#its too easy to be made cruel by cruel circumstances

[lynettethemadscientist]

CHARACTERS THAT ARE KIND IN SPITE OF CRUEL CIRCUMSTANCES

CHARACTERS THAT ARE KIND IN SPITE OF CRUEL CIRCUMSTANCES CHARACTERS THAT ARE KIND IN SPITE OF CRUEL CIRCUMSTANCES CHARACTERS THAT ARE KIND IN SPITE OF CRUEL CIRCUMSTANCES AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[sunderingstars]

don't be a coward, roll the dice 🎲

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ DICE ROLL #43 — A BLOODY KISS ⌝

based on this post!

word count: 1.4k

what the stars reveal: boothill x reader, gn!reader, boothill calls reader "darlin'," slight mentions of blood, i'm allergic to not putting a Narrative™ in everything i write

— thank you for the excuse to write angst cheerisse >:3

Three days. That’s how long it had been since Boothill told you he’d return. Three long, grueling, torturous days. You thought you’d be used to it by now — the stretches of time he went radio silent for one reason or another, flickering out of your life like a candle. Yet, it was impossible to truly release.

Despite occupying such an important role in his life, a partner in all its meanings, it was so easy for him to dissipate, to leave wisps of smoke behind as his flame dwindled. It was the fleeting nature of a Galaxy Ranger, you knew, but you couldn’t understand. What was the point of making you worry? What was the point of those sleepless nights? 

On day one you had forced yourself to be patient. Quiet. You molded yourself to the chair at your workstation and sat, eyes roaming over the bits of machinery and time-worn tools scattered about. Once in a while, you’d even let yourself tinker with a piece or two, just to make sure everything was ready for his arrival. You had an important job after all; not just the maintenance of his body, but of his soul and mind. Nothing was quite as sweet as the moments your eyes met while tuning him.

But the second day began to gnaw at you. Twist, in your stomach, like snakes. Their sour venom began to leak into your mind, swirl your worries in a cocktail of potential tragedies, and you contemplated sending him a message. Just one. Enough to ease your mind, to let him know a small blip of you was waiting for him back home. After a few hours of pacing back and forth in your shared kitchen, you worked up the determination to do it.

… No response. Not at dinnertime, not in the evening, and certainly not in the early hours of the morning — most of which you lay painfully awake during. Only the cruel static of a blank screen remained, blinking once, twice, as it tried and failed to reach him among a sea of stars.

The third day was the worst. Everything seemed to compound, balloon out in your mind to the point it began to seep into other parts of your being. You bounced your leg, bit your fingernails, peeled at your lip without even registering it. Eventually, you made your way to the storage closet for some whiskey, if not to take the edge off then to at least give your mouth a diversion.

You had just popped open a bottle when you heard a clank. Immediately, you stilled. Listened again. The bottle, prone, hung in your grip.

Clank. 

It was outside, not in.

You were out the door faster than you could blink, legs weaving around rocks and brush as you trampled anything too small to get caught on. The sun was beginning to set, casting the arid landscape in darkening hues of pink and gold, but you knew this place like the back of your hand; the lengthening shadows did nothing to stop your pursuit. Under normal circumstances, you’d be more concerned about threats — wild animals, loose tools, even the stray IPC guard who managed to track down your location, but you didn’t care about any of that now. Not when Boothill was on the line. 

So you persisted. Drew closer to the noise as much as you could, eventually picking up an increase in frequency and the soft humming of a tired engine. You squinted. Then, you almost collapsed in relief; trundling down the paved dirt road was a motorbike. Boothill’s motorbike. It was a ghost of its former self, laden with loose parts and constant stuttering and a headlight practically severed from the rest, but it was his. 

Not wanting to waste any more time, you picked up your pace with a clear destination in mind. It’s not like he could properly run you over anyways. You were surprised the thing was even moving. 

“Boothill?” you called into the dusk. Out-of-breath and ragged, your mind began to filter through your fears, fearing silence, fearing stillness.

However, as the silhouette slowly resolved into familiarity, so too came a voice that pricked tears at your eyes.

“Yes, darlin’?”

Whatever sharp spark of anger coasted through your chest at the causal response fizzled into nothing once you laid eyes on his face. That signature smile, those red-tinted eyes, all backlit against the rays of a dying sun. Healthy. Whole. Alive. Once again, you felt as though your legs might give out. 

You made it just far enough to lean against the shuddering fuel tank before using the last of your willpower to vault yourself towards the open embrace of Boothill’s chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso. A hearty laugh sounded against you.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You mumbled an unintelligible response. The loud hum of the bike became an irrelevant backdrop to the soft hum of metal and leather, the feeling of machinery quietly whirring against the skin of your cheek. No stutters, no pauses. Unlike the dying corpse below, Boothill was running smoothly. You breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why…?”

You didn’t have to finish your sentence before a sigh crested against the crown of your head. A hand, firm and comforting, came to rest on the back of your neck. “’M sorry, darlin’. Damn phone got busted. I knew you’d worry, but tryin’ to make a call in IPC territory was too risky.”

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, breath hitching in a vain attempt to keep tears from falling. “I’m just happy you’re— you’re safe.”

In your arms, the leather of his jacket shifted. A warm weight pressed to the small of your back.

“Aw,” he cooed, breath fanning across your cheek as he shifted you into a more comfortable position, “it’s alright. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Something about the combination of his words and actions, the familiar smell of gunsmoke and malt clinging to him like home, made it all bubble over. Before you knew it, you were tilting out and up, cupping your hands against Boothill’s cheeks, bringing him home. In the last painted rays of the sun, your lips met in a stroke of vibrant color.

It felt like everything you had wanted over the past half-week — brightness, relief, the surety of something alive and warm against you. An immeasurable weight left with the tear-tracks down your face, each fear dissipating with a new round of wetness. His lips slotted against yours with the ease of practice. Drifted with purpose to wash away your worry. By the time you tasted tang, you thought it must have been you. It wasn’t uncommon for a part of your lips or tongue to get caught in Boothill’s sharp canines, rupturing the skin ever so slightly to form a pinprick of blood. However, it became clear this wasn’t the case when you surfaced for air. 

As your eyes adjusted to the growing darkness, you began to make out faint, dark splatters against your partner’s face.

Fear returned to you in a rush. You hadn’t even checked for flesh injuries when you first saw him, too caught up in the relief of seeing him again. 

“Boothill—” you said, fingers tracking carefully along the edge of his mouth where you could see a blossom of dark blood emerging, “—Boothill!”

The man in question hummed in confusion. Slightly frantically, you traced the pads of your fingers along the edges of the splatter. It was fresh. Oh, Aeons, it was fresh, and you hadn’t even thought—

“Woah, hey.” The low timbre of Boothill’s voice brought you out of your spiral. The hands on your back rubbed soothing circles, the kind he used when trying to calm a horse. “It’s nothin’, darlin’.”

“‘Nothing?’” you asked incredulously.

“It’s not mine, if that’s what you’re askin’.” He shot you an infuriating smile. “A few folks from the corporation got on my nerves, that’s all.” Then, when your skepticism remained: “Promise.”

You bit your lip, trying to tamp down the fluttering revival of fear in your chest. You couldn’t deny it, though — even in the night, the drying splatters clearly arced in a passing motion rather than a bleeding one. For what felt like forever, you focused your eyes on the spot near his mouth, burning it into your mind until it dispelled any doubt. 

Eventually, you slumped, more out of fatigue than anything else. “Okay.”

“Alright?”

“Okay,” you repeated, “but we’re going inside first. And I’m still checking you over.”

Boothill chuckled. “‘Course. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then, he smiled, and you found yourself silently glad for the darkness, for the ability to see the radiance of the man before you in place of a sun. 

It was beautiful.

© written by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

Sinful.

Joel Miler x f!reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: smut. literally just smut. minors DNI!!

a/n: i threw this together in all of 24 hrs, it is entirely unedited and i am still new to writing smut, pls be kind. any constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated :))

For now, you close your eyes. Death can have you another day.

Today, you are his.

Pale morning light flickered through broken blinds, illuminating the small apartment in a soft glow that momentarily tricked you into believing you were safe. The gunfire and screams of terror, just barely audible from outside of the room, reminded you that you are not. A cruel trick, one that seemed to have the same hold day after day, your sleep-addled brain never remembering the circumstances of your existence in its first moments of consciousness. You longed for a security that no longer existed outside of the arms of your lover and he was not there to wrap them around you.

Please don’t go.

You know I have to.

The cover of night protected him during his illicit activities, but did nothing for your peace of mind. You wanted him back, damning whoever had stolen him from you last night and forced you to awake in a cold bed. 

Sleep continued to cloud your brain, lulling you back into that false security you so desperately sought in the emptiness of the bedroom. It sang a lullaby to you that sounded vaguely like his voice—you could not put a descriptor to the sound of it, you only knew it reminded you of peace—a home you had forgotten about the existence of (it never forgot you). But the gunfire was too loud, the lullaby was drowned out and you were left with a cruel reminder of your reality. It filled your mouth with gravel, choking you as you desperately tried to push it down your throat. It seemed determined to suffocate you—a reminder that what once was, would never come again, and what is now will someday kill you.

For now, you close your eyes. Death can have you another day.

Today, you are his. 

He reminds you of this when he returns to you. Large hands wrap around your waist and pull you into the hardness of his chest as his nose nestles into the softness of your neck. 

“Missed you.” He whispers hot into the skin. His breath lit a fire inside of you, one that settled in the pit of your stomach and blossomed into something all too familiar. The smallest touch from him sends you reeling. His beard, rough against the tender flesh, heightened the sensation with the tinge of pain that it brought. You thought you could die in that moment and be the happiest woman to have ever lived. He proved you wrong with a slow roll of his hips, and hands moving to roughly grip your waist. He did not know gentleness. You will not find what you are looking for in his hands, but they hold more answers than you ever dream of finding. 

“You're late.” He never gave you a time of return, but he was apologetic nonetheless.

‘

“Let me make it up to you.” He moved the hair obstructing the skin of your neck. His fingers tangled in the strands and offered a light tug that left you completely breathless. Chapped lips met velvet as he left open-mouthed kisses down the span of your neck. 

“And how do you think you're going to do that?” He was easy to rile up. He was hooked on you. You made the hydrocodone in his shirt pocket burn with jealousy. It knew it could never compare to the way your hips rolled against his, could never make him feel as blissful as you when you’re on your knees for him. He would never beg for his pills the way he begged for you.

Nothing could make him beg the way you do.

“Like this.” He whispers between his affections. Joel Miller is not an affectionate man, the last traces wiped out years before you had ever spoken his name or shared his bed, but he scrounged up what he was able for you. He would do anything for you. You had started as a means to an end—a quick release of tension, a quick fuck. When the tension was gone and you remained, he became enraptured. You had stayed long enough that he believed you were permanent. He watched you escape Death more times than he could count; he was almost foolish enough to believe that it could not catch you. It seemed more believable that you were inordinately lucky, but you being untouchable was easier to swallow than the fact that Death would one day steal you away from him.

His grinds into you, his hand tightening its grip on your waist until there are sure to be bruises left behind—a reminder of who you belong to, something he will not let you forget while he draws breath. He is the only man you would allow to leave a bruise on you and live to boast.

You would let Joel do anything he wanted to you.

The kisses that had originated on your neck began to trail down to your collarbones, your chest, in between your breasts, down the expanse of your stomach. He left behind splotches of purple to mark his descent down your body, his path of return clearly marked, all the way back to the lips that stole him from the painful reality he resided in. The scruff of his beard left a welcomed stinging sensation in its wake, a reminder that you are still human—a reminder of whose bed you are in, as if he would ever let you forget.

What Joel lacks in affection, he makes up for in patience. He likes to take his time with you, no matter how hard you plead for release. He thought you prettiest when you begged, when your body screamed with a thirst that only he could quench. While he wasted no time removing the clothes from your lower half that concealed you from him, he takes his time when you are exposed. He seems determined to draw it out today. He spent extra time in between your thighs, but not where you needed him. He left more purple—more evidence—on the insides of your thighs. It felt like a badge of honor. You intertwined yourself with the depths of Joel Miller and lived to tell the tale.

“This doesn’t feel like you're making it up to me.” You whisper as he wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you down to the bed. 

“I’m gettin’ to it.” He mutters, his head dipping between your thighs. One hand had vanished from your thighs, and moved to part your lips. He took a moment to marvel at your beauty before licking a bold stripe up your center. His tongue felt impossibly hot; you thought that you were going to burn alive from the inside as he added a moment of focus to your clit. It was begging for attention, begging for him, and who was he to further deny you the pleasure that you writhed for? His fingers toyed with your entrance while his tongue left behind kitten-like licks. He was still teasing, still trying to make you beg for the release you desperately craved.

“No, you’re teas—” His finger entering you stole away your words, a drawn out moan stealing their place. The stimulation was perfect, not enough, and too much. He always seemed just a moment too late to know what you wanted. You decided you could forgive him as the digit slowly pumped inside of you, further igniting the fire that raged in your gut; the flames tickled every nerve running from your spine and you were unable to speak. Joel nearly crumbled when he felt your velveteen walls surrounding the skin—he felt selfish for the ways he desires you. It felt almost tortuous to put his needs aside for yours, but the way you moaned and squirmed underneath him felt enough like repentance to do it without complaint. Your thighs clenching around his head, and hands in his hair made him eager to do it.

“What was that, darlin’? Couldn’t hear ya.” He barely parted from your lips to speak, and you think that he is too cocky for his own good. He knows every manner in which he can make you shatter, he uses it to his advantage, and he enjoys it—he enjoys having that control over your body. It was hard for you to blame him for it, knowing you felt the same when he was a panting, sweating, writhing mess underneath you; when you dangled pleasure on a stick in front of him and made him work towards it without it ever nearing the finish line until you finally decide to cut the string.

You know he is paying you back for it. No good deed goes unpunished—not if he has anything to say about it.

His finger never stopped working you over. Another digit was added, and he curled them to reach a devastating spot inside of you. It rendered you speechless, nothing more than a babbling mess as he increased his pace. When his mouth returned, you closed your eyes so tightly that stars danced in your vision—another reminder that the things you want will not come without a price. His digits pumped in and out of you at a relentless pace, never once losing rhythm, never giving you more than he was willing. Tonight, he is willing to give you everything—it makes you believe in God for just a moment, but you know he would never allow you something so pleasurable.

“Joel—” Your first discernible words. “Fuck— I’m gonna— Oh, God—” A prayer for something unholy to a God that you knew was not there. It was only him.

“Let it out for me.” It was the only instruction you needed. White-hot pleasure engulfed your entire being, your back attempted to arch off of the bed but was met with the resistance of Joel’s arm. You felt jolts of lightning surge through your body; the earth came to a halt and the only thing remaining was his right arm wrapped around your waist, and his left hand slowly working you through the blinding pleasure. Your thighs, still wrapped around him, began to slowly relinquish their hold as the final waves ebbed through your body, allowing him to once again breathe fresh air. The lower half of his face was damp with traces of your arousal, but he seemed unphased. 

He allowed you a moment to bask in the afterglow before he climbed back on top of you. The fact that he remained fully clothed was borderline offensive to you, so your hands found their way to the zipper of the denim that concealed him. It only took another moment before one found its way past the articles that obscured him from you.

“Someone’s eager.” He teases. He always fucking teases.

“That’s pretty bold.” You retort, your hand wrapping around the hardness of his length to punctuate your statement. It drew a sickeningly beautiful moan from his lips—it was nearly enough to send you over the edge again. “Considering you’re the one that climbed on top of me.”

Joel’s patience began wearing thin, and it showed in the way he hastily shoved off his jeans, his boxers following suit. They wound up in a crumpled pile on the bedroom floor, right beside yours. He never took his shirt off, feeling as though age had made his body inadequate and the softness of his stomach would lessen the intensity of the moment—he did not need any further reminders of the deteriorating state of his body. The way his right ear could not hear your moans in the manner it used to was enough, and he did not want you to remember that he was decaying. You already carried enough of him.

Something so sinful should not feel so holy.

He could not help the moan that escaped his lips as he pushed into you. The silk of your walls gripped his cock so beautifully—if Joel had to choose a place to spend the rest of his life, it would be here, in this bedroom, inside of you.

He knew he would not last long. His stamina was yet another reminder that his body was not what it used to be, but he swore that as long as he had hands, you would know what it meant to be satisfied. His pace was slow, but rough. He offered you no reprieve from the pleasure that consumed your body for a second time. You did not want it. You wanted him to take you how he needed, to have you in any way that made the voices shouting inside of his brain dull into a whisper, even if it was for only a second. You wanted to offer him bliss in whatever form he was able to accept it.

The slapping of skin, small grunts, and wetness squelching echoed in the bedroom. As each moment passed, the grunts turned into drawn out moans and Joel’s hips began to stutter. You knew he was close. He knew that you were as well, but not nearly as far gone as him. He remedied that by placing his hand in between your bodies—the new position caused his pace to falter more than what it already had, and his supporting arm shook underneath the added weight but he could not find the strength to care when your mouth fell open into an ‘O’ shape, and you whimpered—to rub your clit. The pressure was brutal, it shocked your body and pushed you closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Give me one more.” He whispered in your ear. “You can do it.”

His encouragement was all that you needed to dive head first into the waves of pleasure. It consumed every inch of you, and Joel took it as permission to chase his own release. His rhythm increased, working in double time, producing a symphony with the sounds that you ripped from his mouth—you had to do nothing to compose them. Bliss consumed him in the same way it did you. His body shook, his eyes were forced shut, and his mouth hung slightly open as he rode out the waves of his orgasm, fucking his spend into you. The sound it made should have been blasphemy, considering he was calling to God as though he was in the room.

He rested the full weight of his body on top of you, and the pressure grounded you as you struggled to make your way back to reality. “Am I forgiven?”

“I guess so.” You joke with him, and he scoffs as he rolls off of you. 

“‘Guess so,’ my ass.” He retorts.

The room returns to silence as you curl into his chest. The gunfire did not resume, nor did the screams and you are able to drift back into sleep with the knowledge that you are safe in your lover’s arms.

The room returns to silence as you curl into his chest. The gunfire did not resume, nor did the screams and you are able to drift back into sleep with the knowledge that you are safe in your lover’s arms.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Setting: The Kingdom of Xophena, Realm of the Pure

Though it is famed the world over for the piety of its people and the bravery of its knights, this kingdom holds a dark secret at its heart. If you were to see the scattering of fortress cities surrounded by horror haunted wilderness it would be all too easy to believe the legends: brave warriors sallying forth to do battle against the corruption that besieges them from all sides, slaying great foes and making great sacrifices in the name of defending the innocent. If you looked closer though you would see Xophena for all its faults, the fear by which its elite drive and dominate its populace, a tradition of martial glory that justifies any action or abuse of the warrior caste, a population forced to endure toil and abject subjugation or be exiled outside the walls.

Adventure Hooks:

While travelling through the realm of the pure as part of an ongoing quest, the party run into a retinue of outrider knights on their way to destroy a rampaging aberration hiding out in a gold mine. Some of the knights scoff at the party for being common sellswords, while others recognize them as fellow doogooders-at-arms. There's glory to be had if the party join them in their mission, and more importantly, potential reward and bragging rights.... if they can keep up, the mounted cavaliers aren't going to slow down on the party's behalf.

Xophen emissaries have made an appearance in the party's homeland, courting alliances, making trade deals, and generally putting their finger on the scales of power. Distrustful of too many good offers, the party's patron is planning on a visit to Xophena in the near future and would like them to come along as extra sets of eyes and ears. Renegade heroes have a habit of seeing through the haze of political bullshit.

Xophena would make a fascinating backdrop for a campaign, as Arthurian myth crashes into lovecraftian weirdness. The best place to start would be with the party as castoffs and exiles, eking out a living in one of the few hidden hamlets built by those outcast from the social order. How do they survive? When circumstances demand that they enter one of the fortress cities do they trick their way in, or beg favour from the sanctimonious powers that be? Can they last long enough to discover the secret that has bent the world into its current cruel shape?

Background: Only a few centuries ago Xophena was just like any other kingdom, periods of prosperity and stability that dissolved into infighting as the local warrior elite squabbled for position. That of course all changed when monsters known as the Delnbrood began to wriggle out of the earth like worms after rain, causing untold devastation and forcing a societal retreat to the increasingly fortified settlements dotted about the mountainous foothills. The fear and chaos of these years restructured Xophen society into a rigid hierarchy based around tradition, faith, and survival, which has only grown more ossified as time has gone on.

Both Xophen scripture and legend will tell you that the horrors that beset them began with a treasonous sorcerer Delndrek who sought to take the throne for himself through dishonorable means and darkest sorcery. He was opposed by Tanria brightspear, a saint of the everlight who foiled his every sly attempt to seize power, until at last she cornered him and forced his surrender. Ever the coward, Delndrek sacrificed his humanity rather than relinquish his ambition, becoming an indescribable abomination, that it took the bright speared saint five days to vanquish, dying in the process. It's said that the aberrations that beset Xophena today are born from where his tainted blood struck the earth.

Like many of the tales told about the realm of the pure, this story is a lie, gilded with just enough truth to make it stick in the people's memory. Delndrek wasn't just a sorcerer, but the sorcerer of the royal family, tasked with magicing away all the problems that backwoods dynasty couldn't solve through bloodshed or political marriage. The kingdom's goldmines had always been its lifeblood, and most of the fighting in those days about who could profit from what claim. Trouble was the royal family's mines were drying up, so they threw their pet mage at the problem said that if he didn't find a solution they'd torture him till they did. Dying mines and mounting stress forced Delndrek to look deeper and deeper for an answer, and eventually led him to communion with the outergod Jysh'parun who holds dominion over the secrets of mountains. A pact was struck, the mountains ate people and spat up gold, until eventually the saint found out and decided to put a stop to things.

Cut to today, and the dependants of that very same royal family are still trying to wriggle out of the pact they instigated, spending their people's lives to fill their coffers and fight back the creatures the outer god sends to assert dominion over the realm he was promised.

Setting Details:

The church of the everlight was always strong in Xophena, dating back half a millennia to when an adherent of hers was lost on a stormy sea for months and was only able to find land when the mist parted and he saw the dawn first alighting on one of the region's seaside peaks. The mountainous temple city of First Alight still serves as the heart of the region's faith.

That faith has become just as gaudy and hollow as the rest of the kingdom: Somewhere along the line it was decided that gold was the best way to demonstrate praise to Sarenrae, both in decorating her icons and paying to erect ever grander structures in her honour. While the common people pray for the hope and strength to lead them through lean times, their tithes go to fund an increasingly bloated clergy who spend their days finding reasons that the peoples' sinful nature forestalls their goddess's promised salvation.

You don't compose ballads calling your homeland "Realm of the Pure" unless you've got some hangups around cleanliness. Delndrek's corruption has touched more than the land, as aberrant sorceries and otherworldly mutations have begun to spring up among the populace. Those with influence do their best to hide these marks, those without are scapegoated, exiled, or made an example of.

For all their privilege and brainwashing, many of the realm's knights really do believe in the cause, having largely abandoned the ways of petty armed gentry and settling instead into martial orders. While they all compete to slay the most beasts and earn the most gallant reputation, it is a deepset longing among the knights to be able to find St. Tanria's lost spear, which in the right hands is said to be able to rid the land of its blight once and for all.

Arcane magic is viewed with suspicion in Xophena, as any rogue mage could be just another Delndrek waiting to happen. Exceptions are of course made for those spoken for by the nobility.

Art 1

Art 2

[howyouloveyourdragon]

What about alpha!rhaenyra x omega!reader x alpha!daemon, where reader is Rhaenyra’s soft shy younger sister? Maybe Viserys hasn’t given them approval to marry her, so they sneak her out of the red keep and secretly wed in a traditional valyrian ceremony on Dragonstone? They would IMMEDIATELY begin breeding reader so nobody can take her away from them

thank you for your request! i like how you're thinking anon

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴇʀᴄɪᴠᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏᴜʀ, ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ, ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴋɪɴᴋꜱ: ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱᴇ ('*' is where the nsfw comes in)

𝕴 𝖍𝖔𝖕𝖊 𝖎𝖙'𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖎𝖘 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌, 𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝕯𝖆𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝕽𝖍𝖆𝖊𝖓𝖞𝖗𝖆'𝖘 𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖙𝖍 𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖑 <3

"𝐍𝐎, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 marry her!" Viserys exclaimed. Rhaenyra's jaw clenched but Daemon scoffed beside her. "And why not?" She yelled back. Daemon sneered at the King, his lips twitching. "She is still young." Viserys offered weakly to which Daemon rolled his eyes. "You tried to marry Rhaenyra off before her ten and seventh namesday, Y/n is certainly old enough!" Viserys seethed at him and stood with a finger raised threateningly. "Y/n is also a second child, a second daughter no less and until we are in need of allies she is of no concern. She may whom she chooses when I deem her old enough." "My sister is not one to be used! There is no better safety than to have her between two alpha Targaryens! We are stronger than any other." Rhaenyra shouted. The castle bellowed with anger as though taking a life-force of its own, to whom it agreed with would be commented among scattering servants. "If you plan to wed her to some highborn cunt, test us but he will not leave with our bride." "You cannot possibly believe me to allow a wedding between all three of you, I forbid it!"

"Then try!" Rhaenyra snapped back vehemently. She turned with her long hair whipping as harsh as a sentence while Daemon took a powerful stance of his own as he too left his brother to wallow. Viserys clenched his jaw and rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. "Escort them and under no circumstances are they to leave you sight besides their chambers." He commanded, causing guards to start tripping over themselves to abide their King. For the first time in years he was not the quiet man they had grown accustomed to and it was enough to repel any desire to be around the more unruly Targaryens. Rhaenyra and Daemon were the first alpha born children in the Targaryen line since Maegor the Cruel and his parents Aegon and Visenya, the origins of their Iron claim...and though there had been before them, there was no telling what would be possible if both longed to steal his omega child even rarer than they. Leaving the Keep was easy, the hard part was convincing their sweet bride to abide by them. Loyalty was not something easily lost but Rhaenyra had prepared for this since the both of you were young, it was not often that women could marry with or without their status. However Viserys had always been very cautious with you, keeping you sheltered inside due to the young lure of an omega. It was far too easy for someone to steal you away with your kind nature if he let you out unless he ensured you were encircled with guards at all times but that was not a prime solution. Rhaenyra was sure you had never seen the outside even when mother was alive. She thought of this as she and Daemon murmured to each other as they sped down the hall and with a final glance they nodded and left their respective chambers. They were going to take you by law or by force and Viserys had made his choice. It was time to play their move.

Rhaenyra stepped into her chambers with a plan. She and Daemon would use the passageways and–oh. When she turned her head there you were sitting patiently on her bed with a book in had and your hair cascading behind you like a fairy-tale beauty. When you saw her, a radiant beaming smile forced the light of all stars to crash your eyes willingly just for it to meet your sister. Her heart stopped for a moment but when you stood she knew that nothing was going to keep her from expressing her love for you. She cared for Daemon, hell she even cared for Criston, but neither affections ever nearly reached her care for you. She didn't stop her feet when they moved toward you, a giddying glee enveloping her as you stepped toward her. She wanted you to feel her adoration as she took a leap and pulled your alluring face toward her own and joined your lips in an earth-shattering embracive kiss. Her tongue moved against your mouth like it belonged there. She wanted it to belong there. When the kiss became too suffocating she pulled away to breathe and found her fingers having entwined in your hair. Your eyes were blown out in beautiful circles of confusion and joy and she revelled in it. "Avy jorrāelan, hāedar." She declared as your own hands rested against her. (I love you, sister/younger sister) You melted into her arms. "Majigho tosh nyke." (Come with me) Her hand tugged you further into the room until she had you pressed to a cold stone wall. She worked hard to push back her bed and open the passageway for your curious eyes. She took a hold of your hand again and pulled you in.

"What is this?" You asked with wonder as you scaled the building with your eyes. She chuckled before kissing your cheeks. "The start of everything, my love." She replied, hearing Daemon's oncoming footsteps. When he reached them there, both were in a giggling excitement but that wasn't the cause of his surprise. "Kepus!" You announced at the sight of him and turned into a beautiful flush of pink. (Uncle) A desire to possess you rang in his ears and it showed in his sly grin. He greeted you both with a nod of the head before pulling a bag from behind his back. He tossed it to the floor as you wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him to your height. His eager arms lingered on your waist only to release one in favour of his fingers playing with a strand of your hair. He chuckled mischievously. "What's this?" He asked, referring to a small cut hidden beneath the curtain of white. You pulled away bashfully though his other hand stayed trapping you in his embrace. Rhaenyra watched with increasing excitement. She glanced at the bag and rifled through it. You batted your eyelashes at him as you recounted the events which caused your short strand. "I, well..." You trailed. Rhaenyra ever the more confident answered for you. "She was riding on Syrax with me and we hit a branch." She answered teasingly. Daemon hummed and held in his amusement at your embarrassed flush. He stroked a thumb over it affectionately before leaning in to kiss it gently. Your eyes closed as an innocent gasp left you. "Then it will heal." He noted. "It would be a shame to scar such a pretty riña." Daemon delighted in the sweet tilt to your mouth. (girl) "Indeed." Rhaenyra purred, rising from the bag so that she could thrust a pile of fabric into your arms.

You looked down and frowned at it. Daemon had to stop himself from asking to help. "Clothing." He answered your non-question. You looked up into his violet eyes. "We're taking you for the adventure of your life, darling." At the words, Rhaenyra sent you an assuring grin and nod of encouragement. To their persuasion, you followed Rhaenyra's lead, both of you pulling a beige shirt over your head after Rhaenyra unlaced your dress and let it fall to the floor. She sucked in a sharp breath while Daemon let his eyes wander your form. You acted too quickly for him to let them stray from task for too long as he pushed the hidden passage back in place but he appreciated the brief glimpse. When dressed, Rhaenyra's comforting hand cupped your cheek and drew you into another kiss. A short panic shot through you when you broke from her and saw Daemon watching but she quickly pulled you back to face her. "He knows." She spoke. "We love you together, my sweet hāedar." Daemon approached with cautious calculated steps and drew your bodies both into him, a hand on each cheek. "It is not something to fear, dōna jorrāelan, it is to be celebrated and we know just how." He pressed his warm lips to your forehead and laid a kiss there.

The dragonpit was silent as Daemon paid off guards to allow entry but it didn't quell your nerves, your hands were occupied with each Rhaenyra and Daemon as they guided you onto your dragon and they mounted their own. They shared a glance. The start of forever awaited them as they rose in the air. They kept you and your dragon between them as if guarding you, Daemon behind to keep watch of the city below in case their presence came known and Rhaenyra guiding you forward. As the warm air blew in your face you remained unaware of their intentions. The wind whispered promises of devotion and the sun shone on them like it was made for this day and when you finally landed, Rhaenyra almost didn't want to glide to the floor. She rushed at the chance to help you down however and grinned wickedly back at Daemon. Dragonstone? You wondered though anticipation rattled your bones. Daemon came to sweep you under his arm as you came closer to the castle where their Septon stood waiting. You hesitated at the unfamiliar sight but Rhaenyra and Daemon's smiling faces urged you forward. They swept past the Septon as though not there at all, instead leading you inside. The stairs were winding as they took you up and into a large lavish chamber where a perfect gold and red garment entranced you, it seemed to pair with the headpiece beside it. Daemon leant into your ear. "Soon." He whispered before leaving. Rhaenyra kissed you before you could question further and left you in the room.

Seeing them again but this time in their own garb felt like a warm pressure clutching you in a tight embrace. Their own prideful expressions furthered your trust in them, reminding you of their love. "Do you know why we're here, my love?" Rhaenyra asked quietly and held your hands together. You shook your head and pulled a lip between your teeth. She smiled. "We want to marry you." Your eyes widened and snapped to see Daemon's smirking face immediately. "We need you to be ours." He continued. "We need to claim you, would you like that?" Breath clogged your lungs with a strong push keeping your surprise down. Rhaenyra's fingers glided up your arm. "You only need to say yes." She told you quietly and nuzzled her nose in your hair, breathing in your scent. She wholeheartedly believed that you were made for her. "Will you?" The fluffy feeling she projected into your heart kept you from disagreeing. And so a gentle, "Yes", fell from your lips like a plea. You felt her wide grin against your neck as she lay a series of kisses along it. Daemon's form surprised you when his fingers rolled around your waist so that his teeth could mould onto your jaw and suck a sweet mark just below. He soothed it with kisses of his own and when they both pulled away from you, you felt cold and needy. However there wasn't time for that. Viserys could realise you were missing any second now as they guided you once more toward the Septon. The Septon officiated your promises of love and protection. The sharp sting along the line of your lip felt dull as they soothed you with amorous eyes and warm hands. Your thumb became stained with the blood of the dragon and you didn't mind because it reminded you of your love. "Mēre ñelly, mēre prūmia, mēre soul, sir se forever."  When you all joined to pledge your love with a kiss, their lips brought your own into a security you had never known before but also a freedom. A new world for them to experiment.

*You knew what would happen when you inevitably reached your chambers, the burn in you grasping you in a chokehold. Rhaenyra's soft hands against Daemon's hard touch made you feel euphoric as they slipped you and each other from your traditional garments. A low groan ripped from Daemon's chest, leading his hands to hold your breasts and squeezing while Rhaenyra wrapped her hands onto your waist and sucked marks as dark as his eyes into your skin. After years of pleading, she finally had you. You were the only thing she had ever believed was destined to be hers and now you were her own to mark and praise as she saw fit. "So good for us." She murmured, her wet lips trailing you. Daemon moaned at the sight. "Our good omega, aren't you?" The prince asked and you had a feeling it wasn't rhetorical as his iron grip held you. Rhaenyra raised her eyes to look at your blissful face. He pulled away from you then to watch as you nodded. "So perfect." Rhaenyra breathed, her hands sliding onto your breasts from behind and rolling them like a massage. Daemon kissed your jaw and followed the line of your body until he reached the valley of your breasts, kissing Rhaenyra's hands before further trailing down. 

When he reached your lower belly, his hands swept under your rear and hoisted you against Rhaenyra's body so you were between them. He wrapped your legs around his hips. Rhaenyra relinquished her hands although your whimper made her desire to take you back into her again but she stepped back and swallowed. She sat herself waiting on the large bed. "Gaomagon jaelā naejot sagon īlvon, dōna riña?" He whispered to you as he walked you toward it too. (Do you want to be ours, sweet girl?) He dropped you down onto the plush mattress. Your head lay back between Rhaenyra's thighs, her fingers carding through your hair soothingly. "Say it." She whispered into your ear. Daemon started kissing down your stomach. 

"Jaelan sytilībagon aōhon." You answered. (I want to be yours) And it was with that statement that they knew they had you right where they needed you. Daemon didn't hesitate to press a sloppy kiss against your bud, his tongue circling around it like nothing you had ever felt before. Rhaenyra's hands moved to interlace with your own as you thrashed your head back into her. His tongue guided along you like his vows. "S��z riña." He murmured, vibrating his mouth against you. (Good girl) A shuddering jolt passed through your body, curling your toes and fingers. Rhaenyra almost moaned just watching you fall apart atop her. His tongue lolled into the depths of you and flicked back forth, experienced. "Skorkydoso gaomagon ao pendagon ao sylutegon?" Rhaenyra asked, throat tightening at the thought of having you herself. (How do you think you taste?) She took in your flushed cheeks and droopy eyelids, you were perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. "Dōna..." She whispered. "iā heksīr averilla?" She pulled her hands from yours so that she could suddenly rake her nails over your pointing nipples and groaned. (Sweet...or like wine?" Daemon chuckled as your hips snapped up to his mouth, her teeth briefly leaping along your sensitive bud. You squealed at the sharpness of his canines but just as you were about to release another moan, Daemon's head pulled back and let you hips fall back onto the bedding.

A heave escaped your lips even when you looked down at his waiting violet eyes. Your disappointed and confused furrow of your brow treated him like a winner and he couldn't hold back his evil grin. You almost whined for him but then he was hoisting your legs over his shoulders and leaning forward to join your faces. Your legs burned as he stretched them up close to your collarbones and your neck felt cold when Rhaenyra's body moved from behind it. Daemon was smirking at you. One of Rhaenyra's hands stayed on your nipple, flicking you nipple back and forth like a toy but the rest of her sat beside your limp body. Daemon stroked your face firmly and delighted in the whimpers he caused. "We're going to breed you, sweetling." Rhaenyra told you in her beautiful lilting voice, it almost made the words sound less vulgar. She pressed wet kisses down your neck. "You're ours now and some people don't want you to be." "Will you teach them with us, dōna riña?" Daemon's face was so close to yours but he refused to give into your desires so soon. He urged Rhaenyra with a knowing look to start pressing a slow ring on your clit. Then she slipped it inside, stealing your gasps with a suction-like kiss. "Yes." You replied when she released you with a soft squelch. Daemon growled as if he was being possessed by Caraxes and sucked a harsh mark into your neck.

"Our good girl." He breathed. "Are you ready for my cock?" His tone was domineering and his words vulgar but all you could think about was how good it would feel when his thick appendage finally broke through you. He chuckled wickedly at your dazed glassy eyes and guided his length to your waiting, swollen entrance. Rhaenyra's finger sped up though she withdrew the one that had been slinking inside of you, leaving a gooey trail up your stomach as she slithered it up to your mouth. She tapped your lips and when she dipped it in and lay it at your tongue, a lewd mewl escaped you. Daemon exchanged a proud nod with your sister and felt his breath stutter as he began sliding himself into you. Your red sopping mound nearly scurried away from him but he held your hips tightly in place and Rhaenyra murmured sweet praise into your ear.

"You don't want to be taken away from us do you?" She asked quietly while Daemon halted halfway-through to allow at least some adjustment. Rhaenyra tilted her head at you and let the upturn of her lips glide into a smirk. You shook your head and gasped as her lips pressed against yours. "Then let us have you...all of you." A light trail of blood seeped into the bedding when your uncle broke through the only barrier keeping him from you but none of you seemed to care as he thrust forward and sunk into your wet heat. "Taking me so well." Daemon commented as easily as complimenting your dress but a moan released from buried within his chest as your tight hole engulfed all of him. "Our good girl, we're going to fill you until you burst." His hips snapped against you in a pleasing join of sweat-slick flesh. You had the heat of the dragon within you and it didn't let itself go unnoticed. Rhaenyra's leg swung around your middle when your soft moans and jolting body continued, forcing Daemon to lower your legs. Tears began to release but she kissed at them until you couldn't tell what was from your eyes or the wetness of her tongue. She slid her mouth to capture you, her tongue probing your own.

"I want you to show me what Daemon taught you." The crinkle of your brow went ignored until her thighs locked on either side of your head and her cunt dropped onto your lips. Your inexperienced tongue licked at her curiously and a warm pride filled your chest when she moaned. Your mind went dizzying as your body took full control, you almost felt like an intruding ghost as the heat of your bodies swept over you. You felt as her nub grew larger and larger, sighing in satisfaction as your eyes closed. Daemon's pace maintained a hard brutal pace, abusing your hole until a tingling heightened in your stomach. You cried out as an unknown feeling ebbed away at you. "That's it." He coaxed, almost yelling. "Cum for me, my pretty wives." Rhaenyra let a hoarse scream erupt as you whimpered and thrashed below her, a wave of pleasure finally crashing and a new taste dripping onto your tongue. You lapped at it like a greedy dog but they loved it, Rhaenyra's fingers wrapping in your Targaryen strands and gripping like a vice. The come down felt a newfound clarity. His skin didn't stop slapping against yours until a surge of his seed flowed into you. As it began to drip out of you, he used a singular finger to curl it back into you, thrusting as it did so. Rhaenyra eventually slipped from you but when her fingers released your hair, they played with it in a relaxed threading. "Perfect." She breathed before sliding off the bed much to your disagreement. They both chuckled at you with affectioned smiles. "I hope you don't think we're done, dōna ābrazȳrys." Daemon pulled out of your heat and quickly began to rub his manhood again as Rhaenyra took his place. She was already rubbing your pelvises against one another. "We won't stop until we know you swell with our babe." "You're insides are going to stain white by the time we're through with you."

[romana-after-dark]

The Wrong Way: Chapter 1

Raider!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Raider!Tommy Miller x Fem!Reader

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter 2

Summery: You are sold to Joel to clear up some of your fathers' debts, and he takes you back to his house where him, Tommy, and high ranking members of his raiding trope stay. Joel is mean, cruel, and hash, but had small moments of softness that confuse you in your venerable state. Over time, you get to know him and Tommy, and see different sides of each, an both are hiding secrets. Was it possible to fall in love under these circumstances? Or was that just another way Joel was fucking with you?

WARNINGS FOR FULL FIC, NOT CHAPTER BY CHAPTER UNLESS SOMETHING NEW IS ADDED AFTER MASTER WARNING LIST: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!!! Fic contains graphic depictions of sexual assault, rape, molestation, dubcon/non con. Blow Jobs, PIV sex, lose of virginity, sex trafficking, past incest, death/people dying everywhere, Stockholm syndrome, falling for your rapist, victim blaming, torcher, branding, physical abuse, attempted sexual assault (not Joel), somno, self-harm/depression/suicidal thoughts (not a lot)but fair warning, major age gap

This is a reader fic, reader is early 20's, Joel is 40's at this point, reader is small enough that the men can lift her, but these are strong men. Reader is also refered to as little one, little girl ETC, but that's more in reference to her age/innocence than physical size.

*******************

The first time you met Joel Miller was a flurry of events.

“C’mon Joel, I don’t have it this time but I promise, next month its yours”

Jaimie, your dad, stood in front of Joel, who was unarmed but guarded by his group of fellow raiders who had guns pointed at Jaimie and his men. “Next time you’ll owe me nearly double, I’m tired of waiting, I got a reputation to uphold.”

Jaimie owed Joel money, and a lot of it. The amount of land Joel controlled was expansive, a damn near kingdom at this point that FEDRA didn’t bother with since it was so far out in the middle of nowhere. Joel and his gang of raiders made a near Viking-like living out here. You could either pay Joel monthly with small amounts of food or resources and in return you have a modicum of protection from him and other raiders as Joel’s men patrolled areas under their control, or Joel just raids you and takes everything you have. Easy enough choice. Problem was, if Joel’s men raided your farm or town, in general, they didn’t kill you if you didn’t try to fight. However, if he didn’t get what he expected from you, he was none too thrilled about using his men's resources to protect people who weren’t paying, and that debt could easily end up with someone dead, and that’s how Joel came to your dads house.

“Fine” Joel grumbled, turning to one of his men, a tall redhead. “Kill him”

“Wait!” Your dad shouted, and Joel held up a hand to stop the gunman.

“I’m listening”

“I have a daughter” Jaimie offered.

Joel narrowed his eyes at that. “You think I need help getting my dick wet?” He began to turn to the red haired man again, when your dad shouted the words that really piqued Joel’s interest.

“She’s a virgin!”

Jaimie continued, motioning for one of his men to get you from where you were hiding in the hall. “You can have your way with her, as long as you want, knock off some of what I owe you, and next month I’ll have the rest, unless of course you want her again.”

You’re pulled in before the two groups, and had the distinct feeling you were on display.

A man to the right of Joel, looking a little younger than him but only by a few years, with longer, dark hair, finally spoke. “You pimping out your own daughter?” He said with disgust.

Your dad glared at him. “Judge me all you want, Tommy, not all of us have powerful family to protect us” he turned back to Joel.

Joel held out a hand, stopping the interaction, then turned to you. His gaze was intense, focussed, harsh, and you couldn’t help but be afraid. You were used to this, of course, your dad using you as a bargaining tool, bad men who had used you and hurt you, leaving bruises and scars that were visible even from where Joel stood, but Joel was different, Joel was powerful, Joel was a cold blooded killer, and was not someone you wanted to upset or god forbid disappoint when he took you; you might end up with a bullet in the head if he wasn’t happy with a blowjob. 

Joel scanned you, taking in your body and no doubt the marks that littered your skin. “You let them do that to her?” He referenced the bruises.

Your dads hands were still raised. “Other men have used her mouth, but nothing other than that. Some men just want to toss her around, rough her up a bit, get themselves off like that, but you’d be the first inside her.”

“Joel.” The younger man spoke with a warning. “Don’t”

“I’ll do damnwell whatever I please” Joel grumbled, turning to your dad. “Mouth only, I’ll see if she’d worth buying more off after that.”

Jaimie nodded. “Sure! You can rough her up too, if you want, that’s extra, of course-”

“Shut up, I’ll decide the price when I’m done with her.” Quickly, Joel strode over to you and hanked you out of the other man’s grasp, half-dragging you to another room, your dad calling out to you not to mess this up.

Joel grabs you by the neck and shoves you to your knees, the cold, hard floor stinging against your kneecaps. You try your best to suppress the shaking fear inside you and play good little whore, reaching up to undo his belt buckle but Joel smacks your hands away, yanking you by your hair to look at him.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” Despite the pet name, his tone was harsh and condescending. “I don’t need you to do anything, you’re just a warm, wet hole for me to get off with, got it?”

You nod.

“Just stay still and this will be over soon enough. Hands behind your back, now.” He demanded and you did as you were told, holding both your hands behind you and opening your mouth.

Joel took his cock out, and an involuntary whimper escaped you; you’d never been with a man this big, and if he liked you, he was supposed to deflower you? How was all that supposed to fit?

Joel must’ve seen the fear in your eyes. “I’ll start slow, but after that, I ain’t taking it easy on you, little girl.”

You nod quickly, thankful for even small mercies. 

Joel kept his word, sliding into you slowly, carefully, pausing when you gag, and allowing you to adjust when his full length was inside. Tears pricked at your eyes, it hurt so bad, but you needed to do good. If Joel didn’t like you, whatever you dad would do as punishment would be way worse than this.

He pulled himself all the way out, and told you to take a breath. “This is where the fun begins”. When he thrust his dick inside you, you heaved so hard that if you had eaten anything, you would’ve thrown up all over him, spit spilling out of your mouth mixed with stomach bile, your scalp stinging from his painful grip on your hair.

“Fuck yeah, gag on it” You can hear him say above you, and it’s not like you have a choice, continuing to make a mess on him and yourself, the drool dripping down your chin.

“Such a pretty little mouth” he grunts with each thrust. “Wonder what that tight little cunt would feel like.” You can’t help but whimper, knowing how much it would hurt to feel Joel stretching you open. His breathing becomes heavier. “Don’t know if I can have you just once, princess, just look at you…” His fingers entangled themselves deeper into your hair, holding you still as he fucked your face. “Might just have to keep you, be my little pocket pussy to use whenever I want, you want that? Hm?” When you don’t respond, you keep your eyes tightly closed, as the pain in your throat grows.

Joel huffs a laugh when you don’t respond, not that you could say much of anything either way. “Well, you don’t really have much of a choice. But wouldn’t it be better? Only me? No more random men? Of course, I’d fuck you, be the first one inside you…” His pace was faltering, imagining breaking you open, your blood on him… “Fuck!” Joel cums in your mouth with no warning, and you begin to cough and choke, cum and spit falling out of your mouth and he pulls you off him by your hair, throwing you to the ground. 

You lay there, heaving and coughing, face covered in spit, tears and cum and maybe a little blood, your throat burns and your just want to curl up and cry, but Joel is pulling you up. “Let's go” he’s yanking you around again, and you stumble to the door, feeling somewhat like a rag doll. Before opening, however, Joel stops, wiping his sleeve roughly on your face. “Can’t let them see what a pretty mess you make, princess.”

When he pulled out outside, where it seems the tensions hadn’t eased, Joel announces he’s taking you.

Your dad immediately protests, and for a moment you think he might actually care about you, until he gives his reason, being that he sells your mouth for extra money, and Joel can’t take that away from him.

“I’ll wipe your debts clean” Joel isn’t even looking at him, yanking you to where his men had loaded resources onto their horses.

“But that’s-”

“And the next three months free.”

Your dad seemed to recognize that Joel wanted you, and tried to trade for more and Joel hoped on his horse, never letting go of your arm. Effortlessly, he reached under your arms and pulls you up onto the horse, and you suddenly realize the weight of the predicament. Joel was taking you, and you weren’t coming back. He was going to fuck you until he was tired of you, then throw you away, if he doesn’t kill you. You were never going to see your friend or your brother again.

“Joel, come on, she’s my only daughter” You dad tried one more time, and you begin to squirm in Joel’s lap, wanting out. “She’s worth a little more than that, untouched.”

“Dad, please, don’t”

Joel wraps an arm around you and points a gun at your dad's head. “Three months, and I don't blow your brains out right now.”

Raising his hands, Jaimie backs down, giving up.

“Lets go” Joel says to the younger man from before, and turns his horse around.

You hear your name called from the house, and turn to find your brother running outside. 

“ZACH!” You scream for help, the fight in you kicking in, desperately trying to get out of Joel’s arms. The horse takes off, and you turn to see Zach getting on his own and starting after you and your dad telling him to stop.

Turning around, in one movement, Joel turns your head into his chest to cover your ears, and shoots.

You scream, and turn to see your brother fallen off the horse, laying still.

The first time you saw Joel Miller, he fucked your face, bought you, kidnapped you, and killed your brother in a span of ten minutes.

“One stop princess, then we can go home, and you get to be my little toy.” Joel spoke, his breath hot in your ear, as if he was your husband taking you home after a wedding, not the man who just uprooted you from everything you know.

The stop, as it turned out, took 2 hours to get to, and you were exhausted and in shock by the time you, the younger brunette and the redhead separated from the group. Joel had tied up your arms in front of you, not that you could escape even if you tried. Joel was much stronger than you. You were nearly nodding off, Joel’s hold on you keeping you upright, the adrenaline rush leaving you bone tired, when you heard a woman’s voice.

“You trafficking girls now, Joel?”

You open your eyes wearily to find a woman on a horse with two others flanking her, she had dark skin and her hair was in braids, eyeing Joel with disgust.

Joel’s hand ran across the top of your chest, closer to your collar bone but enough to make your whimper. It was a display, more than anything, meant to get a rise out of the woman. “What would you do if I was?”

“Not much I can do, it seems.” She seethed.

“Relax, Maria. Her dad was the one was selling her, I bought, she’s staying with me.”

You were dreary, unable to keep your eyes open, only listening to the voices.

“And that’s supposed to be better?”

You could feel Joel shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. But she’s not getting passed around like she was at her dads. We ain’t making a habit of it, if that makes you feel any better.”

Joel motioned the redheaded man over, who Joel referred to Nick. “Take her, just up the hill there, out of earshot, but where I can see her. Do. Not. Touch.”

Falling asleep against your best attempts to stay awake, you feel yourself getting picked up and handed off into another's arms. Over the next few hours, you were in and out of sleep, unable to fully rest but unable to stay away either. Passed back to Joel, who you only knew was him from the smell of his leather jacket, and another long ride for god knows how long, you finally awaken when Joel passes you down from the horse and into the brunette man’s arms before climbing down and reclaiming you. You felt like an object they just passed around as needed, no regard for you. You open your eyes in front of a large house, trying to take everything that had happened in the last few hours, but between your sleep addled brain and the general shock of it, you found yourself unable to. This is where you’d stay for the remainder of your short life, Joel rapeing you and letting god knows who else do the same until you die. Joel starts pulling you inside.

“Please” You whimper before you can stop yourself.

Joel thrust you up against the door, his face right next to yours and his beard rubbing against your skin, burning it. “What was that, little one?”

But you don’t reply.

“Joel…” the younger man says from behind the two of you.

“Shut up, Tommy.” He pulls you back, opening the unlocked door. “You ain’t fucking in charge here. I paid good money for her.” He snaps to Tommy, his large hand around the back of your neck tightening, making you whimper. “And I’m bout to get my money's worth.”

“I know” Tommy steps forward, carefully, like he has experience cooling his leader down. “We just road 4 fours, maybe you should wait, you’re tired-”

“You calling me old?” Joel fully turned around, his hand moving to the front of your throat, pressing your back into his front.

“No, that ain’t what I’m saying, Joel. I just mean you got her as long as you want her, no need to do it tonight, you can enjoy yourself more later.” Tommy’s eyes flickered over to yours, and you saw just a smidge of sympathy before they went back to Joel. “She’s had a long night, Joel, she just lost everything. Give her one night, please?”

You stood there in Joel’s arms, your hands still tied in front of you, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Joel’s chest, praying to whomever that you can have this; if Joel took your virginity tonight, you were sure you’d simply break.

Grabbing your bundled hand, Joel begins dragging you inside, and you see why the door wasn’t locked. In the living room, several more men were sitting inside: some drinking, some playing games, some just… sitting. Joel turns to them “She is mine, no one fucking touches her.” he demands as he pulls you, stumbling and trying to keep up with his long strides. Opening up a door, Joel thrusts your back to the wall, taking out his knife and you gasp, trying to get away; to where, you don’t know.

“Hold still, woman, or I’ll cut you for real.” Joel cut off your hand ties, and literally threw you onto the dirty mattress. He stomped over, towering above you, and pointing. “One night. Tomorrow I get what I paid for, and you’re mine, wherever, whenever, and however I want you, no matter what Tommy and his bleeding heart think. Understood?”

You nod, but that's not enough for him.

“Say, ‘yes, Sir’”

You swallow, and speak as much as you can imagine. “Yes sir”

“Go to sleep”

And with that, he leaves the room, and you can hear it locking. How are you supposed to sleep after all that? After everything?

Not long after, the door opens again, and you scramble up thinking Joel changed his mind; it was Tommy, but that didn’t ease you at all. Maybe Tommy showed you mercy to save you for himself.

“Relax, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

He’s got a bowl in one hand and a bag in the other. “Don’t got much by way of a bath tonight, but here's hot water and a towel, you can at least wash your face, and here’s clean clothes and a pillow”

You don’t move, frozen in fear, almost as if he was a t-rex; if you didn’t move, he wouldn’t see you.

A soft smile. ”Alright, I’ll get out of your hair” and with that he leaves you, your room dark save for the moonlight coming through the window.

********************

You know, when I made this side blog it was initially gonna be like. Secret. Like I wasn't gonna tell my mutuals i had a side blog for dark content

But even if I decided to stay anonymous, the fact I have a fic with a song title, a shitty dad and a good brother would've given it away lol

Anyway, if you want to read more, comment to be added to the tag list!

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XLIV

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. Rated Mature. Rating subject to change. Mind the tags. On AO3 here. (Landscape is inspired by Jökulsárlón, in Iceland. Rest of the lore is entirely not canon.)

Ice fragments lapped at the silty shore, shifting and churning.  High winds and below-freezing temperatures, both normal in this part of Snezhnaya, battered the sea; when it melted, the tides pushed the sheets towards the beach and stacked them like a haphazard pile of books.  If one looked closely at the piles of shards, one could see the faint pattern the water usually took or where a current usually carved its way through the water.  Closer to land, the ice was soft slush, and it was easy to forget how cold the water was. 

High above, ribbons of light rippled through the sky in shades of green, purple, and blue.  The ice shards seemed to reflect and absorb the light as it danced over the icy waters.

He came here, centuries ago, early on.  The northern wasteland held little interest, save the aurorae and a long-buried Nail.  Few bothered to traverse the storms and distance without a reason.

This seemed as good a place as any.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zandik caught a glimpse of your bare face, shrouded only in the hood of your thick cloak.  This far north, no one would see your face, nor his.  Your cheeks and lips were wind-chapped, head tilted up as you gazed at the lights.  They cast you in shades of colors he didn't have a name for that made his breath hitch and his heart falter. 

Yet again, his thoughts were not his own and yet they were, for how could he not be intrigued by that alone?  Occasionally, far before meeting you, his mind strayed and wondered about you, your life, your interests outside of the dreamscapes; now, he looked back and wondered what path, if any, might have prevented present circumstances and came up short.  Illogical.  Paradoxical.  And yet, it made sense in every single atom of his person.

Pantalone disagreed.  The Ninth understood it better than anyone and yet that banker had the gall to consider you a liability.  You, who deserved to have rooms that made you comfortable and safe; you, who were proving to be more of a counter-balance in every way.

Zandik had been too lost in himself to tell you of the bank slip and interior designer.  He saw to it the morning after your first nightmare but then he'd slipped down into Haeresys, unzipped Omega's bag and—

Nearby, one of the horses nickered. 

He felt pressure on his arm and looked down to find your hand through his cloak's arm slit, your attention no longer on the sky but on him.  His muscles twitched beneath your hand.  Would he ever get used to that sensation?  It was one thing to reach out and touch you, a gesture that felt like satisfying a craving on impulse while consciously aware of the movement required to do so.  But to have reciprocation made him wonder how much of that was you and how much was simply the bond urging you to…

It would always feel like a conscious choice, wouldn’t it?  Therein laid the problem.

“Local folklore tells of a dragon, living in the depths,” Zandik said, drawing his attention from you to the icy spines of the water.  “Some say the creature is carving its way back to the surface as spring approaches and the ice thaws.”

When you didn’t speak, he continued.

“The myth is half-true.  The dragon rests off the coast of this very beach and you can see, there.” He pointed out to the middle of the lake.  “Out in the center, the ice turns to bone, barely visible when spring and summer rear their heads.  It didn’t survive the Cataclysm.  I discovered it first-hand once I grew used to the eternal cold.  Accounts date back centuries but most of them stem from my original findings.”

Your arm snaked around his, your hand on his upper arm, holding onto him.

“Was it lonely, being so far from home?” you asked.

“At first, although not much different than what I already knew.  Not long after, I studied the manner of how an Archon created a vessel and decided that, if a god could lock away their consciousness in an artificial, I would surpass that with ease.”

He had revealed his age to you as one reported the weather when you asked to help him catalog and sort the Segments.  Zandik thought your emotional disposition would win out, that you would clasp your hands over your mouth or give him a pitiful, mournful expression at the notion of your soulmate spanning literal centuries; instead, you thanked him for trusting you and he endured a sensation in his chest akin to combustion. 

Both of you spent several days taking inventory of what could be salvaged, what needed to be destroyed.  The Ruin Cores couldn't be reused; they housed his memories in a similar fashion to how Spincrystal records held music and the etchings were permanent.  The Cores, or the bits that remained after being thoroughly crushed, currently sat at his feet in a jar with the ashes of the Segments. 

He had set a particular Core aside, long before you came down, told you of its purpose.  Time would take its course but the knowledge it held was imperative.  After all, if he was to accept his humanity as you asked, it was only fitting to erase the false memories embedded in your unconscious mind, too. 

All the while, you wrote down ages and parts and core memories.  You listened as he recounted tale after tale, his version of events from start to finish.  Before he knew it, he spoke of Sohreh and how he broke her hyoid bone in an overzealous attempt to stop the bleeding, of his trial and subsequent exile from the Akademiya, his relentless search to understand and treat the darkened scales and necrosis of Eleazar.

Of a stranger finding him in the desert, promising him resources and the means to continue his research and surpass the gods.

The sprout had used that revolting term of outcast in your presence without ever giving you context for it.  After all, it wasn't as if you had accessed his memories via Omega and you deserved to understand, at least in part, what made so many tremble in his presence.

You were gentle with Alpha, the youngest, the one you played with that day near the border. 

Rho, all impatience and bluster, was the one who had taken you on a picnic when your patron brought you to Sumeru (clever weaving on Omega's part, Zandik thought). 

Last came Omega, his exact copy.  You cleaned his face, fixed his hair.  He did not deserve such kindness.

"He said there were twenty-four," you remarked, voice echoing through the space.  "I only count twelve."

"Some memories took to being their own individual person.  Some did not."

Zandik didn't have the heart to tell you that a third of them had chosen to take their own life.  Phi failed in handling the memories after Sohreh's death and ran into the unforgiving wasteland; as far as he knew, his corpse was out here, somewhere, frozen solid.  Chi was Omega's failure and endured an existential crisis before he took his own life.  Psi pushed back against Omega's arrogance so much that he might as well have stabbed himself with the claymore.

Even Zandik knew some things were better left unsaid.

He heard the shifting of your boots as you took his hand in yours, gloves making the intertwining of fingers stiff but not impossible.  Even with the material between you, he could tell how well your hand fit in his.  It made him wonder what else might fit and he shoved such thoughts deep into the recesses of his mind.  One day, perhaps. 

For one who saw music in the way some saw words, who lead with their heart and never had a problem speaking up, you were quiet this morning. 

The silence in his mind was, at first, uncomfortable and unnerving.  Every time he looked at them, all he could think of was how empty everything was without them.  Centuries of chatter, gone, even if he could choose to tune in or out as he wished.

Nails on a chalk board would have been welcome if it meant filling the gaps in his consciousness. 

And then, on a trip upstairs, he heard you play and attempt to wrestle notes from an instrument you weren't accustomed to.  As stilted as it was, your playing soothed the desolation like a balm on burnt flesh, and he couldn't pull himself away. 

Neither could he enter.  You were finally finding your flow after weeks, perhaps closer to a month, without your proper instrument and the means to play.  Zandik only brought his feet across the threshold when he could bare the tugging no longer and when watching through the crack in the door served to only tease him, like a beggar at a table full of delicacies. 

Sheet music was not unlike a blueprint.  You followed the structure, created the structure, and brought life to the intangible.  It didn't make sense to him in the way measurements and mechanical parts and anatomy did but he learned the flow, turned the page for you, and let himself feel for the first time in years.

He was human.  He knew that.  You hadn't needed to brave his destruction for that.

But you did.  Because that was you, inherently and wholeheartedly.  You weathered anything life threw at you, sometimes stubbornly so.

A counter-balance; one whole to match his, different yet equal.

"Zandik."

He blinked, the ice fragments and aurorae coming back into focus, and instinctively, he flexed his fingers.  You squeezed back instantly. 

From the tone of your voice, it sounded as if that wasn't the first time you had said his name.  Having so many thoughts and nowhere to put them was still taking time to get used to again.  Manual prioritizing within himself and only himself was the biggest hurdle of this entire endeavor; it was like learning to walk again after shattering both legs and expecting to never walk again.

You shivered within your fur-lined cloaked, though you tried to hide it.  As acclimated to the cold though he was, you were not, and he had spent enough time lost in his own labyrinth. 

He felt your hand squeeze his one more time before you pulled away, taking your warmth with you.  Zandik reached down, retrieved the jar, and stepped into the tide, red eyes examining the jar in his hands.  His greatest accomplishments, reduced to nothing more than a jar of ash and metal.  Years, decades, centuries condensed into a single vessel. 

Zandik opened the jar and spread the ashes across the jagged sheets of ice and slush, where they mingled with the water and the silt.  He fought the urge to shake the contents out in a single go, the way he handled other materials.  If he was bothering with this ritual, he might as well do it right.

Such rites were for the living far more than the dead they claimed to serve.  Zandik knew this, too, fundamentally understood it.  But it was another matter to feel the weight lift itself from one's shoulders and the shackles of an unshakeable past finally come free.

Or perhaps he was trading one for the other in embracing a future with you, exploring the possibilities of existence on a predestined path.

A problem for another day.  You were shivering again and lingering in the past was of little use now.  He had finishing touches to put on your instrument and he was eager to hear your music properly, among other tasks.

"Come, rooh 'albi.  Let us return.  This cold is too bitter, even for me."

[hope-to-hell]

Animal instinct. Travis Hackett x Reader. You know about about the werewolf’s bite, but what about its claws? Travis has a close call with a different kind of curse, and what else can you do but get him through it? Smut, dubcon, fuck or die.

—-

It starts with an itch. Poison ivy, probably: the woods here are full of it. Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t tangled with it before now, what with the hunting and the fucking around in the woods at night; there’s only so much visibility even with the moonlight. He scratches absently at his side before remembering no, don’t do that, dumbass. You’ll just spread it around, and it’s not until he’s washing his hands at the sink that he notices the itch has been replaced by warmth creeping all through him.

It’s not poison ivy. Were you really expecting it to be? If so, you’re in the wrong kind of story. He’s not gonna coat himself in calamine and call it a day; all the oatmeal baths in the world can’t help him now. His hand drifts again to his side, to the pulsing warmth beneath his shirt and he cannot help himself; he untucks his shirt and lifts— and stares. Goddamn.

At least it’s not a bite. It is, however, a stark red claw mark: a sign of an encounter that was too close for comfort, red lines curving over soft flesh and hey, it could be worse. He could be lying in the woods with his guts in his hands; he could be reflecting the moon with milky eyes. But as it is, he’s barely got a scratch. It could be worse.

Could be better.

Yeah, it could be fuckin better, huh. Because as it is he’s feeling that warmth all through him, but it’s pooling strongest at his cock and this really, really is that kind of story. He thinks it’s just the adrenaline still running through his veins, one last push before exhaustion sets in. He should probably scrub himself with iodine and then take himself in hand; the night’s rolled over into morning and he’s on the cusp of being too tired to sleep. That’s the ticket. Jerk off and get the fuck to bed. But you know what kind of story this is by now; you know it’s not gonna be quick and it’s not gonna be pretty. He doesn’t even make it to the medicine cabinet before he’s unbuckling his belt; he’s gripping the sink so hard he’s breaking nails and his mind is gone.

This is the part of the curse that nobody knows, the cruel reverse that didn’t make it into the stories because til now there’s been no one in this circumstance who’s lived to tell about it. Whether it’s because nobody’s made it this far without being turned or ripped to shreds, or whether it’s this incandescent need that brought them down is anybody’s guess. And in the end it doesn’t really matter, because here he is alone and gasping

fuck.

ah

He grips and pulls and even the burn of a dry hand doesn’t slow him down. Come on come on comeoncomeoncomeon and it’s like he’s a kid again, with a hair trigger on his cock and a dirty magazine beneath the mattress; he makes a mess of the sink and his hand and the goddamned mirror and that should be the end of it, just a wry little hmph and a few deep breaths before he finds a towel. He’s not gonna get off that easy, though. Instead of settling down for a daylong sleep, he’s reaching for himself again before the come has even dried on his hand.

He’s gonna itch like hell if he doesn’t wash off, if he grips his cock with a sticky hand because oh hell, he’s hard again and can’t fucking believe it, or couldn’t if he had a thought in his head; but the only thing in his mind is need. This is base, animal; he is wreathed in the ancestral memory of grasping, holding, taking; tooth and claw ride his bones and he needs needs needs; every cell is screaming for him to bury himself deep, and if he weren’t alone he would be a monster for how he is driven to fuck at any cost.

You think you’d lend a helping hand? Trade a little roughness for the dopey satisfaction of a man wrung dry? Sweetheart, you have no idea what help would mean. But you heard that wounded-animal moan on the wind and rushed right over; here you are coming up the drive in double-time. And there he is with eyes gone black; he bares his teeth and curves his spine and when he shakes himself apart once more his words spill out all thready like spider silk, like devils’ hair, like the last drop of ink running from the brush. Can’t. I need. I need. I can’t, it doesn’t work— he’s losing coherence as he rises to attention, red and pulsing— give. Give over. Please—

Are you, are you alright? Should I call someone? Who are you going to call? The police? Hello operator, I’ve got a man here who looks like he could fuck his way through a brick wall? Yeah, good luck with that. Besides, he is the police— or sheriff, anyway, and if he could help himself he would. He falls through the tangled shreds of his clothes to land hard upon his knees but he doesn’t notice, doesn’t grunt or wince; it doesn’t matter that he’s down there and you’re up here; in this moment he is all predator, every inch of him driven by a singular purpose.

But here’s the thing: he’s not out for blood. The only red on him is his own, from clawing at his clothes like he could escape his own skin. So are you gonna go with it, see where this leads? As if you don’t already know, as if the sight of him doesn’t reach right up inside you and twist. So when he pulls you down to him you’re already struggling out of your clothes, hands shaking, anticipation burning like ice from fingertips to toes.

Travis, just— just what? Just stop and think for a second? Talk about it? Look for the syringe full of sedatives you know he’s hiding somewhere in the house? Can’t, he’s already draping himself over your back, sticky with sweat and semen and god knows what else, pushing and pulling til your face is on the floor and you’re fucking presenting yourself to him. Is this really what you want, what he wants? How about we skip the agonizing over this; you know when—if— you make it out of this with your skin intact, he’ll roll over bruised and weary with a

hey, y’alright?

and a thanks that goes almost unheard but nonetheless is there. That’s in the hopeful future, of course, but in your bones you know it’s gonna happen— if he hasn’t flayed the skin right off his cock by then, with how brutally he needs, and

fuck— mhh— he fumbles once, twice, and on the third try he thrusts home with a groan that, more than anything, sounds like relief. And when he moves it’s rough like tides, pulled by the moon to crash and roar and it’s good, isn’t it? There’s that little guilty piece of you that likes this, that wishes he’d fuck with a little less care and consideration, the part that wants him to shove you down and take.

This is animal nature dressed in the skin of a man. This is over when he says it is, when the curse releases him or exhaustion claims him. There’s no tapping out, no tired, let’s rest; when he swells and comes inside you there’s half a heartbeat before he hardens again, gasping wet and ragged in your ear. He moves through semen and slick, with the singular purpose of a machine— or a monster. Hey, Travis, where’d you get those cuts? You lose a fight?

Oh sweetheart, don’t you worry. I’ve just got a little of the big bad wolf in me, is all.

It’s a conversation in code, in the harsh sound of your coupling and in the please please please that falls from your lips in a salty spray, punctuated by sharp breaths each time he reaches his peak and finds relief still out of reach. It happens again and again until your body is nerveless, exhausted, limp in a pool of fluids on the floor, with his full weight on you, barely able to move but he still. keeps. going. The floorboards scratch and itch at your cheek in whorls and lines that must surely be indelibly etched upon your flesh; there is a faint whine hanging in the air and it doesn’t matter whose it is.

The thing about this kind of story is that it has to end one way or another. Hours or days later, when time has lost all meaning and you can’t tell if all these drifting shadows are from sunlight moving across the floor or from your vision going dark, he breathes a sigh like the end of the world and slumps, unmoving, his legs all tangled up with yours and his arm drifting down somewhere near your ribs.

The fuck was that about? The words are flavored with floor wax and spit, crushed like cellophane in a clenched fist. You’ve taken so damn much of him that when he slips free it hurts; you'll feel this for a while: poking bruises, dipping two fingers inside yourself to feel the ache he’s left behind. But that’s for later, in between wondering if this is the end of it or if the next month will wring him dry as well.

Mmph. He’s mumbling against you, slipping down into sleep; there’s a question buried in there, a worry that he’s clinging to with broken nails. Are you okay? he doesn’t ask— because he can’t, because words are beyond him. I didn’t— are you hurt? (Am I forgiven?)

‘Salright. I’ve got you (there is nothing to forgive).

The floor is terrible to sleep on, but what else can you do? He’s heavy and unmoving and you’re not much better off. So you settle down into the warmth of him; his hand is rough and sticky, and when you squeeze his hand, he answers with a twitch of his fingers. Bed is so very far away and you will wake with muscles knotted tight, but for now—

for now—

just go to sleep.

[thesorcererpoet]

While I don't want too give too many details, I have been really "going through it" lately. When I face times like these, I often turn to my spirituality. It is the one tool I have that helps me above all else, when facing difficulties in life. I can't begin to express how much it has helped me over the years, how it has spurred me on to overcome seemingly impossible situations.

Anyway, lately my mental health has been taking a big turn for the worse. I am going through a great deal of change and some of what has happened as a result has left me pretty shattered. I have become very negative and it's having an impact on both my job and on the spiritual work that I do for others.

My spiritual work is really important to me. I have always striven to help people where I can. I make a point of giving generously of my time, giving explanations of techniques, showing people to good and useful books they might not have heard of, spending time talking about what other people are experiencing spiritually, particularly spiritual emergencies, such as what I feel like I am facing now.

A spiritual emergency is usually something that leads to a big break through, even sometimes big enlightenment experiences. This stuff is not easy and a lot of the time, it comes up for some people, spiritually inclined or not, after life throws some difficult circumstances at them. (Such as the death of a loved one, the shattering of an illusion, sudden sickness, job loss, loss of purpose, heartbreak etc).

Now, usually I am capable of helping myself but I'm going to be honest, lately I have been in very deep. Thankfully, I live with a fellow spiritual practitioner, which is actually how we initially met. My partner @saganssorcery has been my absolute rock these last few days in particular.

Yesterday, I was almost at the peak of my utter despair in many ways. I have made some serious mistakes at work, and I am struggling a lot with getting along with others. I am also dealing with a great deal of financial and personal difficulties in the world. I have lost a lot of friends and have found myself outcasted by people I really loved. I want to give the reason but I don't feel that's necessarily appropriate, I guess all I can say is that I was languishing in a very bad situation for many years in a relationship with someone I desperately wanted to escape. I finally did it and a lot of people have been less than supportive, others outright cruel. Sagan is literally the only person who has ever helped me with this, it was through her that I finally managed to get out.

So yesterday and last night, Sagan sat with me teaching me things, something I have done for many others over the years and for the first time, something someone did for me. She went through a self empowerment mantra that works by going up the tree of life saying seven good things about yourself, 10 times per sphere, then once for each chakra and then once to the universe or heaven. This was literally designed to reprogram the negative pathways in my brain to change how I feel so I can continue to be capable of supporting us, and of doing my important spiritual work.

The other thing she did, was sit me down and do the most in depth tarot reading I have ever had. First of all, 11 cards, one for each sephirot on the tree of life, explaining in depth the combination of the card and its effect on the sphere. Then she followed through with placing all of the cards down for each of the 22 paths and read through each, including the two connected sephirot, and the path itself. It worked like a mirror of my soul, at this very moment I am in now. It took her a good couple of hours to go through it all in detail. I suppose it helps that I know tarot very well so we can communicate a lot quicker about this stuff, but yeah, I have never felt so seen in all of my life. It was almost like she was a doctor, diagnosing the spiritual sickness in me and prescribing the cure, or more to the point, showing me where to look. The answers were not simple but this definitely served to reveal to me things I had never had the chance of expressing. I cannot tell you all how profoundly grateful I am. Anyway, I have urged her to offer this work to others because, even though it is a hell of a lot of work, I do really strongly feel she can help others with it.

Check out the full list of Sagan's services

[writtenonreceipts]

We are slowly (oh so slowly) chugging along on this fic!

Find the Masterlist here! // AO3

warnings: none!

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Of Friendships and Families

It was well after midnight when Rhysand returned home that evening.  Between follow-ups with the city sheriff, fending off news reporters, and ensuring shops were boarded up properly—it was nearly two in the morning that Rhys could finally relax.

His apartment was quiet.  Too quiet.

It had never really bothered him that he could remember.  But for a few months now he’d realized just how off putting it could be.  The space was big, too big for just one person, and despite being in the center of the city it was damn near isolating.  Everything was modern, updated with the newest styles and appliances to fulfill every modem of comfort.  Usually his place was a mess of chaos with his brothers, Mor, and Amren crawling around and he didn’t notice it.

Tonight, had been different.

Because his father had shown up and been Benham about everything.

As soon as he’d seen his father talking to Feyre, a pit formed in his stomach.  Nothing good could come from the two of them interacting.  His father wasn’t cruel, not really.  But he did have an eye single to his own purposes and desires.  So Rhysand didn’t trust the interaction no matter how brief.  And then Feyre disappeared, only for Cassian to tell him she’d left with her sister.

And he knew that Benham had royally screwed things up for him.  Not that Rhys knew what had happened, yet, but it couldn’t be good.

Rhys made his way to his bedroom, passing the too big kitchen and too clean living room. His apartment had a modern feel to it—dark wood, metal fixings, and monochromatic decorations.  Nothing special about it really, even though everything he’d worked towards in his short adult life was supposed to get him here.  Business school, a minor law degree, even a few courses in civics.  

This was everything he’d wanted.

Supposedly.

As he was readying for bed, he found his phone and found the small texting thread he had with Feyre.  Before he thought better of it, he sent out a message.

>>Rhys: Sorry for the late hour, I just wanted to check in and make sure you were alright?

He waited for a minute, two.  The message sent turned to read but no new message came through.  Five more minutes later and he knew that she wasn’t going to respond.  It took all of his self control to not fire off another message, or worse call her.  Instead, Rhys plugged his phone into its charger and walked away.

No good would come from being overbearing or too much into her business.  Maybe he’d have Mor follow up with Feyre.  Though, he had a feeling that with or without him, Mor would be friends with Feyre no matter what.

Still, as Rhys prepared for bed and what little sleep, he was going to get, he couldn’t help but worry that whatever had started with Feyre was not over before anything had really begun.  He should have known his father would have come around as the police commissioner.  Should have tried harder to keep that man from the scene as best he could.

For as long as Rhys could remember, Benham had snaked his way into every aspect of Rhys’ life.   His father was always playing these games of will and competition, often seeing if Rhys could…manipulate his way out of any circumstance.  The subtle control was usually easy to ignore or simply fix on his own.  But Rhys wished he had more memories of throwing a baseball around with his dad instead of collecting ideas to undermine his fellow teammates.

And now Benham was screwing things up all over again.

Rhys couldn’t help one last glance at his phone that told him no missed messages.  He tried not to let it bother him as much as it did. 

…

The only thing that could draw Feyre out of bed at five o’clock the next morning were the sounds of her daughter crying.

She’d gotten back at around midnight and spent a solid hour talking through things with Elain and Lucien.  Mor, wonderful and thoughtful as she was, came by too in case Feyre needed anything else.

In all honesty, Feyre was too overwhelmed to know what she needed.  What she wanted was to remain curled up in bed.  But Seren was not going to self-soothe by the sound of it.

Feyre rolled out of bed and hurried to the spare room.  The apartment was nicer than anything Feyre had thought she could afford as a single income holder with a scant two-year degree.  But Vassa and Jurian had pulled a few strings to help her secure a lease.  They were in a good neighborhood with decent sized rooms and heating and cooling that actually functioned.  It was already better than what Feyre had grown up with.

She’d made it her own over the last year since moving in, too.  The walls were painted a soft cream with a seafoam green accent wall in the living room.  She’d put up her own paintings, photos of the family, of Seren.  It was chaotic and messy at times, certainly.  Feyre didn’t have a good place to store her paints so sometimes Seren decided the walls and floors needed a splash of color.  And then there was the fact that even in the mess—it was quiet.  And not the good sort of quiet.

“Oh, little star,” Feyre said as she scooped her daughter from her crib.  Seren immediately nestled into her, her tear-stained face in her neck and body conforming perfectly to Feyre.

Rocking back and forth, Feyre soothed Seren as best she could before setting out for a binky search.  She knew she should start weaning Seren soon from the thing, but she couldn’t bear it yet.  At least she’d stopped breastfeeding within the last few months.  Though, Feyre could honestly say she missed that connection it brought.  

She found a spare binky and Seren’s favorite blanket before sitting in the rocking chair Nesta had bought her to accompany the nursery.  It didn’t take long until Seren had calmed and the only remnants of her tears were the heavy breaths that pressed into Feyre’s chest.

“Good morning,” Feyre murmured as she pressed a kiss to Seren’s forehead. “Are you hungry?”

Seren grunted, her eyes still drooping with sleep and the remnants of her rough wake-up.

“It’s hard to wake up, isn’t it?” Feyre agreed.  She ran a hand over Seren’s back and kept rocking them for several more minutes. 

Finally, Seren perked up and leaned away from Feyre.  Her blue eyes went wide and her chubby fingers dug into Feyre’s shirt.

“Pancake, mama,” Seren said, “pancake.”

Ah yes.  Once all the tears were out the only concern was food.  Feyre shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Feyre agreed.

She stood, shifting Seren to her hip.  They made their way to the kitchen while Seren babbled happily.  Her blonde curls were in absolute chaos as they stuck out in every direction and her round cheeks were still pink from sleep.  It almost hurt how much Feyre loved her daughter.

Feyre set Seren up in her high chair and peeled a banana to occupy her while she got the frozen pancakes from the freezer to warm up.

She tried to ignore the reminders of the previous night as she moved.  The dishes that were carefully washed and dried, the leftovers stacked in the fridge, the extra cookies that Mor and snuck in at some point.  Everything had been so nice and fun and had actually made Feyre feel like she belonged to something.

Only for it all to be ripped away by the vandalism.  And meeting Benham Avitas.

She’d been stupid to think that Rhys would have actually been interested in her.  Because really, Benhams words from last night made sense.  Elections were coming up and Rhys wanted to keep his seat as mayor.  What better publicity than helping the small business of a struggling single mother?  What better campaigning than to be seen helping at a crime scene?  Oh, she was sure there may have been some kindness in his actions, he wasn’t a complete asshole.  But when she’d seen his texts last night all Feyre could feel was blind panic.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t play games.

Not with Seren.  Not with her heart.

And then there was the truth of the matter that she’d been trying to ignore for a few days now: Tamlin knew about Seren and he was in town.

Feyre heated up the pancakes, poured a sippy cup of milk, and settled the meal before Seren.  Happy with her pancakes, Seren continued babbling as she ate.  

The distraction was all Feyre needed to start a pot of coffee and get her own breakfast going.  Well, breakfast was a relative term.  Lately, she hadn’t had an appetite and had been surviving on coffee and coffee alone.  It at least made for cheap groceries when all she needed to buy was milk and frozen pancakes.

You’re better than that.

Feyre flinched at the thought.  It was too reminiscent of what Tamlin would say to her.

She tossed a piece of toast in the toaster and watched as Seren tore up another pancake.  They had chocolate chips in them and the melty bits smeared over Serens mouth and cheeks.  Though, the baby hardly noticed or cared as she carried on eating.

When her toast and coffee were ready, Feyre quickly retrieved her phone from her room before taking a seat at the table next to the high chair.  Seren was finally slowing down in her voracious appetite and was now drowning herself in milk.

Feyre ignored the messages from Rhys, not bothering to pay attention to the little preview either.  Maybe later she’d work up the courage to see what he had to say.  But she did may attention to a new contact that had messaged her.

NEW CONTACT: Hi Feyre!  It’s Morrigan, I know you’re probably not up for it, but is it alright if I swing by this morning?  I just want to drop some things off and see how you’re doing.

It took three more re-reads for Feyre to get a full grasp on the words.  She couldn’t help the small tug of gratitude on her chest either.  Feyre was certain that this message had been sent of Mor’s own volition, not prompted by Rhys or anything of the sort.

She saved the number and texted back.

Feyre: We are a mess of pancakes and milk.  So if you’re alright with that, come on over.

Mor: Girl, we thrive on chaos.

Not even ten minutes later and Mor was knocking on the door as Feyre was trying to wipe Seren down.  It was a losing battle, so Feyre let her child run around still partially smeared in chocolate and just her diaper.  

Feyre answered the door, grateful she’d managed to change into clean leggings and a new t-shirt that had only one stain on it.  Mor was flawless as ever, her blonde hair pulled into a low pony tail and makeup effortlessly neutral.  She wore jeans and a graphic tee of a popular band on the front.  If she’d had the energy, Feyre would have felt self-conscious over her own appearance.

“I brought bagels,” Mor said with a smile.

Seren ran through the background screaming.

“And Xanax, I hope,” Feyre joked.

Mor’s smile broadened. “We’ll save that for later.”

Feyre invited her in, grateful the house was still clean from last night's events.  Seren had nabbed her favorite blanket and was occupying herself by pulling all of the childrens books from the small bookshelf in the corner of the room.  

“How are you doing?” Mor asked as she handed Feyre a bagel.  It had been toasted and was still warm and smothered in cream cheese.  

Feyre sighed and settled into the coach, Mor following suit. “Fine?  Maybe I’m still in shock.  I want to go down there and be at my shop, but the officers said to wait a day and they’d tell me when I can get things back in order.”

She took a bite of the bagel; infinitely better than the poor slice of toast she’d had not ten minutes ago.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” Feyre said. “Thank-you.”

“The deli out on State Street is the best,” Mor affirmed.  She had her own bagel and leaned into the couch, quiet for another moment before finally speaking up. “I hear you met Benham.”

Feyre arched one eyebrow.  While she believed Mor wasn’t spying on her for Rhys, or even if he knew she was here, Mor wouldn’t say anything to her cousin—Feyre didn’t know how she wanted to broach this conversation.

“I did,” she said, taking another bite of bagel.  It was mostly to buy herself time in answering.  

Mor, however, was more than willing to provide her own opinions. “He’s a bastard.  I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

She picked at her own bagel, frown tugging on her lips.

Trying not to choke on her food, Feyre covered her mouth. “What?”

“Benham is the worst,” Mor said.  She shrugged and licked cream cheese off her finger. “He wasn’t as bad as my dad, I’ll give him that, but he was so strict and cruel and just…terrible while growing up.  The only thing that made going over to Rhys’ house as kids bearable was his mother.”

A soft smile stole across Mor’s face as she spoke. “And his sister, really.  Thea’s years younger than him, just starting her junior year in high school, she’s just like him.  Only a little less of an arrogant ass.”

Feyre shifted in her seat. “Why tell me this?”

It was an understandable question.  Maybe a little forceful.  But Feyre didn’t need games.  Not right now.

Seren ran over to Mor, her stuffed kitty-cat in hand and thrust it at the blonde. “Rhys!”

“Is it Rhys?” Mor crooned softly. “He is looking pig-headed today.”

“Yeah!” Seren chirped, oblivious to the jibe at the cat’s namesake.  She toddled away to the pile of building blocks in the middle of the room.

“I’m never going to get over that,” More mused.  She gave another smile before growing serious in her acknowledgement of Feyre’s question. “I know my cousin, Feyre.  He likes you.  I haven’t seen him like this about someone in…a while.  And he’s somehow found a chivalrous bone in his body and won’t say it to you himself.”

Feyre’s traitorous heart skipped a beat at Mor’s words.  She really hadn’t let herself think on the possibility of she and Rhys.  Hadn’t wanted to let herself even consider that possibility despite the fact that she actually liked him.  Which in and of itself was ridiculous.  She had a daughter that wasn’t even two yet and a new business.  What would she even do in the face of a prospective romance?

And still, the memory of his smile, the way he’d stayed by her side after Tamlin’s appearance--all remained far too prominent on her mind.  It had been so long since someone had actually cared for her (outside her sister and Lucien) that she didn’t even know how to recognize it or acknowledge it.

“And how does Benham fit into this?” Feyre asked.  

“He will do whatever it takes to see his family succeed,” Mor said simply. “He probably tried to get under your skin or lie to you about Rhys?  All he’s ever been concerned about it what his kids can accomplish.  Not if they’re happy.”

The words made sense.  It certainly felt like a wedge had been driven in what little relationship had been budding between her and Rhys.  But…Feyre couldn’t help but see the truth in Benhams insinuations.  

Feyre shook her head, dread sludging around in her belling and utterly demolishing her appetite.

“It doesn’t matter,” Feyre said.  She tucked the rest of her bagel away in its wrappings, knowing she wouldn’t be able to finish it.

“It doesn't—Feyre,” Mor said, sitting up a little straighter. “Whatever Benham said—”

Sighing, Feyre waved a dismissive hand. “Mor.  My life is in shambles.  It’s messy and ridiculous.  I just…I can’t do this.  I can’t make Rhys go through this.  I can’t make anyone go through this.”

Even without the baby complication and the abusive ex…Feyre didn’t know what it was like to be in a good relationship.  She didn’t know how to be in a good relationship.  And, truth be told, she was the mess.  She was ridiculous.  Not just her life.  It all came down to her.

That thought was all it took for tears to prick in her eyes and her chest to tighten in pain.

Sympathy fell over Mor’s features and she scooted closer on the couch to Feyre.  She reached out a hand to lay on Feyre’s arm.

“And Tamlin?” Feyre stuttered just a little.  She had no idea why she was spilling so much to Mor, but damn, it had been so long since she’d had a friend to talk to.  Someone she could trust.  And while her sisters were wonderful…their relationship was complicated. “Tamlin wasn’t a good man.”

It was all she could say then but Mor seemed to understand.  She pulled Feyre into a hug and murmured softly in comforting undertones.  Feyre held on to the hug like her life depended on it.  

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

something i love about your aus is how (almost) every character has a bad ending/fate for them

alt mark, alt thatcher, alt jonah, and alt cesar are doomed to an eternity of suffering. cesars mom was crucified, sarah got a chunk of concrete slammed into the back of her head, seth is all alone after finally getting close to people he considered his family.

prophet adam lives with crippling anxiety that the parasite will decide to come out and kill everyone he cares about, just like it did to jonah. thatcher's parasite breaks his bones, practically mangling him every time it comes out. evelin lost herself(?), becoming one with her parasite.

im not educated about the lab rats au so ill avoid commenting on it

guest mark is part of a house he hates, nobody listened when he said something was up with it, not even his own best friend. cesar is stuck all alone in the reflection of a mirror. guest jonah cant move at all, completely stuck in a wall. guest adam can move, but he cant ever leave.

spirit cesar literally got erased from existence by his best friend. shadow mark has to live with the guilt of that.

the characters lives get absolutely wrecked in ways that could never happen in reality but you write their reactions so realistically that it feels natural. their pain and grief and trauma are so realistic that its easy to have sympathy for them, even alt mark. alt mark is an absolute asshole but i think anyone would be if given his fate.

you can see how the characters got in the messes they did. its easy to be like "oh, theyre so dumb, i would never get myself in a mess like that" but you write the characters so realistically that it doesnt feel like a silly horror movie.

something that really stuck with me is the part in the alt au prologue fic where mark runs upstairs and quickly realizes he made a mistake just like so many characters in horror movies did. that detail made it feel so much more real.

GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THANK YOUUU I LOVE THIS ANALYSIS /GEN

AND YEAH. I want to make it clear that. these characters are. well. human. at least in how they act and react. No one is perfect, with even the most moral and understanding characters having flaws that can lead to bad things happening, or simply being doomed to begin with. Even the villains have motive, and aren't your typical cocky, one note evil bad guys who just want pain on people for no reason.

These characters get bad endings not because of who they are or just for fun. but because in that scenario. A good ending would be. bittersweet at best. And the most likely scenario, taking into consideration the characters and how they act can be. bad.

For example, the alt au has that ending because of the fact that Mark refuses to let go of the past. the bad ending is his fault, and not because he's a one note villain but because he's just. unable to come to terms with what he is and the circumstances of his "death."

The MP Au gets that ending due to Adam's lust for knowledge he shouldn't have, and he is suffering the consequences for it. Not only he drags himself into damnation, but everyone around him as well. All because he was too focused on his own goals to care about those around him.

The HSH au ends up there due to cruel circumstances. Home used Mark and Cesar's poor friendship to its advantage to make them drift apart, feeding off of their negative feelings towards each other. Were either of them in the wrong? no. but neither of them were in the right either.

The only au I can say has a pretty good ending is the lab au, where the patients eventually escape. but. it's not all sunshine and rainbows cause. the damage had already been done. they can't magically reverse the mutations or mental fuckery they've gone under. They're like that for the rest of their lives, but. they're free. Bittersweet, really.

But yeah, the point is. the MAIN goal with these characters is to be. realistic. No one has magic plot armor where no harm can be done to them, no one is the perfect person who can easily be framed as the hero, no one is necessarily absolute pure evil as they have their own motivations and in some cases believe what they're doing is right. They're people. And their actions lead to scenarios that sometimes lead to horrible endings. It all depends really.

[saintsenara]

the shack at the end of the lane merope gaunt & lord voldemort general | 4.2k words

before the world went black, she was looking at two women's faces, and a small creature covered in blood, and the cracked plaster ceiling of a london orphanage.

when she opened her eyes, she was looking up at a perfect sky, its celestial blue splashed with cotton-wool clouds. the sun shone warm on her skin. she felt at peace for the first time since september, when tom had stormed out of their knockturn alley bedsit, taking care to kick her in the stomach as he did.

it was an unconventional choice, on the part of the universe, to make tom riddle's victims meet his mother the moment they arrived in the afterlife.

this piece was written for week five of @ladiesofhpfest, on the theme of unconventional and unashamed [you can find the masterlist for this week's fics here].

its star is a character who has fascinated me for a long time - merope gaunt - and the question i have always wondered about: what happened to her after she died?

author's notes under the cut

because merope’s death is one of the moments of the harry potter series that i’ve always loathed - not because it happens, but because it is explained by dumbledore in half-blood prince as something which happens as the result of a lack of courage:

"In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life." "She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?" [...] "Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother’s courage."

i really dislike the suggestion that - under ordinary circumstances - a witch would be able to prevent herself dying in childbirth because of her magic, not least because of the implication in this statement - which is very much not what the series thinks it’s saying - that magical and muggle women are, essentially, separate species.

as merope tells us in the shack at the end of the lane, she died "like a woman" - one of the hundreds of thousands of women throughout human history who have died in childbirth for no other reason than that childbirth is dangerous. these women were not weak, they were not hopeless, they were not cruel to their children, they will have wanted to live. they were just profoundly unlucky.

and so, crucially, the merope of this story wanted to live for her son. it just wasn’t as easy as all that.

after her death, she wakes up in a place she had hoped she’d left behind her for good: little hangleton. the self-creating afterlife of the harry potter series is simultaneously comforting and whimsical and totally horrifying if one stops to think too long about it. in particular, if one stops to think about what it would mean for people whose life experience has made it difficult for them to have an imagination or to remember things or places which are pleasant to them.

merope is one of these people - not even able to imagine preston, one of the most ordinary towns in britain, as anything other than "formless white light", let alone paris or rome - and she therefore ends up stuck in a house which must have been a sight of extreme misery for her while she was alive. after all, the implication of canon is very much that she was or would be a victim of incestuous sexual violence at her father and brother’s hands. she is definitely a victim of physical and verbal violence. there can be no way at all that she felt happy in the gaunts’ home - and her experience is made all the more horrifying by the fact that - as i’ve noted in the notes for the snow child, another merope-centric piece - little hangleton more broadly is quite a terrifying place. the village lends itself really well to a sort of folk-horror vibe - perfect and bucolic and too quiet, with darkness lurking underneath its picturesque veneer.

but i wanted to play with this a little - and show how a place merope felt unwelcome in life becomes a home to her in death. the shack moves from being a liminal space into being a solid one: merope makes it into the space she wants, warm and colourful, and she bars morfin from it; it ceases to be a practical space - with a flower garden replacing a vegetable one - as soon as she can acknowledge that her existence is no longer purely about survival or service [for example, when she sleeps in a bed, instead of on the floor like a house elf]; the elements of folklore which were scary in the snow child become neutral here. the blackthorn trees, in particular, spend that story being symbols of ill-omen. in the shack at the end of the lane, in contrast, they should be read as having their second folkloric purpose - protection. [the magpies - one for sorrow, four for a boy - have no happier meaning.]

merope also learns to be happy more generally. the canon narrative tends to take quite a dim view of covetousness - a trait, after all, which gets her into this mess in the first place - not least in the way that it describes lord voldemort’s magpieishness. here, we see that this preference for trivial comforts is inherited, and that taking pleasure in things - such as merope’s shawl, her golden earrings, and the presents she buys for her son in the town - is neither wicked nor sad. sometimes a shawl is a shawl. sometimes it’s a burst of transformative pleasure.

and this idea of things changing ties into a wider theme in the piece - that merope proves herself to be capable of acceptance and redemption. her vicious jealousy of cecilia - tom riddle sr.’s attractive girlfriend - is a central part of the snow child, but here we see her coming to understand how that jealousy was futile, and resolving to manage with the body she has. her rape of tom sr. is a great evil - which, as we see, he’s never managed to get over - but there is a reckoning here as she realises that he was a victim of her instead of the other way round, and as she resists the urge to stroke his hair [as black as the raven’s wing, as she wishes for in the snow child] before she sends him off to a happy place where she cannot follow him. by the time albus dumbledore arrives to see her, she has accepted that tom was never really hers, and is confused when he insists on addressing her as "mrs riddle".

she also finds herself accepting - eventually - her son.

lord voldemort’s grief over merope is one of the most interesting parts of his characterisation, and one which the canon text touches on only lightly [harry notices, for example, that he is furious when hepzibah smith insults merope by implying she stole slytherin’s locket, but he then doesn’t contradict dumbledore when he says that hepzibah’s murder was motivated by gain]. merope’s absence in voldemort’s life manifests itself most clearly in the shack at the end of the lane in her encounter with bellatrix lestrange - as bellatrix tells her daughter’s grandmother that she likes the name merope, unaware that voldemort could never have suggested it to her because all of the evidence of canon is that he has no idea what his mother was called. it also features in the scene with the two dinners, in which the earth-bound tom riddle jr. has finally accepted that his father isn’t a wizard, and has begun his investigation into his maternal line - which will eventually cause him to leave the orphanage for good, sending his childhood room into the ether to await him when he dies. [my headcanon has always been that his limbo is the orphanage - so he has to have it here even though he’ll be living with his mam for eternity.]

merope takes a long time to cotton on to the fact that her son is a murderer - which i don’t think we can really blame her for; it’s quite an overwhelming concept. the dead we meet are both direct and indirect victims of his violence: the rabbit; amy benson [who died by suicide]; myrtle [my favourite]; tom sr.; hepzibah smith; a family of albanian peasants; mrs cole [worn down by dealing with tom]; regulus black; morfin [who wasted away in prison panicking about his father’s stolen ring]; james and lily potter; bertha jorkins; frank bryce [returning to the riddle house, where he was happy]; cedric diggory; barty crouch jr.; sirius black; igor karkaroff; dumbledore [who is kind enough to lie to merope, just for a bit]; colin creevey; lavender brown [in her glittery trainers]; vincent crabbe; fred weasley; severus snape; harry potter [but only temporarily]; nymphadora tonks and remus lupin; bellatrix; and - of course - voldemort himself.

and he’d been waiting a long time for that meeting.

and, look, i’m a hopeless optimist. i think everything will be alright in the end.

[faithlesbian]

fresh off my s7 rewatch i keep sticking on the scene after they find that potential that's hung herself in the night. buffy has to cut her down and bury her body in the garden, which is awful, but then she comes back inside to a room full of grieving, traumatised children, shovel still in hand, and says "anyone want to say a few words about chloe? let me. chloe was an idiot. chloe was stupid. she was weak."

for the rest of that scene she lashes out at pretty much everyone in some way with the reasoning that she's been "carrying them" and that they need to start pulling their weight. that scene is a tough one to watch just from how needlessly cruel she is to the potentials, watching them flinch when she throws the shovel she used to bury their dead friend is especially affecting, and while she's not technically wrong that willow and spike have both been holding back and not giving their all due to fear of their own power, verbally abusing them about it is really only gonna make it harder.

im usually a buffy stan first and a person second so watching her be so genuinely mean is hard for me, but the more i think about it the more i realise its not actually that ooc -- we know a major theme of s7 is the isolation of being the slayer, buffy acknowledges multiple times that she pushes people away and doesnt know how not to, the resolution of the main plot is her finding a way to share her power with the world. buffy's self-isolation and lashing out at her support network is an established trauma response that we first see in s2 when she's still reeling from being killed by the master. buffy in s6 had only recently started overcoming her suicidality before nearly getting raped by spike, so it's fair to say she's equally as unmoored in s7 as she was in early s2 if not way more so. in s3 she attacks a domestic abuse victim when she's struggling to come to terms with how she herself was hurt by angel, so her calling a suicidal teen "stupid and weak" after being suicidal herself actually does track. this is how buffy acts when she's at her most traumatised.

the thing that gets me about this instance compared to the others, though, is how bad a job they do at showing that. i think its pretty easy to say calling a suicidal teen stupid and weak is bad, right? doing so in front of a bunch of other vulnerable teens who are in the same boat is worse, right? no matter how unusual the circumstances, that kind of verbal abuse isnt going to help anyone "toughen up", its just abuse. but buffy doesnt apologise for any of it, willow defends her saying it, and i genuinely cant tell if she's narratively framed as in the wrong or not. buffy barely gets a chance to acknowledge just how traumatised she is this season, the PTSD symptoms she has from the rape in s6 just sort of go away after a while which is exactly how PTSD doesnt work, scenes like this get glossed over and used to build up to her friends kicking her out of her own house, which is such a majorly discoursed scene i dont wanna touch it with a barge pole but we all know that was not the ideal way to deal with any of that, right? the way she acts, which so clearly draws on how she's previously behaved when textually struggling with trauma, is never fully questioned or explored, leading to an ambiguous framing where an argument could easily be made that its meant to be seen as justified "tough" behaviour in a high stakes plot that demands it.

for the main plot to be resolved by buffy breaking the cycle that led to her original trauma, but to also fumble the depiction of that trauma an its effects, is deeply frustrating. because yes! too much had been expected of her by everyone in that room for too long! but part of the reason is her own refusal to ask for or accept help, and that distance between her and those around her is only made worse by her lashing out at them. and she deserved to process that in an emotionally cathartic way at some point before the finale

[roetrolls]

(This drabble was a full-blown collab between me and Chase @sasster!! Did it on a shared google doc and everything !!!)

Can You Hear the Thunder?

As much as Orfuse has been hoping to prolong the inevitable, the conversation he needs to have simply cannot be put off any longer. It’s unfair, isn't it? As comfortable as he has gotten bouncing from Aderae, to Lazali, to even Maelia’s hive over the last few weeks, he cannot avoid the truth forever. He’s made his beloved moirail wait for far too long, and it’s about time he made room in his new life for Harlan.

Orfuse stands in front of the church, heart in his throat and his free hand fiddling about with a loose thread from his sweater. Perhaps there was no new life, and he had instead been summoned to suffer some eternal torment. This feels nothing short of torture. Before him the church looms high; Cold, unyielding, uncaring. Unlike the troll that accompanies him, the one who doesn’t seem to mind the deathlike clutch with which Orfuse hangs onto his shirt.

Though the fuchsia looks bored with the circumstance, his body language suggests quite the opposite. He stands with an arm wrapped around the brownbloods shoulder and his tail hovering around his waist, a stance Orfuse would usually observe him taking with Lazali whenever he caught someone unfavorable staring a little too hard. The truth is, Maelia is entirely unlike anything that the oracle assumed of him, and nothing like what awaits him on the other side of that door

The thought tugs at his heart.

“Harly, uhm. He’d be beside himself if he saw us like this.” He mumbles, shrugging out from under the larger troll and closer to the church doors. “He wouldn’t like it.”

“‘Course he wouldn’t.” Maelia says seemingly unfazed, shrugging his own shoulders as he places a cigarette between his lips. “Hurry up in there. Laz is waiting.”

Orfuse nods once and turns to face the oversized entryway. There is a moment of hesitation before he pushes his way in, into the church he’d only seen in visions of his moirail at his worst.

Doubt starts to prick at his resolve almost immediately.

Maybe this was a mistake.

If the church’s facade was daunting, its interior is downright inhospitable. How much effort did it take, to drain this place so completely of warmth?

Orfuse hugs his arms to his chest, though it does little to dispel the chill that flitters up his spine.

I can’t imagine my Harly in a place like this.

It’s what he wants to think. But he can’t, not honestly. It is all too easy to picture Harlan traipsing through these halls, and that knowledge breaks his heart even more.

His fingers curl around the fabric of his sweater, grounding him as they poke through the gaps in the wool. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, unwilling to view the chapel in its entirety. He cannot bring himself to see the throne. Does not have the will to gaze upon Harlan’s likeness, stern and severe in the looming towers of stained glass.

He is saving his resolve for the real thing.

Fortunately—or perhaps not—he is not made to wait long. For a man Harlan’s size, speed was never much of a concern. He could move quicker than most even at his most leisurely pace, and Orfuse had never known him to hurry.

Which is why it is so jarring to see him barreling into the church at a run, skidding to a halt just beyond the threshold to the compound as he enters the room.

For a moment Orfuse stays stuck in place, drinking in all of Harlan as he stands before him. This is unfair, it is cruel the way his heart begins thrumming in his chest. It’s him, it’s his Harly, kissed by age. What he wouldn’t give to let himself be wrapped up in his arms. To be enveloped by the behemoth before him. What was it Lazali called it?

Losing himself to Harlan. How easy would it be to lose himself again?

Harlan's mouth moves as he drinks in the sight of the oracle just the same with those haunting, pink accented eyes, but it seems that whatever he means to say is trapped within his throat.

Orfuse does not like the glow of his voodoos, they make his stomach turn and, by some twist of fate, help him patch the holes in his already crumbling resolve. He straightens up and gives his arms a squeeze for reassurance.

“Harly, you won’t be very happy with me.” He manages. The attempt to stick to his guns is weak at best, his voice small. Though, that couldn’t possibly be an issue with the way he holds all of the purple blood's attention.

Harlan is silent for a moment as he processes his words, perhaps taken by the sound of his dear moirail, the confirmation that this is all in fact real. Then, without warning, he moves forward to close the distance between them with two large, effortless strides, and just as quickly as he entered the room he is on his knees, cupping a hand around the smaller trolls face.

The scent of pine fills Orfuses nose. He feels at home.

“To think I could be anything but thrilled to hold you once again…”

The smoothness of his voice hits Orfuse the same way his smell did, and the oracle finds himself leaning into his touch. Would it be so bad to lose himself to Harlan again?

He shakes his head to expel the thought. It is a selfish one.

“I miss you so much, Harly…” He reaches up to cup what he can of Harlan’s hand. “But I can’t stay.”

Harlan nearly recoils, reacting to Orfuse’s words as if he has been slapped. He searches the smaller man’s face with incredulity, brows knitting together to spell his confusion and concern. With the smallest shake of the head, he takes Orfuse’s free hand in his, stroking his cheek with one tender thumb.

He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, noticing for the first time how the lights of his eyes poison his beloved moirail’s face. He blinks, taking a deep breath into his lungs. Then, for the first time since losing Orfuse, the Dominion turns his powers off.

“My Orfuse…” He whispers, swallowing hard. “You can. You must.” 

It is not an order, but a pained, desperate plea, and it compels Orfuse more than Harlan’s voodoos ever could.

Now staring into the eyes of his Harlan, without that insidious glow blocking his view, he softens. So too does his resolve.

Orfuse takes his hand from around Harlans and reaches to touch his face gingerly. How could he stand to hurt Harlan like this? Harlan never hurt him, for as long as they’ve known each other.

He swallows as he lets his thumb stroke the side of his face, lingering along the edge of the wrinkles that crown his eye.

“I want to, I really do.” Memories of the last time he denied Harlan start to dredge up, and already tears begin to sting at the corners of his eyes. “But I can’t. I… Harly. Your dominion. It’s not for me.”

His voice is low, barely above a whisper itself. Harlan must know how hard it is to deny him. Why, then, is he making it harder?

“Harly. It’s for the best..” Is it?

Harlan’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly as he studies his moirail’s face for an explanation. Because surely there is an explanation. So carefully he squeezes Orfuses hand in his, the desperation in his eyes masking whatever else he might be feeling in the moment.

“Best for whom?” This one is a demand, but it is so saturated in concern that Orfuse barely registers it as one.

“For me?” He does not sound as sure as he’d like to, having already lost himself in those eyes.

Harlan’s jaw hardens, but his touch remains gentle as ever. He sweeps a lock of hair from Orfuse’s face and stares at him with intent, focus flickering from freckle to freckle as if checking that each cluster is accounted for. 

“Do you truly believe that?”

Orfuse doesn’t respond, certain that his silence is the only thing keeping his tears at bay. He drops his head to stare at his feet, though a light touch on his chin guides his gaze back to Harlan and those deep, purple eyes.

“Please,” the giant mutters, “reconsider.”

“You know I’ll always love you,” he offers weakly.

That grips Harlan, a spark of genuine worry flashing across his face. He is beginning to understand that this resistance is not just for show.

“Orfuse,” he tries again, desperation seeping into his voice.

“Harlan… It’s… This is already difficult.” Orfuse averts his eyes again, and this time Harlan allows it.

“Would you rather it be easy?” There is so much hurt in his voice. Orfuse can’t bear to look at him, wishing desperately that he could sink into the cold tiled floor beneath his feet.

 “No… But I… Would like it if you weren’t committed to making it harder.”

“I can’t lose you.” He releases Orfuse’s hand to brush a knuckle across the smaller man’s cheek, the slightest tremor running through his weathered palms. “Not again…”

For a moment, Orfuse stops breathing as he once again reaches up to take Harlan’s hand into his. This time, he wraps them both around it, and as upsetting as it is to admit, the action turns out to be a very grounding one. Slowly he expels the breath that trapped itself in his lungs as he starts to stroke along the detail of the giant’s hand. Along every imperfection that reminds him what he was robbed of.

They were supposed to grow old together, that was the plan.

“I don’t want to lose you again either, Harlan.” He finally admits, tears flowing freely now. What is the point in hiding them? He never could with Harlan at any rate.

“You do not have to.” Harlan says, fingers curling around the smaller troll's hands in an effort to keep them still. It sounds so simple on his silver tongue. Smooth, effortless coercion. “Who says that you must?”

“I have to. There’s no…There’s no space for me here. It’s. Everything..” Suddenly Orfuse screws his eyes shut and his features shift into an unpleasant expression. He pulls a hand back to press the heel of the palm into his temple, an attempt to disperse the pool of visions his mind pulls forward from his memory. “Everything happened here. I can’t stay.”

Harlan does not release the other hand, he instead rubs his thumb over the back of it in small circles. Just as soothing as everything else about him, he reaps the benefits of a lifetime to learning how to ground the man.

“How could I explain my decision to stay to them?”

The ghost of something sinister passes over Harlan’s face. It is not often that his actions have consequences.

“Them,” he echoes, expression sour. “What need have you to explain yourself to them? Punishing me will not undo their suffering.”

“I’m not… Punishing you,” Orfuse warbles helplessly.

“There is space,” Harlan interjects, free hand moving to join the other in holding him. Kneeling in front of the oracle with his palms clasped together, it nearly looks like prayer. “There is space.”

Orfuse feels the corners of his mouth pull into a troubled frown, lips pressing themselves into a thin line. He starts to shake his head.

“There has always been space— In here, in me,” Harlan pleads, jabbing five curled fingers into his chest. “To have all this and you, my darling… It is all I have ever wanted.”

He sounds almost breathless, and Orfuse can’t quite swallow the lump growing in his throat.

Harlan’s jaw seems to grind slightly, tongue moving in his mouth as he grasps for what to say. There is a ferocity in his eyes, a terrible certainty that if he can only find the correct words to speak, then at last he will have everything. 

His gaze softens. “If I had known that this was where you drew the line… If I had only had you here to temper me…” Gently, he squeezes the smaller man’s hands, his voice so smooth it makes Orfuse’s heart ache with longing. “I need you, beloved. Who else can stop me?”

Harlan’s words ring louder in his ears than the visions that his mind conjured, the larger than life hands around his own root him back to reality.

There’s a valid point. No one can take care of Harlan quite like him. And is the reverse not also true? For no one really knows what Orfuse needs better than Harlan.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, considerable effort going into getting it down. With his vision blurred by his tears, he searches Harlan’s face for any sign that there is remorse for his actions, that there is anything left of his beloved moirail.

Before him stands a behemoth, the vessel of his childhood love that, prior to this exact moment, was smugly satisfied with the terror he had wrought. Upset not because he has caused great harm, but because he is being made to answer for those crimes. Does he even care about the effects his actions have had on the oracle? Orfuse digs around for his voice again, and when he finds it it is pathetic and small. A cry dies in his throat. Instead, he steals a quick glance over his shoulder at the door he’d entered through, worry creasing his browline.

What happens if he stays? Maelia would not return empty handed. His love for Lazali, the care for his well being extended much further than even his own self preservation. How unfair is that? What is stopping Harlan from being that for him? They’ve known each other a fraction of the time.

When Orfuse’s attention drifts back to Harlan, there is a shift in the atmosphere. The air is heavy enough that it all but threatens to suffocate. Something dark dances behind those deep, purple eyes, as though in that brief second, he’d been able to make some connections.

Harlan watches Orfuse with a set jaw.

“You don’t want to be stopped,” the oracle finally breaks the silence that worked so hard to choke him out. “You never wanted to be stopped before.” “Who brought you here?” Another demand from the giant as he focuses his gaze on the door. The darkness that grew in his eyes evolves into an unreadable and dangerous expression that crosses his features. Once again his jaw seems to grind as he searches for the words to say. “Who is waiting on you?”

The implication is clear, anyone who knew the pair would be able to see that Orfuse could never willingly give up his Harlan. Someone got into his head, the only question that remains of that mystery is who.

“No one!” He doesn’t shout, the response is more like a high pitched squeal. A desperate squeak. “It doesn’t matter. I asked them to bring me.”

“It matters that they would subject you to this torture, my love.” There it is again. Effortless, smooth coercion. “It is unfair to you.”

Suddenly, indignance curls itself around Orfuse’s heart like a fist, and it’s his turn to recoil. For a split second, he feels anger. It flashes across his face.

“Is it so hard to believe that I could stand up on my own?” The anger that started hot in his chest starts to fizzle out, and he loses the steam needed to maintain it just as quickly as he’d collected it. Still, he presses on. “That I could operate based on my own morals just this once?” They both know the answer to that question. He would never choose to abandon him on his own accord.

Why would he?

Harlan watches him for a moment, eyes darting around his face to once again soak him in. He reaches to wipe the tears away.

Orfuse lets him.

“Don’t do this.”

“I have to…”

Harlan’s frown deepens. “You truly feel that you are better off without me?” The hurt in his voice nearly conceals his mounting frustration.

“No,” Orfuse whimpers. “I don’t. I’m not…”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t,” he cries, wrapping a hand around Harlan’s thumb.

“Why did you come here, love, if not to be persuaded?” He asks quietly, wrinkles highlighted by the furrow in his brow.

“To say goodbye.”

“To break my heart,” Harlan says forcefully, loath to be fighting a losing battle. He takes a deep breath, gathering back his composure, and speaks softly once more. “My dearest Orfuse… I beg you. Stay.”

Orfuse lets his gaze sweep across Harlan’s face, taking in as much of him as he possibly can while he struggles to get his legs working. This is it, after all, he came and said what needed to be said.

Now he just needs to leave.

Why can’t he leave?

He opens his mouth to speak, but before the words find their way out, Harlan shifts to wrap him up in both arms. All at once, he becomes the smaller troll’s entire world.

Becomes? No, this only serves as a reminder.

Harlan is his whole world. He always has been, he always will be.

When he speaks, his voice rumbles through him.

“My love, you must stay with me. What am I meant to do without you?”

Orfuse leans into him, selfishly drinking in every ounce of his beloved moirail that he can. His scent, his strength, the way the coldness of his skin permeates and lingers on his clothes, the sorrow concealing frustration in his voice.

“Harlan,” his shaky voice is muffled into the giant's chest. He sucks in a deep breath. “I love you so much more than my heart can take. But I have to. Please, Harly, please let me go.”

As he begs, he grips tightly onto the purple blood’s shirt with trembling hands.

“Please, let this departure be on good terms.” He would die otherwise. “Please.”

Harlan places a hand on the back of Orfuse’s head, pressing the smaller man into his body as if trying to absorb him.

“If you leave I will be furious,” he warns, voice low. “But not with you. Never with you.”

He draws back to gaze upon his lover once more, grasping his chin with a finger and thumb. His eyes are misty.

“Go, if you are set on it. Your place will be waiting for you.” Slowly, he brings his face close to Orfuse’s, all but devouring him with deep, tired eyes. “You know you are mine, my love. You know I will always be yours.”

Orfuse could not respond if he wanted to, but he does not get the chance to try before Harlan’s lips are on his, soft, cool, and intoxicating. He holds him there for a moment far too short, then pulls away and rises to his feet.

“Leave, then. Before it can be said I did not let you."

[justanotherpersonsuniverse]

barking barking, ok so i am rereading a bit of the last chapter and the things i had noted last time so that i remember everything that happened but after that i am loose

having an awful idea to listen to the guitar solo of freebird on repeat as i read this.... i am going to do it there is a rotating rat on the 10 hours version i found, wonderful

SO UH THIS IS MASSIVE SORRY ALSO SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T READ CAPS LOVELY NEWEST CHAPTER SCROLL PAST THIS VERY FAST IT MAY TAKE A WHILE. THE READ MORE BUTTON DOESN'T WORK IN ASKS SO SORRY

(i refuse to edit it this time, it took me like. a while last time and this is even longer, so you also get the incomprehensible pieces and no added notes to explain what i meant <3 (also a lot more '<3' this time. not sure why))

MORE CROWS rrr, they are important i know it

the way panthera is surrounded by cats and crows is interesting... like its an amusing visual but also really kick ass if you frame it in your mind right

yes, i enjoy that juleka is confronting ladybug on how she leads, especially considering that we know for sure they are inexperienced, yes i like this conversation

ooo, this is interesting, dust all kicked up focussing on different senses...very fun, always interesting to see how they can rely on things other than sight

woahhh, the staff lets off green sparks?? its made of copper <3 wait i looked it up and... aluminium makes green fire too? huh? this isn't important <33

awesome visual tho

YEAH BEAT HIS ASS BRO roger cop my beloathed <3

massive baby guy would be scary...

yay! teamwork! carapace and panthera woohoo

gonna be honest free birds outro on loop is really setting the mood for fighting for me

stop making me google things cap... t-rexes were apparently in the "late cretaceous" like ok thanks movie franchise for lying to me ig

Rena- this is amazing- she would record that. wonderful descriptors <33

No <3 i do not need the heartbreak of juleka v akumatised rose again <3 stop it <3 you hurt me <3

oh thank god-

this mantra of "calm yourself" is intriguing, i think its not going to work <3 let her go ape shit please

YOO PRINCE SHINING?? NOO

THIS IS BAD ASS THO

HA AND DOWN HE GOES

she's gonna turn this car around road trip with them when?? it can be a well deserved break <3 i am pitching this idea cap <3 this is what i would like and i would like it very much (i kid, its just amusing to me)

no because. because. alya nino and chloe are still able to have fun in a fight and. and- juleka is over here like a war veteran while marinette is trying to corral them all and- upset now

oh no juleka blacked out?? oh dear...

chlolix crumbs... wonderful... (to be honest with you, searching through the chlolix ship tag years ago was why i found these fics, so i love to see them but i am so attached to the story now <33)

OO? violence in your heart juleka?? maim and kill him you say?? good idea <3

“Miss me?” He grinned maliciously. “No, whore.” Queen Bee scowled at her side. i am actually losing it this is the funniest thing i have seen today-

ooo dark cupid being used to farm akumas... this is reminding me of minecraft and zombie villager farming to get the best trades, i can see the video titles now "this hack will TRIPLE your akuma production in just three EASY steps" <- unsure what this is but it happened in my brain, so there you go <3

i do like the idea of dark cupids powers being used tactically like this, i enjoy how its thought out critically when an akuma has an obviously helpful / game changing power

</3 "ma, i'm so exhausted" you are so cruel

AUGH WHAT NO ough rena got got by kim...

marinette kiss her quick

ough emotional

imma be honest for a hot second i thought juleka got hit by dark cupids arrow which i was fascinated by the idea of, however i think if she is to lose self control it would be more interesting if it was due to circumstances than mind altering magic

??? interesting, "there was- for a flash- a blackness that seemed to writhe like a bubbling mass of ink up her fingers—!" curious...

D: chloe... :(

augh my heart... they all got got protecting each other...

YOUR EVIL THIS IS UPSETTING ME

um hello?? who is speaking to her in bold?? am i dumb for not knowing?? girly is hearing voices

kill him!

gigantitan baby cult...

alternate universe where neither of them remember any of the old akumas names and at one point one of the akumas is so offended by the idea of being forgettable its enough of a distraction to get them

not me trying to think about whether a wish could actually be beneficial in any overall capacity using the rules we were given because hawkmoth is saying it would be...

no but why is the fact that akumatised queen bee is just sad making me so upset-

this is such a fucking big chapter jesus christ-

"nicking her ear and taking out one of her piercings" make her design look like gargamels cat azrael 2k18

(thats the wrong year. uh. shhh thats just the auto fill in my head when i say 2k)

hawky boy has gone off the edge of sanity hasn't 'e...

WOAH ONE ON ONE?? OWHUWO

OH NO ITS GOING BADLY

ohno that guy in bold is back at it again being ominous as fuck ohh i am dumb its plagg. yeah that tracks i am but a silly guy

ooo is it happening? is she doing the thing??

YOO THAT WAS BETTER THAN WHAT I THOUGHT OF THAT WAS BADASS YOO??

OUHTFHEDW

really did a bilbo catching the one ring on his finger and turning invisible right when gollum was boutta catch him tense vibes moment i would describe this better but i must get back to reading this was awesome

OOO SHE DID END UP BEING CALM IT WORKED WOHDANW4FIBBDE

THIS IS BAD COMMENTARY I AM EXCITED OK??

augjh=gtfreinig4fgrninib4frnedw

the way that i'm insane for the idea that someone recorded this fight and everyone ends up seeing panthera being a fucking badass has me insane...

mmmm switching the music to metallica

oh that was the right decision perfect base drop timing for what i was reading

ough awoog wibnefr, insane for the way that she is not referring to herself as human rn

awwybgfwei bgyrfned insane for all of this actually

THIS WAS SO FUCKING COOL JESUS CHRIST OH MY GOD ABHWEBHUUNERI I WISH I COULD SHAKE YOU BY THE SHOULDERS AND EXPLAIN ARTICULATELY EVERY DETAIL I LOVED BUT ALAS ALL I CAN DO IS KEYBOARD SMASH AT YOU ACROSS THE INTERNET

love carapce actually <3

“You suck bro. Take an L dude, take an L.” “HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT TO ME– THIS IS MY MOMENT-” “IT’S A RANDOM FUCKING FRIDAY DUDE IT IS JUST A FRIDAY!” Carapace shouted, so frustrated, pinching his fingers together at the man. “YOU’VE WASTED SO MUCH TIME! GET A JOB!” love this so much actually

YO I FORGOT ABOUT MAYURA AND YOU FUCKING NAMED THE CHAPTER AFTER HER BRO

What a wonderful power, she thought. To protect, instead of hurt. stab in the heart why don't you

“HEY LADYBUG WE FOUND A BROKEN STICK!” “I FOUND IT FIRST ACTUALLY!” “I FOUND A FEATHER!” The two simply sighed love them all so dearly actually <3

awoog wiubfrne, whub?? juleka babe girly darling why are you still injured???? ough it was because of the metallica moment (<3 i have my own name for it, the songs i listened to while that was happening was Battery and Master of puppets btw)

well course it didn't heal from the cure, they are exact opposites so their direct effects would cancel out. like a plus and a minus, idiot

Apparently Rose might’ve fought Adam in a random parking lot that they had ended up in because she thought he might’ve hurt her during the attack so.. HWJB4IFE HA she would do that wouldn't she?

“Meh, it happens.” alix??? this is such a hilariously chill response??

nriew more chlolix crumbs...

Alix defended herself passionately, throwing up her hands as icing laid smeared on her lips. She paused for a moment, as Chloe half-heartedly wiped a bit off before continuing THATS GAY GAYY THEY ARE GAY A3WDWEUI sorry i got a bit excited there.

“Don’t worry, I won’t disappear.” “…Sometimes I–” “Yes?” Juleka pepped up. Rose paused and seemingly waved her thoughts away, smiling. “It’s nothing, don’t keep your big bro waiting!” RRRR REVEAL YOUR IDENTITY PLEASE OIGUHER RRRR

no because you somehow manage to keep it being a slow burn after they got together and i'm insane for that

actually they are the most adorable creatures in the universe i love them

I just didn’t think you’d start hearing them now.. huhwuh?? she is supposed to hear voices?????? weird wack ass side effects

ruhroh looks like thats the consequences of your actions nathalie

RUHROH THE CONSEQUENCES OF JULEKAS ACTIONS?? ough she has made herself an extra high value target

Her boy– no. Their boy shut up your in a queerplatonic relationship with gabriel and you both dated emilie in my head. he is your child to me <3 (i will write that damn 200k slowburn unhappy ending prequel i joked about if you fucking force my hand (ie. continue to make reference teeny tiny things like that (or maybe it will just start planning itself in my head right now curse you my brain)))

WAIT THE REST OF THIS PARAGRAPH IS SO SAD SHUT UP YOUR A CRUEL BEAST CAP

Emelie and Gabriel’s boy. He was not her’s. He would never be her’s. She was just– the assistant. The distant guardian. This was all for him though, if she could help– she could just. Maybe.. Nathalie shook her head at herself. What mattered was this family. UPSET NOW

TEARING YOU APART RIPPING YOU APART WITH MY TEETH CAP THIS WAS INCREDIBLE AND THIS TOOK ME OVER 2 HOURS

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA I 4yrheiwjnow

you may receive asks in your future about me writing that thing i keep joking about. i am spinning it in my mind like this damn rat

i muted it at times but wanted a timer and uh

this is nearly 1800 words wrong what is wrong with me- yknow what no this is your fault for the monster size of this chapter, anyway, time to slap this beast into your inbox <33

THIS IS MADE ME SO SO SO SOSOSOSOSO SOS O HAPPY.,,,,,,,

THANK YOU SO SO MUCH,, IM GLAD YOU ENJOYED,,,

[rebrandedstoryline]

Rebranded - 4 - Unfortunate Circumstance

A mother bird dies, leaving behind a nest of babies. Sun asks a cruel favor of Moon. A favor Moon feels obligated to fulfill.

Word count: 1,270

Having spent over a week on the run, the animatronics had come across a multitude of potential shelters. Potential places to call home.

Thus far every would-be shelter had turned into a bitter disappointment. The places that were genuinely empty had been left in an uninhabitable condition. Even by robotic standards.

A home which threatened to topple down and crush its inhabitants was not one worth claiming. What’s more, these abandoned places were also in such a poor state that keeping themselves functioning would prove difficult. Finding enough consumable matter would grow more and more dangerous as time went on. They would have to travel further and further away with passing days to collect what was needed to keep their bodies running. The two problems combined in such a way that a shelter could only be deemed habitable for a small amount of time.

In a way, it was both a blessing and a curse to encounter so few man-made structures. The lack of humans assured that the two were unlikely to be found. Unfortunately that lack of people also meant that any structures that they encountered had either been long abandoned, or that they were guaranteed to be inhabited.

Naturally, any inhabited space was off limits and best avoided.

For many of the long abandoned structures that they found, nature had taken root and ruined their integrity. Still, the pair could contently settle in these mangled corpses of long forgotten buildings. At least for a time.

Sun, the more docile of the two animatronics, remained content to hide and rest within the confines of these abandoned structures.

Moon became the primary explorer as a result. His standards for what would provide a suitable home were stricter. They needed a means of reliably keeping themselves fueled. Their shelter needed to provide them protection from the elements, because extreme weather conditions could still pose potential risk. Ergo, their ideal sort of shelter would be far from humans, and recently abandoned.

“Recently abandoned” meaning that the building would still be in a state worth living in. In an area with enough access to edible matter that they need not need to worry about roaming too far from home.

The space that they currently inhabited had already achieved one of those goals. They had reached a distance from the city that could be defined as “Deep Rural". There were houses, but they were few and far between. It would take a few hours by motorized vehicle to reach anywhere of importance. Technically there were plenty of things around for the animatronics to consume for fuel.

Really the only major issue was finding agreeable shelter. The sort that they could take cover in in the event of a serious storm.

Namely something that could protect them from something along the lines of lightning. Electricity was good for them, but one good strike from the skies and chances were their bodies would be damaged beyond repair.

Luckily for them it seemed as though they had fled at an optimal time of year. The time of year where it was easy to avoid storms. So the poor quality shelter that they had managed to find would suit them well enough for the time being.

Moon would be free to set out in search of greener pastures.

Sun was free to stay behind. He spent his time absorbing every new experience as it came. He studied how the different animals all neatly fit into some role in their environment. What creatures ate what. Which plants provided for which animals. In a way it became a game to him. He created stories to explain why it was that certain animals behaved the way that they did. A flawed nature documentary observed in real time.

Moon happily engaged in the silliness, even if he could rationalize that Sun was equally as unsure as he was. Neither knew what these animals were. Not in specifics at least. Neither was able to understand why some animals behaved differently than others. The game was just some means of creating an explanation for things that they could not understand.

“Did anything interesting happen with the animals today?” Moon inquired, having returned from another night of searching for their ideal home. He could tell that his twin had kept themselves quite busy throughout the day. A small pile of fruit and nuts had been established not far from where the two would idle.

“Well... The nestlings lost their mother today.” Sun replied, sitting with his face fixated in the direction of a birds nest that resided in a nearby tree. His tone was glum. He was naturally sad to have witnessed such an unfortunate event.

“Are you sure? Sometimes she takes longer to come back with food.” Moon responded, taking a seat next to his twin. Something of a sigh escaped the other, who rotated their head ever so slightly - their solar rays retracting partway into their head as a show of sadness.

“She's gone. A bigger bird came when she was feeding her babies… One moment she was there, and the next she was gone. There were a lot of feathers. The wind took them away... I can't tell if the babies are alright or not.” Sun explained, finally turning away to look to his sibling. “I couldn't find much, but I was able to collect food today. The fruit is really sour, though.” He added, having seemingly decided to change the subject of conversation. He never was the sort to want to linger upon the sad notes of the day. He was an optimist by nature.

“It probably isn't ripe.” Moon murmured in turn, having already reached to pick up a piece of the fruit that lay beside him. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he was relatively certain that it wasn’t ripe. Whatever it was, it was still green. He knew it wasn’t an apple. The size and shape didn’t match. Still, he consumed it. Ripe or not, it had value as fuel. The fruit could be poisonous to humans and he would still eat it. That poison would hold no negative impact on him.

“Moony?...” Sun inquired, his voice leaving him in a hushed tone. Not quite a whisper. Loud enough to be heard, but not quite as loud as usual.

“Yes, Sun?” Moon replied in turn, speaking at an equal level of volume.

“If the father doesn't come back, will you help them rest?... I don't want them to suffer...” Sun requested tentatively, a clear level of guilt present in his tone. The inquiry only coaxed a sort of sigh from Moon in turn.

“If the father doesn't return before it's time for me to leave, then I'll make sure they sleep.” Moon replied, an almost bitter tone creeping into his voice as he spoke. He wasn’t angry. Cross with his situation if anything. Like his twin, he did not wish for the creatures around him to suffer a slow demise. He had grown so tired of watching the struggle while trapped within the confines of the Pizza Plex.

At the same time, he did not ask to be the one who had to end the suffering. But it was either him or no one. He would not allow Sun to dirty their hands with innocent blood. If Sun even had the capability of doing so. As cruel as it was for him to have to be the beast that came to feast upon the weak, it was a role that he had already resigned himself to. As the nightmare in the darkness which guarded the light.