering up make her accept an enforcer badge.

I fully disagree with people who try to tell me she takes the job to protect Zaun! She takes it because she realises how much it would mean to Cait, and she has NOTHING BETTER TO DO with herself. She should be joining Ekko, at a minimum, but she isn't loyal to Zaun and isn't out there to save it. She cares about her family, but this only manifests in her being incapable to actually kill Jinx.

And like, it's OKAY!! Personally I'm okay with that.

I think Vi still has 6 episodes to gain a real, strong conviction, the way Vander did with the kids. And I'm also okay if that ends up being as a collaborator to Piltover. I would have written things differently because I think a longer and more non-romantic build up of trust and care with Cait would have been more beneficial, but I'm liking where things are going, because I've written Vi off as a good character.

She's very grey, and pitiable, but not sympathetic in her choices. A lot like Jinx, too. Jinx is just too cruel and sadistic to be sympathetic, but she's very pitiable.

And neither of the girls' flaws are their fault. They are the by-product of Zaun, of generational trauma and abject poverty and oppression. They are the fucked up women created by Piltover's fucked up rule.

As always, it's all Heimerdinger's fault, and I'm a little frustrated to see him cheapen Ekko's character with his Jar Jar humour right now.

Anyway, that's a pretty long answer, sorry lol

I'm always happy to get Meta posts, so thanks a lot. Don't hesitate to reply and elaborate.

[imagine-darksiders]

Thank you to the marvellous @humboltsquid for commissioning a fanfic with pregnant Reader attempting to hide said pregnancy from the Horsemen because she fears they'll buy into the social rhetoric surrounding single mothers who don't know who the father is.

TW: Vomiting, morning sickness, drinking, Pregnancy, briefest allusion to sa, no actual sa took place, everything was consensual, both parties were drunk, Reader remembers most of the night except the guy's face and name. Horsemen are predictably angry about someone touching their little sister.

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Porcelain, cold and consolidated, bites into the sensitive skin of your palms as you grip the edge of the bathroom sink, your arms locked like overheated pistons just to keep yourself standing upright in defiance of how your legs seem determined to collapse out from underneath your weight.

To your right, the loo gurgles noisily, flushing away any traces of the meal you’d spewed up into it only moments ago. At least the sound helps to drown out a voice thundering at you from the other side of the door.

“Let us in!”

Fumbling with the tap for a moment, you bend down, spooning a palmful of fresh, cooling water into your mouth. As you do so, you spare a baleful glance down at the loo again, and the food lost to its pipes… Perfectly good rations… all gone to waste.

Five years on from the Great Resurrection and Earth’s agricultural efforts are finally on a steady incline. While the food situation isn’t anywhere near as desperate as it was when Humanity woke up to a world without excess, that doesn’t mean you’re particularly pleased to see precious rations wasted because you couldn’t hold them down.

And now that you’re supposed to be eating for two…

Groaning, your expression twists into a look of remorse, and you place one hand gently on your stomach, roaming a palm over the bump that lays hidden beneath the baggiest jumper you could find. You’re only too aware that it won’t be so easy to hide the swell in another couple of months.

You barely manage to bite back another miserable groan as a colossal fist hammers against the door so viciously, you almost wonder if the wood will splinter and break, which starts to seem more likely when seconds later, a familiar voice booms out, “If you don’t open this door, I’m tearing it from its frame!”

Ah… That’ll be War; youngest of the Four Horsemen, an armoured, muscle-bound colossus who also just so happens to be one of your very dearest friends.

A friend who has been growing rightfully suspicious of you over these last couple of months…

There are only so many excuses you can fall back on to explain away your frequent and unexpected dashes for the nearest bathroom. You can only thank the Creator that neither of the Four seem all that well-versed on the more delicate biological functions of humans.

Swiping a wrist over the back of your mouth, you lean away from the sink and assess yourself in the mirror, doing your best to ignore the taste of vomit still sitting like a layer of fuzz on the roof of your mouth.

‘How long are you going to keep this up?’ you pose to your reflection, her sleep-stained eyes bearing back into yours as if she too has had the same question.

It’s been like this for a few weeks now, ever since the dreaded Morning Sickness wrapped its hands around your guts and wrung them with a relentlessness that leaves you scrambling for the closest bathroom at least twice a day.

It wasn’t this bad in the first trimester… Now entering your second, things are getting a Hell of a lot harder to manage. To hide.

Slowly letting your eyes slip shut, you exhale through your nostrils in exasperation as a different voice accompanies the first. “Kid? I uh… I think he means it. We just wanna make sure you haven’t drowned in there.”

Strife… The humour he tries to inject into his quip is overshadowed by his hand rattling at the doorknob. He’s worried. They all are. You wouldn’t have thought it possible, if you didn’t know them personally, though each Horseman will swear up and down they don’t ever feel such trivial, human emotions.

Actions, however, speak louder than words.

Their sister, Fury, has hardly left your side ever since Mrs Gaffe tutted at you from across the hallway and you immediately retreated into your apartment, leant back against the door and wept into your hands. She didn’t know… She didn’t know Mrs Gaffe who lives on your floor is also a chemist, and she’s also the very woman who sold you your pregnancy test… and the subsequent tests you went back for when the first came up positive. You’d spent over an hour convincing Fury that, no, she doesn’t need to defend your honour by besting old Mrs Gaffe in combat. Though you let her know you appreciated the gesture.

You try to think the best of your neighbours. And you certainly didn’t like to think of Mrs Gaffe being a gossip, but judging by the curious and frequently disdainful glances other people in the building sent your way, you soon came to realise your secret was not such a secret after all.

You’re pregnant. And the father is nowhere to be found.

You only hope word doesn’t get back to the Horsemen somehow. You don’t think you could bear it if their gazes turned sharp and pointed as well.

Outside the bathroom door, you hear War grunt at Strife to move aside, and at last, you decide you’ve stalled enough.

Shoving yourself off the sink, you spin around on a hell, regretting the action as a wave of dizziness threatens to knock you back down to Earth, but it’s soon dispelled with a deep breath and a second to gather yourself, calling, “Okay, okay, I’m coming out.”

Someone – Strife, you think – grumbles, “Finally.”

Grabbing the handle, you pull the door towards yourself and tilt your head back, blinking up at the two, immense shapes blocking the entire width of your hallway. If it weren’t for the space between your bedroom and bathroom being meagre at best, you imagine you’d have the remaining two behemoths cramped in there as well.

“When did you guys get to be so clingy.”

War’s ice-blue eyes glare down at you from beneath a crimson hood.

You start to edge past them, feeling like a fish trying to squeeze between a pair of grizzlies. Just as you make it past and put your back to them entirely, you hear Strife announce, “All right. That’s it.”

“What’s it?” you ask hesitantly as he advances on you, his heavy, metal boots thudding on the carpet. Before you can react, the Horseman suddenly slings a bulky arm around your waist and hoists you off your feet, tucking you into his side. You’re forced to fold almost in half, bent over Strife’s uncomfortable gauntlet with most of the pressure bearing down on your stomach.

“STRIFE!” you exclaim, horrified.

“I’m not lettin’ you go until you tell us what’s been goin’ on with you,” he huffs, clomping into the living room with War bringing up the rear. By the window, Death twists his bone-mask towards the commotion, his shoulders flattening, unimpressed. “Brother…” he warns.

Fury too, tosses Strife her own disparaging glare from the sofa and barks, “Is it truly necessary to manhandle the human?”

You, however, hardly pay attention to a word they exchange. Your mind is utterly and wholly on the point of your stomach that’s digging into the Horseman’s gauntlet. You can cope with the discomfort, but it isn’t just you anymore.

There’s no thought to the cry you let out, just a plea borne of a desire to protect the little life growing inside you, by any means necessary. “Strife!” you exclaim, smacking your palms against his armoured thigh in a bid to relieve some of the pressure around your gut. “Put me down! The baby-!”

No sooner has the word left your lips than you find the arm restraining you springing open, letting you tumble to the floor. A jolt shoots through you as your hands and knees strike the carpet, but all you can celebrate in that moment is that the strength of a Horseman is no longer curled around your vulnerable stomach.

You don’t look up at the Horsemen until you’ve pushed yourself back to your feet, patting down your jumper. When you do happen to glance up, your face immediately falls.

Death has shifted from his position by the window and now stands several, jarring feet closer, he and Fury both, in fact. The latter has somehow leapt from her seat on the sofa in the time it took you to gather yourself up off the floor.

But more disconcertingly, they’re still. Utterly motionless as if they’ve been caught in a pocket of frozen time.

Gulping, you tentatively twist your head over a shoulder, only to find War and Strife are in much the same state.

Strife has backed up to stand next to his brother, his liquid-gold eyes round beneath his visor, neither one of them twitching so much as a single muscle. It’s… eerie. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them so still before. Death, maybe, but not the other three.

It only occurs to you then that you might have let something slip.

Then, at last, just as you wet your lips to call out to one of them…

 “What did you say?” Fury breathes, cutting neatly through the heavy blanket of silence draped over the room.

Blinking owlishly, you turn back to face her, your mind scrambling for an adequate response.

“What… what do you mean, ‘what did I say?’”

Feigning ignorance it is.

You actually leap several inches off the ground when the Horseman suddenly explodes back into motion, storming forwards in your direction and exclaiming, “What baby?!”

“B-baby?” you double down, backing away from her until your spine collides with a solid torso – War. “Who said anything about a baby?”

“You just did!”

“Did I?”

“Y/n…” Death utters in a slow and cautious tone as though he’s afraid you’ll bolt at the slightest provocation - Hell, given the furtive glances you keep swinging around his side at the door to your apartment, he might be in the ballpark. His voice alone carries enough authority to silence his sister, and more than enough to make you clamp your jaws shut painfully tight. “You’re with child?”

It’s strange, but despite the inflection on his last word, you get the impression he isn’t asking you if you’re pregnant, but merely whether you’re ready to admit to the fact.

The hopelessness of it all dawns on you when you meet his enduring, gilded stare.

He knows.

And if Death knows, there’s little point in continuing your efforts of duping the other three. In spite of outward appearances and their frequent, often frightening disagreements, the Four Horsemen have a bond stronger than tungsten. So, with a head that suddenly feels weighed down by months of secrecy and deflection, you lower your gaze to the floor near his boots and give a slow, sombre nod.

It’s as though your little confirmation is all that they needed to lift the veil on any and all doubts.

The shadows they cast on your carpet suddenly start to tremble as an overhead light flickers, strobing on and off until it sputters weakly back to life and holds steady, albeit dimmer than it had been before.

The Horsemen seem to grow in size, muscled shoulders bulge like raised hackles and four sets of eyes flare with an ethereal light as they shift their weight, bearing down on you like toppling monoliths.

“I’m gonna kill ‘em,” Strife mutters venomously under his breath, “I’m gonna kill whatever bastard laid a finger on-”

“-W h o  t o u c h e d  y o u?” the eldest Horseman’s growl cuts him off. It’s guttural and animalistic, so much so that you can’t withhold a flinch. You could count on one hand the number of times Death has outwardly lost his temper, which makes it all the more alarming to witness.

Stumbling over your words for a beat, you keep your eyes fixed to the floor as the Old One stalks across the meagre living space towards you, his ominous shadow growing along the carpet to swallow you whole. When it seems he’s right on top of you, you finally blurt out, “N-Nobody!”

In hindsight, that wasn’t the most logical answer.

Fury – her vibrant hair whipping behind her like angry, coiling snakes - scoffs, tucking her arms firmly across her chest. “Nobody?” she parrots, “I’m no expert, but don’t these things usually involve two parties?”

“Great! Now she’s lying to us,” Strife barks, pacing back and forth behind you and throwing a hand up to rake the fingers of his metal gauntlet through his stiff, black hair, “I don’t believe this, we go off world for two weeks-!”

“Were you hurt?” War’s voice, though less jagged than Death’s, is pitched low enough to rumble through you until it resounds inside your chest. You can feel his presence behind you, too close for comfort, the living embodiment of rage and violence.

You suddenly fear for the man whose face and name you can’t recall.

“I… no,” you protest, hugging your elbows close, “It wasn’t anything like… like that. It was an accident! We were out drinking, and I-“

“DRINKING!?”

Your mouth snaps shut as Death lurches towards you, and you’re finally forced to tear your eyes off the carpet when his sinewy fingers slide around your biceps and he hauls you a foot off the ground, holding you up to his mask and subjecting you a shout that’s rife with unparalleled urgency. “You know what that does to a human’s inhibitions!” he demands.

His hands are gentle, neither hurting nor bruising the delicate skin on your bare arms, but the power behind even his gentlest grasp is frustratingly insurmountable.

You’ve never liked how easily he can manhandle you. “Yes, Death! I know what alcohol does!” you snap back, kicking your legs and trying to twist out of his grip, “I’m not a kid anymore, stop treating me like one! And put me down!”

You’re aware that your point is all a matter of perspective. For the Horsemen, there’ll always be some small part of them that continues to see you as a youngling. You’re human, after all. A hundred years wouldn’t even see a Nephilim out of adolescence. Not to mention that the Horsemen have all but declared you as one of them… One of theirs - an unconventional, human sibling they’ve taken into their fold.

It's not so easy for them to simply stop seeing you as their little sister, no matter how much you might wish they would sometimes.

As your retort fades into silence, Death blinks, recoiling his head slightly with wider eyes, and it will only occur to you later just how rare it is to make Death falter.

The other three, although their bodies still quiver with barely contained adrenaline, have fallen quiet whilst you stare down their eldest until at last, he lowers you gingerly to the floor, setting you safely on the carpet once again and retrieving his hands.

You’d never dare to say it aloud, but in that moment, something like shame flashes over the dark sockets of his mask.

“Why didn’t you tell us, kid?” Strife asks, the crux of his question tinged by badly concealed hurt.

“This, Strife,” you sigh, throwing your arms out towards he and his siblings, exasperated. Fury with her face set into a thunderous scowl. War’s metal gauntlets curled into bludgeoning fists. Even Strife is idly tracing a finger on the stock of Redemption in its holster, and Death – especially Death – whose ancient magics are still causing the lamps in your room to fade in and out…

Heaving another, immense sigh, you continue, “This is why I didn’t tell you.” Well. It’s one of the reasons, but at this point, it’s a fairly vital one. “I mean, look at you!”

Each Horseman shares a glance with one another.

“You’re all raring to go on a manhunt to find a guy who didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“Didn’t do anything wrong?” War grunts, teeth still bared despite following the lead of Death and reeling in his temper, if only slightly, “He mated with you-“

“Oh, hell, War, don’t say it like that,” Strife complains, grimacing under his visor.

“-and now you carry his child, and he has abandoned you both?”

Biting at the soft flesh inside your cheek, you withhold a frustrated groan and remind yourself that War’s sense of Honour is vastly inflated. The ‘father’ of your child’s ignorance won’t excuse his absence, not in War’s eyes.

Even so, you try to dissuade any ideas of retribution before they can gain traction.

“He didn’t abandon us, War. He probably doesn’t even remember I exist! Goodness knows I can hardly remember that night…” You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor.

Death’s eyes are suddenly the hardest to meet. You recall your first introduction to Lilith; the self-proclaimed mother of all Nephilim, and subsequently the Horsemen themselves. You know of the demoness’s… reputation. You also know firsthand how much the Eldest Horseman despises her. You’re terrified Death will see something of Lilith in you, that you’d be so liberal with your own body as to end up with a child.

The inside of your eyelids start to burn. “And now everyone is gonna think I’m just some skank who went and got knocked-up by a stranger and… and-… They’re always gonna look at my kid and wonder who the father is. I don’t even know who the father is.”

There are tears prickling at your eyelashes, but you force your hands into fists at your sides, refusing to wipe them away lest your draw attention to them. The Horsemen see anyway.

Light blooms back to its full power across your apartment, your lamps stop trembling, and a pale finger crooks beneath your chin, tilting your head back until you’re peering up at a stoic mask of bone.

Death’s ebony hair falls in curtains around his face as he bends a little to speak to you in a hushed yet urgent tone. “He didn’t…” Hesitating, he draws in an unnecessary breath to fill dead lungs and alters his trajectory. “You were not forced…?”

You wish you didn’t know why that question is so important to Death, why the concept of consent means more to him than it might the others.

“No,” you reiterate miserably, “That’s one thing I do remember. I wanted, uh… it, at the time, a-and so did he. He didn’t know this would happen any more than I did.” You pause to lay a hand over your stomach, furrowing your brow as you give it a pensive stare and missing the way Death’s shoulders slump with relief. After a second or two, you hesitantly raise your chin to look him in the eye again, hoping that what little determination you can inject into your voice will hold strong. “… Look, I’m not proud of it, but it happened. I can’t change things… and… I’m keeping them. I’m sorry, but I’m keeping this baby.”

You hold your breath, expecting arguments, expecting a rebuttal or perhaps even a scoff or two.

“Why would you be sorry for that?” Strife pipes up instead.

It throws you off kilter. Pulling away from Death, you swivel around to frown uncertainly at War and his brother, fiddling with the hem of your jumper’s sleeve. “Well… I mean… I-I’m having the baby…“

When you don’t say anything further, War raises a hand and pulls down his hood, exposing the full extent of his wispy, white hair. “Yes?” he prompts, the unspoken ‘and?’ ringing clear as a bell.

“I’m having the… baby of a… of a man I don’t… know?” you finish slowly, glancing at each of them in turn.

“Big deal!” Strife announces so abruptly, you have to do a double-take, “You don’t need him to help you raise a little human! You’ve got us!”

Nodding her head, Fury adds, “Far be it from me to agree with Strife, but… in this case, he may be right.”

War grunts his own agreement, and when you throw an incredulous look at Death, you’re floored to see him dipping his head in concurrence as well.

“You’re…” Darting your tongue out to wet your dry lips, you squint at the eldest Horseman, asking, “You’re not angry?”

He’s quiet for some time, contemplative even as his gaze roves lower until it comes to a stop on your torso. Then, gently, he replies, “The only qualm I have is that you’ve been trying to bear this weight on your own two shoulders. And while I wish you had told us sooner, at least now we know how to help you.”

“Help me?” you utter, voice cracking.

Death’s eyes dance with a sudden fondness. “Well,” he replies, “As I’m sure Strife has told you repeatedly-“

“- you’re one of us,” said brother butts in, expertly finishing Death’s sentence and stepping up beside you to lay a heavy palm on your shoulder, “We take care of our own. Same goes for your kid.”

You’re too late to stop a choked noise from escaping the base of your throat, but before you can say anything, War steps forwards, towering over you as he pounds a solid, metal fist against his chest, directly over his heart in a show of allegiance.

“You and yours will always have the protection of the Four,” he proclaims.

“You… you don’t have to, you know,” you sniff, swiping a few fingers beneath your eyes, “I signed up for this baby, you guys didn’t. It’s okay if you don’t want to get involved because -“

“-Oh, don’t talk such nonsense,” Fury gruffly interjects, “You’re sorely mistaken if you think either one of us will be leaving your side for the foreseeable future.”

“Fury,” you laugh wetly, aiming a wobbly smile at her, “You mean that?”

The surly Horseman’s lip curls but she merely shrugs and retorts, “I may not care much for children, but someone will have to stick around to teach our youngling how to fight.”

Our youngling…

Your heart squeezes appreciatively, even if she might not have noticed the slip.

“That’s just her way of sayin’ she cares about children if it’s yours,” Strife’s voice murmurs in your ear, and with a gentle nudge at the small of your back, he pushes you towards the sofa his sister has vacated. If Fury hears him, she doesn’t dispute his words.

As you’re herded to sit down, War, ever the more practical of his siblings, is busy casting a rather dissatisfied look around your apartment, making a quick mental note to ramp up fortifications. He’ll have to schedule watches between himself and his siblings too…

“I can’t believe it,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to the Horsemen, sinking down among the cushions of your sofa and shaking your head, “I’ve been so worried about telling you guys I’m pregnant, and you’re just… okay with it.”

“As if we’d be anything else,” Death sighs, roving a quick look over you from head to toe. Squinting slightly, he adds, “Hmm… I’m not, however, okay that you can’t seem to keep food down lately. I take it that’s why you’ve been disappearing so suddenly of late?”

Giving him a sheepish nod, you shuffle to one side, allowing Strife to flop heavily onto the sofa next to you, his enormous thigh squashing you up against the arm rest. “I’ll go for more rations in a bit,” he announces, eager to provide.

“I can go,” you say, “They are for me, after all.”

Burly shoulders bristle in a display of faux authority as Strife instantly argues, “Nuh uh. You’re stayin’ right here where it’s safe.” He grumbles a nonsensical sound, then begrudgingly admits, “Hate you leavin’ at the best of times…”

Despite the niggle of exasperation that begs you to remind them you’re not helpless, just pregnant, you offer him a warm grin and bump your shoulder against his side, saying, “You’re going to make a great uncle, Strife.”

To say the Horseman’s mask almost flies off as he whips his torso around to face you would be an understatement.

You have to lean back, as though pushed away by the sheer intensity of his blazing stare. “What’d you say?” he breathes.

“I… oh, I, er…” Realising you may have overstepped, you swiftly attempt to backtrack. “I mean, that’s not what you have to be called, I was just-“

“-Uncle... That’s the brother of a human’s parent…” His eyes shine like the sun as they bore into you across the sofa. “Right?”

Uncertain, you quirk a brow at him. “Uh, yeah?”

He contemplates that for a second before he asks in a far smaller voice that almost doesn’t sound as if it belongs to the boisterous Horseman you know, “I’m your brother?”

“Of… course?” you blink, surprised that he’d need to even ask that question, “Of course you are. You said it yourself, I’m one of you. Sorry to say it, but that goes both ways. You’re my brother Strife. A-and if you’re okay with it�� I’d like you to be this baby’s uncle.” Tearing your eyes off the sharpshooter whilst he none-too subtly coming apart at your side, you send a tentative look up at War, peering at him from under your lashes. “You too, big guy. But! Only if that’s okay with you? I just… want them to grow up knowing who their family is…”

War coughs into a mighty fist, hoping to hide the tiny smile that’s trying to bloom at the sides of his mouth, “In that case, it would be an honour to be acknowledged as the child’s ‘Uncle,’ until my dying breath.”

Always so serious. Giving your head a fond shake, you flash their sister a knowing look and call, “What about Aunt Fury? You on board?”

“Hmph, well,” she shrugs one shoulder, turning to glare at the wall, “It… has a nice ring to it, I suppose.”

You’re not fooled. The way she’s keeps having to wrestle the corners of her lips back into a terse line speaks volumes.

“Of course, I haven’t forgotten about you, Death,” you say, at last addressing the Reaper who is watching the proceeding with a calm, reserved expression. At least until he catches the little smirk lifting your cheeks. “Or should I say, Grandpa Death.”

At once, the Nephilim’s expression flattens, unimpressed. “If you introduce me to that child as ‘Grandpa Death,’ perhaps I won’t be sticking around.”

“Ah, you love it, Gramps, don’t try to deny it,” Strife teases, leaning in to stage-whisper in your ear, “Look at him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the miserable bastard this happy.”

You have to stifle a snicker for Death’s sake. True to form though, while his eldest brother’s fearsome scowl persists when it lingers on Strife, it soon grows soft again upon turning back to you.

And in that one look, shared between a human and the eldest surviving Nephilim, you realise categorically that Death is with you. All of them are. They aren’t worried about your reputation. They won’t concern themselves with the idle gossip of your neighbours.

They’re family, as is the small spark of life steadily growing inside your stomach.

And father or no, your child is still going to grow up under the watchful eye of the Universe's most diligent and protective guardians.