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nebbyy · 5 months

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King Baldwin IV x reader - I’ll be waiting for you

A/N: Well, how could I not make another fic for King Baldwin when the other one I made is my most liked post yet, so I decided to write this little pieceee. Sooo I guess I should warn y'all that this one will be a little less historically accurate (not that the first one was that great of a historical piece but you get the idea). Oh and as usual, this fic came into my mind the moment I saw the painting just below (which is "the Reconciliation of the Montagues and Capulets Over the Dead Bodies of Romeo andJuliet" by sir Frederic Leighton)Now enough chatting, more King Baldwin brainrot.

Summary: in a desperate attempt to protect his kingdom after having punished Reynald de Chatillon, the king is exhausted and the long ride has increasingly worsened his already wary condition. Once he’s escorted back to the palace, his loving wife wastes no time to reunite with her beloved husband.

Warnings: kinda angsty (no happy ending tbh), vague descriptions of Baldwin’s illness related wounds. Also, reader specifically described as female.

Word count: 3209

You sat on your throne, high and proud like the royalty you were. But under the facade of your noble confidence, you felt small. Smaller than ever, actually, as the yelling of all the men in front of you filled the air and rose up to the open sky. With a simple, reckless act, Reynald de Chatillon and Guy de Lusignan had just screwed years of efforts that King Baldwin had spent trying to maintain that delicate peace that required so many lives and time to build. All washed away from the raging river that were Reynald and Guy.

While the two men tried to defend their senseless attack, backed by a substantial group of men, another opposing group shouted at them, berating them for the offense they had given not only to Saladin but also to Jerusalem itself.

You sigh, fighting the urge to cover your ears, and curl into your own body; you opt to just turn your head and look at your beloved husband. He looked to be in a similar state as you were: although his face was now fully covered -a means of hiding the decaying state of his leprosy-ridden body- his head was bent with weary alertness, like a hawk watching its prey from a distance. You watched his body, languidly seated on his much larger throne, the only sitting position that brought him no discomfort, though it looked almost more like he was about to lie down.

It broke your heart to see how that disease had ravaged Baldwin's body, in recent years more and more. To see him there, on the same throne on which he once sat tall and proud, while now he barely had the strength to stay upright. And you knew he was thinking the very same thing.

You were about to open your mouth, whisper something to him, anything, in order to shake him out of his thoughts and that chaotic situation, but you were interrupted in your actions by an official, who rushed to the king's side, handing him a scroll. His bandaged hands clumsily opened the scroll, and you found salvation from the noise of the room by concentrating on watching Baldwin read carefully. You watched his eyes, blue as the sky and like the waves of the sea that brought you to the Holy Land, now covered with a pale glassy glaze.

You frowned when you heard Baldwin freeze in place, even his sitting became more erect, as if a cube of ice had slid down his back. With his gaze still fixed on the words written in that letter, he merely raised his hand slightly, a clear sign of his will.

"SILENCE!" his guard's shout resounded through the hall, overpowering the furious shouts of the men who had been barking at each other for hours now. They all turned to look at the king; their faces, a few moments ago darkened and wrinkled with anger, were now smooth and relaxed, their eyebrows raised in astonishment at their king's order. Funny, you thought, how these men because of your husband's condition sometimes simply forget how much power he possessed over them. Before it was as if he wasn't even in the room, and they were all playing at being great leaders, now there they were, staring at him, motionless as statues, submissive as ants. You curled your nose discreetly, your face a mixture of disgust and contempt. Pathetic, you thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, Baldwin finally looked up at the crowd in front of him, finally revealing what it was that had shocked him so much. "Saladin has crossed the Jordan with 200000 men," silence fell, and you felt your body going numb. Your ears seemed muffled, you could barely perceive what was happening around you. At that moment you felt so much fear for your kingdom, and concern for Baldwin and what this impending attack would cost him.

And anger, against those two fools who out of sheer vanity had endangered the lives of all the inhabitants of Jerusalem. They had put Jerusalem itself at risk; they had put Baldwin at risk.

I was brought to attention by Baldwin, who was struggling to pull himself up from his throne, walking toward his most trusted man. "We must meet him before he reaches Kerak. I will lead the army," your husband's voice was hushed and soft, so that only the man in front of him could hear. But it did not escape your ears, the implication those words had: Baldwin wants to stop Saladin, and he wants to do it himself. But this could cost him his life.

You couldn't stop yourself; you jumped up from your seat, eyes wide in an expression somewhere between fear and surprise. Baldwin turned to look at you, the woman who always took his breath away at the mere sight of how beautiful she was. You did not fail to have that effect on him again this time, but not because of your beauty: in your eyes he saw your terror, that this was the last time you would see him alive. They hypnotized him, and begged him in a silent prayer not to leave, to give up this plan, have an ambassador sent, anyone else. Hell, let him send Guy himself to intercept the Saracen, let him be beheaded and his murder settle the account that he himself opened. But the storm of emotion in your eyes contrasted with the gentle stream of emotion flowing from your eyes

But the storm of emotions in your eyes contrasted with the gentle stream of emotions flowing from Baldwin's eyes, barely visible because of the cover concealing his tortured face. He too, through them, was silently pleading with you: but he was asking you to trust, to let go and follow his plan, to try to forget for at least a moment all the warnings the Physicians had given him over the years.

Eventually, you relented, turning your gaze away and opting to stare at a random spot in the corner of the room. Baldwin gave a silent sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, a sign of gratitude, although you could not see it. He turned to the men of his court, and with the little strength his body afforded him, he spoke in a loud, determined voice: "Assemble the army and protect the city."

All this reminded you of the last time Baldwin fought Saladin: he had barely completed his seventeenth year, and young and still full of life, he was ready to ride against the invincible Saracen king. But on that day God had been more merciful. He had granted you, if nothing else, one last night to spend with your husband, had given you the gift of a minimum of time to ensure that you bid Baldwin a proper farewell before he met what could well have been his end. Instead this time, you barely had time to briefly remove the thick veil from his face to give him a fleeting kiss and exchange a handful of words. You fought back the tears as you looked at him, opting instead to bring your hand to his cheek, the flesh of his lip having receded and decayed to such an extent that it had receded down to his cheek, eventually turning into a long scar that protruded down to his cheekbone.

"Let me go with you, I will wait for you at the castle of Reynald de Chatillon-" "No. It is too dangerous. If things go wrong with the negotiations, I don't want you or my sisters anywhere near that man." It was not often that Baldwin interrupted you while you were speaking. He respected you too much to not allow you to finish your sentences, so the fact that he did just now spoke of how important this was to him.

"Then promise me you’ll come back to me. Safe and sound." He snorted softly, giving a hint of smile before copping his face with his hardened hands, "You know I can’t promise it." You know that, but that blatant honesty of his, which you always loved so much, was not what you wanted at the time. No, you wanted reassurance, no matter how truthful, no matter how worthless his promises may be at the end of the day, You need that fleeting distraction that mitigates the fear that’s been eating you from the inside since Baldwin put on his armor. May you risked never seeing him again.

"Please just say it." Your voice came out much softer than you meant, almost less than a whisper, perhaps because of the knot in your throat, which threatened to break free carrying a river of tears. For a moment he remained silent, turning suddenly his face towards the voice of a nobleman who called him from the entrance of his room, but did not even dignify him with an answer. After all, his attention was completely turned to his world. To you. Before I answered you, I drew your head to his with my hands, so that I could place his forehead against yours. Finally, he spoke softly, in that loving tone that he reserved only for you: "Then I promise you that I will return to you in no more than three days, and when I return I will be victorious, and I will be riding."

After that, that moment between the two of you, which so much looked like a heartbreaking farewell, lasted just before Baldwin had to go to his horse to guide his men to the enemy.

And it wasn’t long before the harsh reality became clear to you: he had lied to you. Not maliciously, of course, you were the one who begged him to say those words after all. But the fact is that three days became four, that news of the army of Jerusalem had not come any more, that the last thing you heard of your husband was that only the ride had already tried his weakened body.

Another day passed, then another, and at the dawn of the fourth day since his absence you felt your heart sink. Had something happened to him? Had the negotiations failed? What if his illness had suddenly got the better of him? Or worse, Saladin and his men had shot him, stabbed him, or yet again captured and publicly executed,…

Your mind began to spiral into an ocean of possible reasons behind this delay, and you swore that your breathing had finally stopped once and for all when a messenger on horseback arrived at the palace, frantically dismounting from his steed to rush into the throne room and bring you the message: "The negotiations were successful, but the king is in critical condition! He is returning to Jerusalem on a canopy," you dismissed the man with a slight wave of your hand, so weak that you almost looked numbed; Baldwin's advisors began to chatter, but the background murmur of their murmurs did not seem to reach your ears. No, your attention was elsewhere; it was entirely on your husband.

You took your leave of the court, hurrying to your rooms. There, like a hawk waiting impatiently for prey to feed on, you perched on the balcony overlooking the city below you, on the walls from which not many days ago Baldwin had emerged leading the army.

It was there that you began to think again, this time with a clearer mind as you knew that at least Baldwin was alive and on his way home. On his way to you. Still, this whole situation reminded you of when you were only sixteen years old, and you stood on that balcony as you do now, waiting to see Baldwin return on his horse. And on that day, when he was visible to the naked eye, and your eyes met, you saw all the life and strength of one who had just defeated the greatest enemy of his time. At that moment, he seemed almost immortal to you: he looked like a god riding proudly, leading the thousands of men behind him towards their home.

How unfair fate is, to cut short his life so early. His physicians gave him no more than thirty years, but that time seemed to you to be shortened even more when you finally caught sight of his canopy. There he lay, sprawled and motionless like a dead body, surrounded by the soft cushions and riders on either side of his transport.

Just two years ago such a journey would not have fatigued him in the least; now he was risking his life just by riding a horse. Your eyes threatened to fill with tears thinking about how much he had loved riding a horse, and now he found himself bedridden, unable in his passions. You wasted no time running through the palace corridors, eager to reach your beloved as soon as possible.

One turn to the right, then another, then down the steps, and finally straight to the palace doors, where the finely decorated canopy led the love of your life.

You rushed to his side, gently taking his mutilated hand in yours while the other stroked his masked face. He breathed faintly, his eyes closed as he tried to regain his strength after his disease had dealt him this last bludgeon. Feeling your gentle touch, Baldwin's eyes fluttered open, his glassy eyes the color of heaven meeting yours.

"You've been reckless, my love. Putting your life at risk just to do the job of a messenger!" you scolded him, but Baldwin only smiled fondly at your words. "I promised you I would've come back. And that I did, alive too." Although his voice was so weak that it sounded more like a huff of air rather than a sentence, its tone was still laced with playfulness.

It made you unable to resist the smile that was threatening to form on your lips; you did not grace him with an answer yet, opting instead to move your hand to remove the silver mask from his face. You could see his surprised and relieved expression, as he was now finally able to breathe more freely and to look at you properly. He breathed in the sight of you, almost as if trying to take in as much of you as he could. "I can't tell if it's the travel or the sight of you that takes my breath away."

You just smiled bitterly and shook your head at his silly declarations, "It must be the ride, it has tired you so much that it's making you speak nonsense." he giggled weakly, much more tiredly this time, almost as if he was about to doze off. But he fought the tiredness nonetheless, opting to just shake his head and admire you with a lovestruck look. "Maybe I am hallucinating, I think I'm seeing heaven above me."

It was supposed to be a compliment that would've made you giggle and blush, like the ones that he showered you with daily. But instead, it made your heart clench at the bare idea of it. The idea that this would be his last moments before the energies spent for this expedition would be too much for him to handle, and God will reclaim his most virtuous man. It made your throat tighten, and your lower lip tremble.

You tried to hide your troubled state, moving your hand quickly to the curve of his neck. There, you placed a soft, butterfly-like kiss on the little places of skin that haven't been mutilated and bloodied by the leprosy. You kissed him one more time, then another, and another again..

In the end, you lost count of how many kisses you had given him, in a desperate attempt to mend your premature grief, to ground yourself in the feeling that Baldwin is there. He is alive. Yet the feeling of his skin against yours, of his chest rising up and down and his arms weakly holding your soft body, it wasn't enough to stop the tears to start flowing down your cheeks.

And that didn't go unnoticed to Baldwin, who mustered all his strength left to hold you just a little tighter. "Have my words upset you?" you sniffled, trying to recollect yourself before lifting your head to look into his eyes. "No, my dear, you could never. I just-" you stopped for a second, trying to swallow down the lump that had formed in your throat, "promise me this is the last time. Please, tell me that you will stop this nonsense. Let your trusted men handle these matters, command your man like a king not a general!" your hands had moved to his arms, a gesture to both ground yourself and to accentuate just how desperate you were in that moment, only wanting him to just listen.

"I beg of you, my love, stay here. Where you can rest. We both know that you don't have much more time left to live, so stop doing everything in your power to shorten it anymore." A sob slipped from your mouth at the last part. It truly astonished you how careless he seemed about his own condition, almost as if he forgot that any move could be the death of him.

He frowned and sighed at your words, squeezing your forearms softly before he spoke softly. This time though his tone was clearer, less weakened by the outcomes of the past days. "I already spoke to the physician about this: I have no choice, my angel. I'll be bound to my bed until a miracle will better my condition, or until death will take me."

You shut your eyes in relief, resting your forehead against his and sighing shakily, trying to recompose yourself. "I can't live in a world without you.."

"God will give us more time. I promise I won't leave you as long as I breathe on this earth. And. when my time will be over and there will be no future for us in this life, I'll be waiting for you in heaven, if I'll be granted the blessing of a place next to you there."

Not too long after, the physicians that Saladin had promised him arrived at the palace, and you were assisted as they tended to Baldwin's many wounds caused by his sickness. More than the sight of the gruesome pieces of open flesh, what appalled you was just how numb his body had become, so much so that he did not even feel their hands and tools working into his skin. It made you wonder wether or not he even felt your kisses from before.

And you make yourself that same question months later, when you place one last kiss into his forehead as he slept soundly before going to bed yourself, only to wake up to a cold body beside you. You wonder if he ever got to feel that last gesture of love before God had finally claimed him.

You only found solace in the thought that Baldwin would be resting in the realms of heaven above your head, contrary to what the Saracens believe.

A/N: Wowww this gets more fun by the day!! King Baldwin will probably always be my favorite character to write for. He’s my muse. As always ill be waiting for your feedbacks!!!

Oh and also, be prepared in the future for more fics waiting to be posted, I’ve got about ten that are just waiting for the right time to come to light, and many more will come in the future since I’m really finding it therapeutic to write.

#writers on tumblr #angst #fluff #my fic #king baldwin x reader #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin iv #reynald de chatillon #guy de lusignan #reader insert #f!reader #historical fiction #fanfic #x yn #x reader

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imgeekgirlfan · 12 days

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The Curse of Cassandra [EP : VI]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings: Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content waring : 18+ smut/nsfw, manipulation, fingering, p in v, virgnity loss, unprotected sex, creampie (Just asking for a friend: Do the Bene Gesserit need a condom?🤔)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: On your twentieth birthday, after spending nearly three years with Qimir, you finally decide to reveal your secret to him. And from that moment, your relationship with him will never be the same again.

Status: work in progress (This is a long fanfic that will be about 10+ chapters.)

A/N : As mentioned, This fan fiction mixes elements from two universes, so some details might not match canon perfectly. I’ve made adjustments but will try to keep key canon elements intact. I hope you read this for enjoyment, not to nitpick details.

ps. Writing smut in English is rather demanding for me. I hope you can forgive any mistakes in this EP. I’ve done my best 😭

➡ Intro // EP : I // EP : II // EP : III // EP : IV // EP : V // EP : VII

[Episodes 6] Four things cannot be hidden—love, smoke, a pillar of fire and a man striding across the open bled.

On your twentieth birthday, after spending three years with Qimir, you finally decide to reveal your secret to him.

There is no point in hiding it any longer, especially after he has already seen something he shouldn’t have on that ship. Besides, you no longer wish to conceal it. That near-death experience has changed your perspective—not just on your own feelings but also on the visions that have surfaced from deep within your subconscious. Through the fog of time, you sense profound changes—both in the future paths and in the bond between you and him.

A bond you never wanted to form. Feelings you wish to deny. But no matter how hard you try, in the end, you can’t escape it.

Sometimes, fate has a strange way of twisting things—you can’t help but think that when you recall your first meeting. You hated Qimir with all the intensity of your feelings. You couldn’t stand him. There were moments you even plotted his death, planning to flee far away. But who would have thought that three years later, you’d find yourself lying in his arms on a small bed in a rundown hotel near the Starports on Olega, far removed from the bloody events on Tatooine.

You are uncertain if it can even be called love. But one thing is certain: Qimir's presence changes your life forever. He changes you. You change him. And you have no idea if it is for better or worse.

Resting your head on Qimir's chest, you let his large hand caress your back. It's strange how safe you feel with him, despite having witnessed him kill so many people.

But it's not just you who feels this way. Qimir doesn't seem to fear you either. His words are blunt and direct when he finally asks about what he's seen. "I saw what you did—you control people with just your words," Qimir says. "What exactly are you? A member of some witch's coven?"

He turns on his side, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, holding you close as if to comfort you from the terrifying events that have unfolded earlier. Yet at the same time, it is clear he intends to keep you there, preventing you from leaving until you answer his question honestly.

You know Qimir’s intent, but do not push back. You remain silent for a moment before replying.

"It is an ancient technique passed down by my people," you confess, feeling as though you are revealing a terrible sin to some forgotten god. "We use our voice to command others, bending their will to our desires." You pause before adding, "And no, I am not part of any witch’s coven. My mother said those covens are nothing but lowly imitators, trying to replicate what we truly are."

"Your people? What do you mean?" Qimir frowns, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. A wave of unease washes over you as you realize that the moment of truth is finally upon you.

“I am Bene Gesserit.”

Bene Gesserit—those words, foreign to most in this age, are known only to a select few who have studied ancient history.

According to old records, before the rise of the Jedi Order, the Bene Gesserit was a powerful religious order that held great power throughout the galaxy, known as the Sisterhood. They only accepted women deemed worthy into their ranks.

It is said that the Bene Gesserit were the true originators of the Force, passing down their teachings through generations. The Bene Gesserit sisters possessed mysterious powers and physical capabilities far beyond the reach of ordinary people. They could neutralize poisons within their own bodies, control others with the power of the voice, and train their minds and bodies to heights that defied natural limits. Some could even glimpse into the future with an eerie sense of prophecy, though only fragments of what was to come—except for the Reverend Mothers who led the order. They alone held the power to peer through the memories of their ancestors, journeying through the past, present, and distant future.

And it was this obsession with the visions they received that drove their beliefs. The Bene Gesserit were convinced that the universe was heading toward destruction, haunted by the prospect of a terrible future. Their only solution was to guide human evolution to its pinnacle through meticulous breeding programs that spanned generations. They strengthened their power by sending their sisters to marry and breed with the ruling houses of various planets, integrating themselves into the political and religious structures, and influencing every layer of society, from the lowest to the highest ranks—all for one ultimate goal: the creation of the Kwisatz Haderach, a superior human who transcended all others.

Yet ironically, it was the Kwisatz Haderach himself who brought about the very doom of the universe, which the Bene Gesserit had feared and attempted to avoid all along.

The Bene Gesserit succeeded in creating the Kwisatz Haderach as intended, but they utterly failed to control him. Paul Atreides, the only son of Duke Leto Atreides and Lady Jessica of the Atreides, a Bene Gesserit sister, became a religious icon before he reached twenty. He was revered as the Lisan al Gaib—Voice from the Outer World—and was worshiped as a godhead. He led the Fremen, the ancient people of Arrakis, in a jihad that spread across the galaxy. Tens of millions perished in the holy war, and hundreds of millions more during the tyrannical rule of the Kwisatz Haderach’s own son.

Eventually, the Kwisatz Haderach's dynasty was annihilated by the vengeful masses, and the universe slowly began to heal, giving rise to numerous new sects, including the Jedi Order.

The Bene Gesserit were said to have vanished during this time, and rumors of their demise were widespread. Some claimed that the Kwisatz Haderach, driven by his hatred for the Sisterhood, had eradicated them entirely, while others believed they were blamed for the jihad and were hunted down by the vengeful populace.

Regardless of the cause, the true reason for the destruction of the Bene Gesserit was their overwhelming power and the mysterious goals they pursued. It was decided that the Bene Gesserit witches should no longer exist in the universe, as no one wanted to risk the emergence of a second Kwisatz Haderach.

For thousands of years, you have been the last Bene Gesserit. Although your skills and powers are far weaker than those of your ancestors due to a lack of proper training, you still surpass both Jedi and Sith. Your power is the source of the Force they wield—an ancient power that none can fully replicate unless they are also Bene Gesserit.

“I am not only a Bene Gesserit; I am also a Fremen,” you reveal, deciding to share another layer of your secret with him. You point to your deep blue eyes, the eyes of Ibad, the distinct mark of your ancient race, now long extinct along with the Bene Gesserit. “My Fremen name is Hara[1], a name known only to my mother."

You are surprised at yourself for disclosing your Fremen name to him. For the Fremen, a tribal name carries deep meaning and significance, given only to those who can be trusted completely.

However, you feel a sense of relief after finally speaking, though it's not complete. There are still secrets you haven’t shared with him, but revealing this much is already more than enough. You trust Qimir, but you are unsure how much of this truth he can truly accept. Deep down, you are terrified he might see you as a monster, shun you, or worse, decide to eliminate you like others might. Your very existence might be too dangerous to allow you to survive.

But Qimir says nothing. He appears deep in thought, his expression unreadable. You can’t discern his feelings, and the silence grows unbearable. Finally, you ask, 'Do you fear me now that you know who I am?'"

As the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip unconsciously while waiting for his reply, worry gnawing at you. How strange it is to be afraid of his rejection more than your own death."

"Fear?" Qimir tilts his head, puzzled by your question for a moment. Seeing your distressed expression, he quickly grasps your concern. "I have no reason to fear you," he says, stepping closer to place a gentle kiss on your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "I do not fear you," he emphasizes, sealing his words with a firm kiss on your lips.

You let Qimir kiss you a little longer. When he finally gives you a chance to catch your breath, you ask, 'Even though I am dangerous?' Your voice is barely a whisper, filled with uncertainty.

Everything feels too perfect and too smooth, and instead of providing reassurance, it only makes you feel more uneasy.

Qimir smiles widely, almost as if he wants to laugh but is holding it back. "Oh, in that case, it’s me you should fear more." He teases, his tone playful, as he resumes kissing you. Not on your lips, but now on your ear, nibbling playfully, while one of his hands moves up to your breast, caressing and teasing your nipple through the fabric with his thumb.

Your eyes widen as you realize what is about to happen. You grab Qimir’s arm, quickly halting his mischievous actions before things can go any further. “Qimir,” you call out his name, your heart pounding, your voice faltering with each shaky breath.

Qimir stops immediately, pulling back slightly to look into your eyes. You see the clear reflection of desire in his dark eyes. “Don’t want to?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of pleading, though the playful smirk at the corner of his mouth suggests something more sly, as if he knows every thought in your mind without reading it, knowing that you won’t refuse.

His knowing demeanor makes you feel annoyed, but there is little you can do. In a situation like this, you are at a disadvantage in nearly every way.

“Well, I…” You try to speak but hesitate for a moment, your cheeks burning hot as if set aflame. You don’t know how to explain it to him without making yourself feel even more embarrassed. “I don’t know how... I’ve never... you understand, right?”

That isn’t entirely true. Even though you have never been intimate with anyone, you aren’t that naive. As a Bene Gesserit, you can see the past through ancestral memories, which sometimes bring you glimpses of things you shouldn’t see, intruding into your dreams. But dreams and reality are entirely different. You feel out of place, unsure of what to do, like someone who has read extensively but fails when it comes to practical application.

Qimir lets out a clear laugh, his sly smile shifting to one of genuine amusement, making you blush even more. Before you can protest, he seizes the moment and silences you with a kiss.

This time, though, it feels different.

Never before has a kiss between you two felt so deep and intense. His lips and tongue are sharp and distinct as they invade, filled with a potent desire that permeates every touch, burning with unwavering purpose, as if he wants to touch the very core of your being, reaching the true self you have never revealed to anyone.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far. His mouth lingers on your lips, and his hands gently cradle your cheeks. “Relax, don’t be afraid,” Qimir whispers, his lips trailing to your neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your skin, then moving down to your chest. “I told you before, you don’t need to hide yourself when you’re with me.” His voice is soft, almost dreamlike, but every touch is real.

You follow his lead, as if under a spell, letting him undress you without resistance. His large hands roam over every part of your soft skin, planting kisses along the curves of your body, from your shoulders down to your hips, and finally to the inside of your thighs. His dark eyes examine your naked form without looking away, not missing a single detail, taking in every perfection and flaw—nothing hidden, nothing concealed.

“I want you to feel every emotion within you—anger, fear, and desire…” The word ‘desire’ from Qimir’s lips was as sweet as honey. “Embrace who you truly are, what you can be, and what you can do when you’re with me—only with me.”

You flinch as his fingertips brush against your delicate folds before sliding inside you. You can feel every knuckle as he slowly works his way deeper, one finger becoming two, gently stretching you as he allows you to grow accustomed to the sensation. He then begins to move them slowly, his thumb rubbing your bud, massaging every sensitive spot inside and out, sending shivers of unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

Waves of strange, stinging bliss ripple across your skin, making you restless as you writhe in the throes of sharp delight. But his other hand presses firmly on your lower abdomen, forcing you to stay still.

“Be a good girl,” Qimir admonishes, a grin tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying watching you struggle helplessly beneath him.

You moan, burying your face in the pillow, your entire body trembling with the intensity of your climax, making you feel like you are floating in a sea of stars. After catching your breath for a moment, you look up to see Qimir hastily removing his own clothes. His skin is pale, his body sculpted with lean, defined muscles, as beautiful as a statue in a temple. But what sets him apart are the scars, some small, some large, like cracks in marble. Yet these imperfections only make him more striking, unique, and beautiful.

Qimir turns to look at you, fully aware that you have been watching him the entire time. His face softens in the dim light, but his eyes remain dark. You sense the intense longing within them—a desire he’s harbored for a long time. You wonder why you never noticed the fragile restraint in him until now. He seems on the verge of snapping, as if he’s been wound too tight, ready to unravel at any moment.

Qimir wastes no time, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close until there’s no space left between you and him. His hardness presses firmly against the crevice of your thighs, the heat spreading through your body as his cock gradually sinks into your swollen slit, filling you completely.

A low moan escapes his lips, soft and barely audible. Qimir pauses briefly, giving you a chance to catch your breath and adjust. As he takes a moment to relish the closeness, he revels in the warmth of your tight, slick, silky walls that embrace his length perfectly.

"It might hurt at first, but it’ll get better soon. Just bear with it," he murmurs, his hand gently stroking your hair. He plants a warm kiss on your cheek, trying to comfort you as your face contorts with pain. It feels like he’s about to tear you apart as he pushes in fully. You lock eyes with him in shock as a flood of emotions washes over you—strange, frightening, painful, and thrilling all at once.

Your lips part, letting out a silent moan as Qimir begins to move, thrusting in to the hilt until you can feel every inch of him deep within you. He brushes away a stray lock of black hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His lips press a kiss to your sweat-dampened temple as his hips thrust forward, quickening the pace. Your soft inner walls tighten, clenching around him as his tip repeatedly hits your sweet spot.

By now, the pain has subsided, replaced by waves of pleasure building inside you, ready to explode.

Tears stream down your cheeks as you grip Qimir's shoulders as if your life depends on his mercy. Your hips rise to meet his movements, every fiber of your being striving to get closer to him, nearly melding into one.

The rhythm changes slightly, slowing down and becoming less steady but more forceful. You pant heavily, feeling the climax approaching, each movement bringing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Just a few more thrusts, and you both reach the peak together. He spills into you, his release filling you up and spilling over. The hot, wet feeling of his cum makes your body shiver and feel dizzy, still unaccustomed to these new sensations.

The room gradually returns to calm. When Qimir pulls away, your body suddenly feels light and empty, like weightless cotton. You drift in the calm afterglow, enveloped in his embrace as he nuzzles you, kisses your cheeks and forehead, and caresses your hair tenderly, just as lovers do."

But there are no words of 'love' from his lips. The last thing you hear from Qimir before slipping into sleep is, 'You’re no longer alone. You belong to me.”

Instead of feeling reassured by these words, a strange unease flickers through your mind, as if you've just stepped onto a path of grave mistake.

[1] In Fremen culture (as depicted in the film Dune), Fremen names are special names that differ from regular ones, only shared with outsiders when there’s deep trust and acceptance. For example, Chani tells Paul her Fremen name, 'Sihaya,' as a sign of accepting him as a lover. That’s why the reader needs a Fremen name—it’s culturally important (and I certainly WILL NOT USE Y/N as a Fremen name, absolutely no way!). I’ve hinted at this name since EP : I (if you pay attention, you’ll notice it), and it ties into the story, so I hope you're okay with the name I picked.

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copiousloverofcopia · 10 months

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imagine copia about to become papa iv and his prime mover saying something like "you're going to be papa" and he's like duh, not getting it at all, and she literally has to go "no, you're going to be *papa*" and that's how she breaks the news to him

It's a shame how long it's been since I got this...like a year. 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

Hopefully this little sumthin sumthin will be worth it.

And Then It Hit Him

You have news for your husband, Cardinal Copia on the brink of his ascension to the Papacy, but will he stop long enough to listen?

Also available on AO3 HERE!

You were doing your best to remain patient, though the news was burning from inside you. Wringing the fabric of your habit in your fingers as you waited for the perfect moment to interrupt him. Your husband had barely looked up from his parchments since you entered. A comfortable silence between you as you noted his hands were once again covered in ink.

You were instantly transported back to when your dear sweet Cardinal was only the Ministry treasurer, and you still a naive novitiate. A time when you fell hard and fast in love with eachother. Watching with joy as he ascended the ranks of the Ministry. Proving himself worthy of his station at each and every turn.

Now he was only weeks away from the announcement that he would receive the miter. The highest honor that only the select few could ever hope to achieve within the church. Truth be told you had wondered if your news would pale in comparison, but knowing Copia as you did, there was no way it would.

"Cope..." You nudge, hoping to finally garner his attention. Copia stopped, pulling his glasses off from where they hung on the bridge of his nose and began rubbing his eyes. Clearly he hadn't moved them from his work for more than a few second at a time.

"I'm so sorry cara, I just have so much work that needs to be done before I head back out on tour. If I leave anything unfinished Sister will have my head for it." He responded, taking your hand in his. His eyes, returning to his desk. You could tell he was worn down by it. The endless bureaucracy of the Ministry trampling over him in the guise of all this paper and ink.

"Copia, my love...I know you have a lot on your plate, but I—I just have something I wanted to tell you."

"Of course, what is it?" He asked you, a sweet smile sent your way.

"Well.." You began, rounding his desk and placing your head on his shoulder. Breathing in the scent of his cologne. Like old books and patchouli, a scent that had intoxicated you night after night for so long now. It hardly seemed fair just how much it had affected you. Like a spell cast on your senses. Clearly it was one of the many reasons, like his undeniable charm, that led to you being in this position. "Soon my love…you are going to be a Papa.”

You were surprised when Copia's reaction was lacking. Letting out a sigh as he finished up the sentence he had been writing. "I know, I know. That's why I have to get this done." He explained, clear now that he had completely missed what you were trying to tell him. You thought for a moment, trying to decide if you could stand one more minute of knowing it all on your own, before finally you let out a groan.

It stopped him, Copia catching on that you needed him. Letting the pen drop to the desk as he pulled his attention away from the plethora of papers decorating it to face you. Heeding you as you gently brought his jaw up to help face you. Your eyes locked with his when he gently kissed your hand. The hair of his sideburns, tickling your palm as you spoke.

"No…Copia.” You began, a note of both amusement and disbelief in your voice, “...that's not what I was trying to say.”

“I'm sorry amore… you should have had my full attention. Please…what is it you wanted to tell me?”

“I'm trying to tell you, you silly man, that you are going to be A PAPA.” You emphasized by taking his hand and placing it on the small of your belly. Suddenly it was clear to him. Hitting him all at once as his eyes began stinging with tears. He stared at your still inconspicuous belly. Both mystified and deliriously happy before looking up at you.

“Amore, are you sure?” he asked you. His voice quivering—a mess of emotions. You could feel Copia's hand trembling as his thumb gently glided over your stomach. Already so gentle and tender with a child he had only just discovered existed.

“I'm very sure Cope…we’re going to have a baby.” You smiled.

“Sweet Satanas, I'm going to be a Papa!” Copia yelped, casting himself up from the chair and pulling you tightly into his arms. Blissfully crying and whispered praises in Italian, his hand never leaving your belly. You began to laugh. Copia looking up at you once again just as your own tears began streaming down your face.

“A papa and Papa.”

Notes:

novitiate- nun or sister in training

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reidmania · 10 months

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heyyy I saw your fanfic about the mental health and depression things and I would loveeee if you would write one about the reader self harming and Miguel finds out and comforts them🧡 I’ve struggled with self harm and depression and your fics help so much!

JUST HOLD ON

miguel o’hara

summary; miguel’s heart breaks when he finds out what you do to yourself

warnings; mentions of self harm, comfort, swearing, could be very poorly written and im so so so sorry if it is xx

an; thank you for requesting, i want to remind everyone that i am in NO WAY romanticising self harm or mental health problems, i wanted to make this series to help people who dont have somewhere to go or someone to talk to, these are purely just comfort fics

i also want to say, youre not alone, and i know self harm is a coping mechanism for many, myself included, but there is so many other healthy ways to cope and i want everyone to know that if you ever ever ever need anybody to talk to, im always here and i want to do my best to make sure youre all okay.

long sleeves, jumpers, scafs, bandaids, bracelets. you were always wearing one or the other. miguel never asked why, he thought maybe you just found it more comfortable.

the entire time you and miguel had been dating, and in a relationship, it had been the cold seasons of the year, and now with summer coming in quick, you were stressing.

miguel isn’t stupid, he would wonder why you’re wearing a jumper or a long sleeve in ridiculous heat, he would question it, and that set you off in a panic.

it was fine, during the day when miguel was at the HQ doing his spider business, but when he got home, your mind went crazy.

although, to you, you did a good job hiding it.

“im home!” miguel says, your eyes widen as you get off the couch quickly, “one sec!” you reply, running up to your bedroom to get a jumper, quickly throwing on the first one you can find, you go back to meet miguel.

you wrap your arms around him, he does the same, squeezing you tightly. “how was your day?” you ask, as you let go of him, walking to the kitchen to start with dinner.

“not bad.. newbies are always rough” miguel says softly, leaning against the wall in the kitchen. “baby” he says softly.

you hum in response, occupied by cutting vegetables. “why do you have the AC on, while wearing a jumper?” he wasn’t mad, he was genuinely just wondering.

regardless you freak, trying to come up with an explanation, “my top half was cold” you say, shrugging.

miguel laughs, “do you need some help?” he says, leaning off of the wall to come up next to you,

“yes, boil some water”

miguel wasn’t stupid. he knew you better then he knew himself, and he knew your top half was always hotter then your bottom half, you were always wearing pants and rubbing your sleeves over your legs.

so he was confused.

it had been like this for a while now, little things would concern miguel but he didn’t want to bring them up, incase they were nothing.

today was weird though, while you were still asleep, in bed, miguel had to get ready for the day, looking in the laundry for a pair of socks, he finds one of your tshirts.

he ignored it at first, before he saw the red stains along the sleeves, his mind first went to, ‘that time of the month’ but you don’t get that in your arm.

he frowns, confused. deciding to figure it out later.

“lyla, do you know whats up with y/n” he asks softly, trying to stay focused on his work, but concern filled his body.

“what do you mean” she asks back, miguel sighs. “tell a soul, and i will literally end your existence” he says, “okok! just say it”

“i don’t think ive ever seen y/n’s arms”

“you think she doesn’t have arms?”

“no- shut up. like shes always wearing long sleeves, or jumpers, or her wrists are covered in bracelets.”

“oh miguel” lyla frowns. “what- what does that mean”

“obviously i cant be 100% sure, i don’t know personally, but it very much could be her trying to hide something..” she says.

“what?” miguel asks, shaking his head “hide what?”

“this isn’t my place to tell, just talk to her”

when miguel came home that evening, he was even more confused and concerned then he was when he left in the morning. he called out, but didn’t get a response, he hums.

he finds you in the living room, asleep on the couch, he smiles softly before he notices your arm.

no long sleeve, no jumper, no bracelets.

his eyes widen as he looks at the blood stains on your arm, the tissue in your other hand, covered in blood. if it was just one miguel would just assume it was an accident.

but he sees it, all of it, the numerous scas, fresh and old cuts, he can feel his stomach drop. next to the paper he finds a small razor, he picks it up quickly, throwing it out before he comes back, taking a deep breath.

“y/n” he says softly, you were a light sleeper, “mm?” you reply, until something must of clicked in your brain.

you sit up quickly, pulling you arm to your chest, youre pale like you have seen a ghost, miguel is heartbroken.

“come with me” he says softly, you pause for a minute as he starts walking, but when he turns around to you, you stand up and follow him.

into your bedroom, he tells you to sit on the bed, before he goes into the bathroom for a moment. “miguel- im sorry” you finally say.

he doesn’t reply, coming out with a first aid kit, kneeling on the ground in front of you. wiping your arm, so damn gently.

he continues to clean and bandage your arm, without saying anything before he sits next to you on the bed.

you have tears in your ears, and a yuck feeling in your stomach, “come here” miguel says, lifting you onto his lap, facing him, he wraps his arms around you.

“im sorry, miggy”

“don’t apologise baby, you don’t have to feel bad about this okay? you have done nothing wrong”

“i-“

“i want you to know, im here, im going to be here regardless of what happens, okay? this isn’t healthy, baby. but i know its a coping mechanism for you, we just gotta find a healthier one, together yeah?”

“yeah” you say softly, buried in his neck.

“i hate knowing you’ve been hurting yourself baby, someone is hurting my special girl, and i had no idea” he says, looking at you as he moves your hair behind your ear.

you frown, as you look up at him. “no more” you say.

“no more” he agrees.

“i want you to promise me, that if you need me or ever think about doing it again, you will get me straight away, i don’t care whats happening or what im doing, youre my priority, always”

“i love you miggy, i promise”

“i love you too, cmon, lets get you changed then watch allll the rom coms you want” he says, kissing your face.

#miguel x you #spiderverse miguel #miguel x y/n #miguel ohara #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel 2099 #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara fluff #miguel o’hara x y/n #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara x you #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara #miguel smut #mental health awareness

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eddiediazismyhusband · 2 months

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I think part of the problem I have (and this may be an unpopular opinion) is all the hopes and opinions and ideas people (fans) have about the new season. And I don’t just mean things like the “mustache = obvious gay Eddie” that’s happening. But thoughts on Bobby, his and Athena’s living situation, Gerrard as captain, let alone Buck, Eddie, and others.

I know a lot of spec is just for fun, but some people take it quite serious. And I know I’m newer to this fandom but sometimes I read serious takes and go “….but that would never actually happen?! I know many of us don’t trust Tim and the writers but realistically that would never be a storyline on a tv show.…that’s a fanfic.”

So I can’t blame you for your pessimism or want to avoid spec. I hope we don’t get a lot of bts stuff either too, because I feel like fans will be trying to (over)analyze everything to figure things out. Only to likely be disappointed because I don’t trust these writers to write/do anything half as creative, original or logical as fans come up with. Expectation is the enemy and I’m afraid a lot of fans have theirs set too high for this season already

anon i have disgraced you by leaving this burried in the inbox and i feel awful 😭😭

i think fandom in general (and i mean any fandom not just 9-1-1) have this tendency to blur the line between cautious optimism/spec and actually convincing themselves of something happening…

i think a lot of people (and if you are one of these people this is NOT a dig at you) still want to have faith that the writers are actually going somewhere with the story, and they do so by speculating and putting actual thought into what the overarching storyline could be but unfortunately after 6 seasons of waiting, i’m getting tired of the whole thing being dragged out.

it’s no longer a will they/won’t they between the characters for me because multiple times they’ve reached the point where they don’t need anymore of that build; the only will they/won’t they is in terms of the writing team actually going somewhere rather than continuing to bait us

i have no issue with spec/theorizing (i may not wanna see it but i just filter out the spec tags) but my issue lies with some of the more popular buddie blogs having this whole “i can sense that buddie is happening” and then treating people who are validly apprehensive towards getting our hopes up like we’re brainless idiots who don’t know what we’re talking about

even though we literally went through the same thing of buddieblr being like “s7 is our year i can FEEL it there is no way they aren’t going canon”….. just for them to not go canon bc the writers (yet again) changed their minds last minute when they got an early renewal and realized “oh- we don’t actually have to commit anymore, we can just keep baiting snd dragging them along— and they technically can’t call it queerbaiting anymore bc buck’s bi now!”

like everything surrounding this season has been screaming to me (NOT anything from oliver and ryan— ive spoken before about how i think they are where we’re at in terms of being strung along by the writers every season) that we are just being baited again.

and as far as the over-analyzing, i’ve seen so many people saying things like “omg oliver and ryan posting candids/photos and tagging each other buddie is obviously happening”……. as if oliver and ryan aren’t friends…. like i fear the two of them posting eacg other doesn’t really mean much if anything when they’ve done that throughout their friendship.

and just because there are some deranged people on the internet spewing hate about them being friends doesn’t mean that their posting is a sign of anything either other than the fact that they’re probably blocking the lunatics and posting each other anyway…. it’s not some gotcha to anyone in the fandom, it’s not a sign that buddie is coming, it’s two castmates being friends, and doing things that friends do all the time

overall, like i said, i have no problem with people (other than myself) engaging in spec and at this point the people who are getting their hopes up will only have themselves to blame if we’re let down again… my issue mainly lies with some of the bigger blogs being dicks to people raising valid concerns over the new season and not trusting the writers when the writers haven’t done anything to earn that trust; in fact having only done things to the detriment of that trust.

anyway, sorry for the super delayed and super long response, anon 😭😭 i’ve been neglecting my ask box lately in lieu of a spike in temu stans sending me hate yet again but i was just scrolling through and noticed this one and wanted to make a response!

#911 abc #911 #911 on abc #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie 911 #buck and eddie #911 buddie #911 discussion #911 discourse #anti bucktommy #anti tommy kinard

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

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Behind the Seams: Part IV

{ Behind the Seams: Part III | Part III: Edgestitch | Series Masterlist }

Welcome to the second instalment of Behind the Seams! For those new to the series, this is a behind-the-scenes deep dive that I post in between chapters for those who are interested in taking a peek at my writing process (mainly because I update so slowly lol). There are spoilers for Edgestitch below the cut, so if you're not caught up, I suggest you come back when you are!

Current status: 3.6k unfinished rough draft

Initial thoughts: The last chapter laid down a few anchor points that I hope will carry the story forward for the next 2 to 3 parts. I still don't have an overarching plan for this series, and there is no 'plot' to speak of other than the unfolding of the relationship between Joel and Pin, and I'm good with that!

After the excitement of the last chapter, it took me a while to get back into the Seams mindset. While we resolved a tiny bit of the sexual tension last chapter, there is still a lot to unpack between these two. The camera is zooming in for this chapter, where we throw Joel and Pin together again, but in a less accident-prone manner as they take things into their own hands rather than leave it up to chance.

The challenge: One word - intimacy. On both their parts.

As Pin alluded to in the last chapter, it's been a long time anyone has even kissed her, let alone anything else. There will be some action in this chapter - I haven't decided to which degree yet - but I want to do it in a way that is sensitive to her history (even though I will leave it vague).

As for Joel, it's also one word - Tess. My Google doc right now cuts off at the beginning of the intimate scene, because I haven't figured out what he's thinking just yet in relation to her. As much as he's falling for Pin, I imagine he might be confused, guilty, probably in denial about his grief. I don't want Seams to get too heavy, and I might not be exploring these themes in Part IV just yet, but these are themes that I'm looking to explore in some way in the series.

Ellie: I was so bowled over by everyone's reaction to Ellie in the last chapter! That really gave me such a confidence boost, and I'm so happy to say that our favourite gremlin is making more of a cameo this chapter. She's great comedic relief while bringing out the dad side of Joel that I just love dipping into.

Joel: Many of you have brought up you're enjoying Joel's thoughts about Jackson and Sarah, and you don't understand how much it means to me. Getting into Joel's head has been one of my favourite things about this series, especially with him trying to figure out how to exist in this place after 20 years of just surviving. Ellie allowing himself to get back in touch with his dad side is another angle that I love delving into. The instincts have never left him, and I'm having so much fun bringing out that side of him.

Something fun: As I teased right here, the white undervest will make a return, and yes, Joel will be sweaty AF in it - I wonder why 🤷🏻‍♀️

Thank you for reading if you've made it this far! As with the last chapter, it helps so much putting my thought process into words, to make space in my head so that I can push forward with the writing. Thank you for indulging me, I hope you enjoyed this one ❤️ I'm always open to chatting, so don't be shy!

#behind the seams #fuckyeahseams #seams iv #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader

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politemagic · 6 months

Text

Sleep Token Living in a Haunted House

These headcanons are based on this meme I made the other night. I had a lot of thoughts on the eepies living in a haunted house, a lot of them are inspired by the show Ghosts if you've seen it. I had a lot of fun writing these so I hope you like em♡

1.45k words (she got lengthy so i added a keep reading)

➺ Thanks to a few years of communing with an ancient deity, Vessel has become quite attuned to the spirit realm. Everywhere he goes, he can sense the presence of the souls unable to move on from the mortal plane.

➺ When they first step foot in their new home, Vessel immediately feels like he’s being suffocated by the amount of activity in the house. He tries to identify the spirit, but there’s too many to even keep count, the grand foyer a whirlwind of translucent figures in various period attire.

➺ When they sit down for dinner at the end of the day, Vessel decides to tell the others about their spectral roommates. After observing them for the better part of the day, he hasn’t picked up on any signs that they’d be malicious, they honestly just seemed to carry on with their lives despite being dead.

➺ II just shrugs. From what Vessel's told him in the past, there are ghosts just about everywhere you go, and they haven't bothered him yet. He imagines it won't be much different living in a haunted house, if the spirits are as tame as Vessel seems to believe they are.

➺ Really, II just feels bad for Vessel. He knows that he'll be able to live in peace, unable to see, hear, or even sense the ghosts, but he knows Vessel isn't afforded that same luxury. He just hopes he will be able to find some form of solace from the constant commotion Vessel was describing.

➺ III is way too excited. As a kid, he always dreamed of living in a haunted house filled with a bunch of ghost friends. He’s always secretly been a little jealous of Vessel’s gift, but if he lived in a haunted house… Maybe he could find a way to communicate with them himself.

➺ Two days later, Vessel knocks on his door only to find III seated in the middle of a ring of candles, mumbling some words he knew were just gibberish. His interruption earns him a pointed glare as III explained to Vessel that he wanted to make sure that the ghosts knew it was okay to talk to him, so he wanted to reach out first.

➺ In the long run, it might have been better for the ghosts if they had left III alone.

➺ One night, he was trying yet another method of communication with the ghosts after exhausting most of the suggestions he found online. The Ouija Board started out as a joke, a housewarming present from Espera given after they had been filled in on the house’s haunted status. But III decided it was worth a shot.

➺ He had been at it for about a week at that point, and he was starting to think that Vessel was full of shit when he said the house was haunted. That was, until he sat with his fingers resting on the planchette and asked if he should give up.

➺ The planchette drifts slowly over to the “No” and III was over the moon. Using the Ouija Board suddenly became his favorite activity.

➺ He asks them any questions he thinks of. He’ll ask for opinions on things like his outfit or if a classic novel was worth the read. “They were there when it came out, I figured they’d know!”

➺ The ghosts plead with Vessel to get him to stop (in my own personal hc the ouija board emits a sound or something that beckons the spirits and they actually find it really annoying).

➺ When Vessel tried gently suggesting III use Google instead, he insisted that he preferred “Ghoul-gle”. (i'm so sorry). Vessel knew better than to try and dissuade him any further.

➺ IV is equally as excited as III, but it’s more from a root of curiosity than a root of fantastical dreams. He’s always been fascinated by ghosts, sometimes even wondering if he might be a little “sensitive” himself, though he never experienced anything like what Vessel described.

➺ He spends a lot of his time as they’re settling into the house researching the different people who have died in the house. He’ll print out news articles and stuff to show Vessel, asking if that person still haunted the house.

➺ He has a note on his phone where he keeps track of the different ghosts and what he knows about them. He tries to keep track of where the different ghosts tend to hang out, so he can be aware of who might be around any time he’s wandering the house. (in the US version of Ghosts Jay has a note on his phone that’s all the different specifics of how ghosts work. I think he would have that too for sure)

➺ IV would never openly admit it, but sometimes, when he’s alone, he’ll talk aloud to the empty rooms. He doesn’t try as hard as III because he’s overhead Vessel tell him to ease up a few times. But he secretly wants to talk to the ghosts so badly, and thinks it just isn't fair that Ves is the only one with the ability (he doesn’t think it’s fair to him or to Vessel).

➺ The ghosts were constantly talking Vessel's ear off, excited to finally have someone who can hear them! They'll ask him to do different things for them, like open a window, turn on some music, or leave the television on while they're out of the house.

➺ Vessel is still navigating the best ways to set boundaries with the ghosts so he can, you know, live his life. He already lives in the service of Sleep, he really doesn’t need to be serving the will of these ghosts on top of that.

➺ Sometimes he’s very receptive to their requests, and other times he can be quite crass in his denial. Slowly, they begin to work out some systems as to what they can ask for and when they can ask him about it, and for the most part they’re very respectful of his space and offer their own help when they can.

➺ Outside of Vessel, the ghosts have also taken a shine to II (probably because he’s the most chill™), taking it upon themselves to help him in any ways they saw fit. It could be anything as menial as closing the door when someone forgets to shut it all the way so that he doesn't have to get up from his seat, or once he swore he felt a sudden, cold presence engulf him when he complained about the heat while practicing his drumming.

➺ As you can imagine, III was very jealous when he walked into the kitchen one evening to see a coffee mug carefully floating down from the top shelf as II fixed himself a cup of tea.

➺ He was pouty the rest of the day, not understanding why they would prefer II. When II tried to suggest that maybe it was because he left them be, III insisted that II just didn’t understand them the way he did. “Maybe if you bothered to talk to them, you’d learn they were real chatterboxes!”

➺ IV expresses his silent jealousy of II's status as the ghosts' favorite non-medium in the house differently than III. Instead of moping, he pays attention to the little things Vessel did for them, and he makes a point to do them himself as well.

➺ He winds up becoming quite a talented baker after learning that the ghosts loved the smell of cookies. The aroma of his chocolate chip cookies quickly won over a few of the ghosts. (I’m just gonna say it. I think there’s a female ghost from like the 1800s in that house with a little bit of a crush on him. He’s attractive, thoughtful, and knows his way around a kitchen. That’s what dreams are made of right there)

➺ Though IV really won them over when he snuck into III’s room and threw the Ouija Board away.

➺ III decided that he didn’t like ghosts anymore when IV showed him the picture of the “Thank you ♡” left in the steam on the mirror after his shower.

Bonus bc I like the idea:

➺ One night at dinner, IV makes a playful jab at III but instead of hearing the expected laughter of his friends and bandmates, he swears he hears the laughter of a woman.

➺ Later, IV asks Vessel about it in private. He laughs and confirms that yes, he did indeed hear ghost laughter. Evidently the former lady of the house found his comment to be very amusing.

#these were just some silly ideas rattling around in my brain but i hope you enjoy them!!!#if you have thoughts please please please share them i want to read them <3 #also consider this my formal invitation to anyone to come scream with me about sleep token #this is my first time posting anything like this for sleep token im surprised it took so long?#sleep token #sleep token headcanons #worshitposting #sleep token vessel #sleep token ii #sleep token iii #sleep token iv #em's stcu #(gang pls don't let this flop)

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dylansslutt · 1 year

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judas kiss / t.s

part three of dishonest (mini series)

authors note// hi thank you so much for your feedbacks, if i have anything unfinished yall really want another part too please lmk bc i literally have lots of ask/request or even things ive started up & forgot ab or have in my drafts. butt i am going through and finishing out some stuff, i just took a vacation and rlly needed some me time... BUT IM BACK BITCHES!!!

also... holy shit a thousand something followers!!!! thank you guys seeing the endless love and support of my writings has boosted me into starting my own book series ... but thats for another spill. thank you again for following me on my journey of my shitty writings to my development.

i got this tip thing working, i do work full time & go to school so any tips are welcomed and appreciated but either way ty all.

anywhore here is the third part/ im thinking final part as well. let your imagination think of the end... unless too many of yall want more.

tag list: @allie131313 @casa-boiardi

summary: lying about your identity, leads you face to face with the one and only thomas shelby. as chaos unravels much more surfaces as well.

staring in the mirror, feeling the old, yet the familiar feeling of a silk night gown cascading down your body. remembering the time lasted only for a mere few years. years you weren’t happy. the bruises were faded mainly, except the slight pain in your ribs still.

taking small pain killers help.

the day has left you tired leaving the rest of the clothing in the corner of the room. laughing almost as you take in the fact; he really did get you some new clothes. as well as being kind of enough to grab some of your own from your apartment.

which you were notified was absolutely trashed, yet hidden away you found a picture. one of you, your mum and sister. so young... so innocent. the memories of everything was building up.

the gown fit you nicely though, the cloth was soft and comfortable. something you almost forgot what felt like, since being alone on the run . glancing over at the clock noticing it was getting late.

biting your lip softly, things mule over in your head. how thomas was and if maybe, just maybe you two met under a different circumstance. hell even just a re-do of your meetings.

ignoring it as your hair gets tucked behind your ear. deciding to leave this room and not be cooped up.

as you step out, your eyes flicker down the hall. movements halting as your mind comes more clear. he was right there in that room.

the room you’ve seen him enter a mere few times. the light flickers through the crack of the door. it was there. right in front of you.

hand never leaving the door knob, biting your lip in deep thought. happy he got you your clothes from home, as well as a few new items. must’ve gotten help from a lady because there’s no way he chose these alonesome.

shaking these thoughts your feet spring into action. hand beside you now as your focus was on where he was. fist raising to knock on the ajar door. it swings open wider, creaking slightly as thomas sets some papers down.

smoke still in hand as his eyes lift to yours, exhaling the smoke from his lips. he lifts it back up, inhaling again taking in the sight of you. in more different clothing than anything he has seen before. work uniform, one little outfit, and his clothing. you looked good, stunning in a way.

he was as he usually was, expect a bit more exposed.

the anger still present when your wounds become more visible, thankfully more faint now. he’s already sent john to deal with that particular matter, but now he had to deal with some stuff tonight.

“got to look at the stuff, thank you.” giving him a small smiling, trying to make this attempt for a better start forward. needing time to plan future things as your mind hasn’t had a hint of peace.

he nods licking his lips, ashing in the tray.

“can’t have you walking around naked, can we?”

the joke brought a smile small to your lips, as your head thinks about the picture. unaware if he knew it was there or if someone else did the work. his focus is back on the papers making you step in. taking in this private study he enchants himself too; felt like him.

biting your lip softly, the sight of him before you has your mind in another place. he looks like something you saw only moments before. a mirror image of yourself. less battered and bruised on the outside though, yet he was tired. his eyes red, the bottle out in the open. he was more open, more vulnerable.

“y/n?”

you shake your head, a blush crosses your cheeks. “sorry. what ya’ say?”

he holds back his emotion, but his attention is now yours. “i’ve gotta meeting tonight, tomorrow some more to do. until then just stay here, out of harms way for the love of god.”

he stands up and stares at you. your lip ends up between your teeth, feeling a bit nervous. he didn’t sound so serious so fierce, he sounds exhausted. as you were to even fight back, which he noticed.

“if you are up by the time i get home, we should talk.” your eyes narrow at his words, nodding slightly. hands coming up to brush your hair back once more.

“just knock on my door when you get back, thomas.”

with that you open the cracked door wider, rushing out of the room. everything felt too tense too unsettling in there. only when his footsteps become noticeable, you realize he was following you.

heart racing as you reach halfway down the hall, nearing the stairs. for a moment, your eyes flicker to the front door.

the thought crosses your mind. ignoring it as you continue to ‘your’ room desperate that he isn’t actually following. that he would walk himself down those stairs instead.

as you reach the door his presence was there, the defeat leaves you. turning around to face him. his face was inches from yours. something deep in his eyes as he pushes the door open.

“thomas?”

the door closes behind you as he is now only standing in front of you, a heave in his chest almost. “their dead, alright? the men from that night, their gone.”

your eyebrows furrow in confusion, “wh-why are ya’ tellin’ me this?” he comes forward cupping your cheek. the look in his eye is something you’ve seen before. loss.

staying still in his embrace, “i-i don’t want ya’ scared of me... for some fuckin’ reason.”

the confession made your mouth shut completely. “i don’t want ya’ scared at all.” it didn’t feel exactly true but it what was easiest for him to say.

that was until he pulls you onto his lips. hands landing on his chest, mouth moving with his out of instinct. pulling away as you push him back slightly. staring into the eyes of a loss man, knowing this could end terribly.

your chest rises and falls quickly, “i- told ya-”

“tell me to stop then, y/n.” the deep stare between you two leaves something rattling inside of you.

“i-i get your past. i know mines fucked, but i-...” you trail off biting the inside of your cheek for a moment. the internal debate ends with him pushing forward.

lips on his he pulls you close, your hands around his neck as you both fall back on the bed straddling him. his hands push against your back, deepening the kiss. the hold on you wasn’t harsh, just tight possessive like. as if you were to disappear at any moment.

pulling away for air, his lips trail from your cheek to your neck. the giggle escapes your lips involuntarily, and for a moment thomas sighs. not of boredom and displeasure but of relief.

it made your heart swirl because you felt it too. the non-serious feeling of this. even though it wouldn’t last, it felt real for the moment.

his hand slips down from your waist onto your thighs. eyes flickering back up at you. your hands tug at his shirt, him taking the hint to remove it. the bare chest was there and now you could really look at it.

“thomas.”

his hand grips the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss. he flips you over and he holds himself up against you. your back against the bed, other hand trailing between your thighs, you just as desperate for his touch.

he lifts the gown up slowly, teasing you with his touch. his head drops into the crane of your neck, kissing it softly before tugging your panties down softly. a soft gasp escapes you and he whispers something in your ear.

“so fuckin’ beautiful.”

your eyes roll back as he swirls your clit, the sensation incredible. “fuck.”

“taste good too.”

he enters a finger before he slowly moves his body down. his motion was slow and you whine when he leaves you. looking down seeing him between your thighs now, inches from you. his eyes flicker up, the blue prominent.

“impatient ay’?” your hand flies into his hair. trying to ignore the urge to roll your eyes,

“did ya’ forget that already?”

without another word his tongue swirls around you, a soft moan leaves you. he continues but slowly adding a finger. your calves press into his shoulders more, leaving his tongue to move slightly faster.

“oh th-” he slides another finger in making your words cut short, back arching off the bed slightly. giving him access to push your gown up above your breast. his hand comes back down around your thighs, feeling them shake around him.

unable to take it anymore your hand pushes at his head, but he holds it down instead. speeding up as your stomach drops, a moan leaving your throat. liquid coats his fingers and tongue as he stands up completely.

“do ya’ love anyone y/n?” the question caught you off guard. your breathing uneven coming down from your high; his pants drop and your body felt even more turned on.

“never really had a chance to experience love. probably doesn’t exist.” you confess the mere summary as you spread your shaky legs. his grip on them tightens, moving you closer to him.

he stares down at you in a way that you truly didn’t understand. “i like ya’, ms.solomons.” he confesses as he spits down on you. the action so dirty, but the confession so clean.

“just y/n, thomas.” the intent was known and he kisses your knee before moving. the feeling of him entering you slowly, made you grip his arm that held your waist.

“i sometimes-” you stutter out as he rocks against you slowly, fighting to keep your eyes open.

“i sometimes like to believe it could be true.”

he leans forward, the angle deeper than before as he kisses you deeply. his free hand coming to cup your jaw. his hips pick up speed leaving you a moaning mess in his mouth.

he was gentle, taking in what you reacted too. this wasn’t your first time but he felt as if you were innocent in a way. your eyes flicker up to him before you tug your dress over your head.

leaving you both completely exposed, “it’s true.” he confesses pulling away, turning holding you up against him as he lays down. your knees against the bed as he bucks up into him.

“ya’ crazy mr.shelby.” he pushes your hips down even more leading to the familiar feeling arise again. your nails sink in his shoulder, biting your lip clinging to him.

“say’s the one who’s dead.” you try to get a witty remark out but your orgasm spreads, feeling yourself starting to clench.

“yet ya’ look so fucking alive around me.” the wetness spreads down your thighs as he doesn’t let you go. “m-maybe i feel alive- with ya’.” the deep moan leaves you, the feeling of your bare chest touching had you in a whirl.

he’s buried deep in you as you cling to him, almost in tears overstimulated. you beg him. “tho-thomas. i-”

“so fuckin’ good.” his his shake slightly, as he leans back staring into your eyes. “do you trust me?” at how you were feeling you’d trust anything. your eyes flutter but you nod.

he stutters into you as his releases inside you making your eyes widen. pulling back panting as his eyes connect with yours. two different looks.

“wh-what did you do?”

“do ya’ trust me?” the logic in the room was clearly not there because without a second thought you nod again. he kisses you softly, “be mine. stay alive and i promise ya’ everything you could need.”

you pull yourself out of him, wincing at the feeling. your eyes stare into his, as the covers surround you,

“but you don’t love me.”

his eyes drop slightly, “i can see somethin’ in you. i need someone like ya’, think of this as something good.” you feel so exposed staring at him in disgust. “ya’-ya’ just came in me, who knows if i’ll get pregnant! thi-this is not gonna end well. what the fuck were ya’ thinking?”

“what the fuck was i thinkin’? oh my go-”

he sits up, “i’m thinking fuckin’ smart! ya’ know this shit, i am rising y/n, i need a wife and i need someone who can be that wife.” you stare at him and stop for a moment. it cut off your overthinking for a moment.

it wouldn’t be real but it could be. yet either way you could be safe... you could be free of being on the run. you could be alive.

“i need to think on it? i-i can have your answer tonight.” your words tremble slightly as you slip your gown on, facing away from him. “hey.” his hand lands on your shoulder.

your flinch makes him wince, scooting closer to you. covered up with the sheets. “i haven’t asked just anyone this question. this is fuckin’ insane but i-i do like ya’. we can figure this shit out because you know it’s true.”

“you need me just as much as i need you.” you mutter as a small smile appears on your lips, “i need a shower for a fact and nap thomas. you have somewhere to be, should get going.”

his hand leaves yours taking your hint, “i’ll knock on your door tonight. get some rest.”

after he redresses and the door closes behind him, the tears stream down your cheeks. you wanted him but you were so scared and conflicted.

your answer was yes from the moment you realize he was as stubborn as you but you were now a ghost.

you were laid down, the candles still lit allowing thomas to see your image. he walks closer but you were barely asleep. he sits down beside you and sighs heavily.

he doesn’t know you’ve woken up, and his energy was strong. you figured thomas shelby out and for a man to keep you around long enough...

you knew from the beginning you liked this man, but being ‘dead’ has made you believe any. any of that type of thing was impossible. slowly you turn over, facing the man who stares ahead.

“eric is tryin’ to be a political man. if ya’ know alfie, imagine a sickenin’ no good bastard times a billion.... as him.” the words made thomas sit a bit straighter. you felt vulnerable now, half asleep tucked into a new home.

you had to give a answer.

“i’ve looked him up, he isn’t much and from what i’ve heard. alfie really doesn’t give two fucks for him.” the way he settles his sentence lets you know that eric is no threat. to you or himself in any aspect.

“charlie’s mother, i-i won’t ask you to speak of her.” you sit up now, thomas takes in your sleepy appearance. “if i take on that boy as my own. i will love and teach him as my own, but you have to tell me about her so he can know his true mother.”

your eyes swell up slightly. “she won’t be forgotten in your mind ever, i know that. so let me learn, let me be there for you so i don’t go crazy. so i-i can do better...”

the words hit thomas and he only shifts to maintain his composure. you don’t notice since your emotional more so, but he knows he did right choosing you.

“i have a story, everything about how to make you ‘undead’ since your job at it wasn’t the best.” that made your eyes look up at him. “i know ya’ can’t be her, but i do have some’ towards you.”

his hand reaches out to cup your face. “she wanted some of the stuff you did as well...”

the deep stare was all that was needed, you let this moment last. he was gone when he lost her. loosing her was loosing apart of himself. you accepted it because you truly knew love was not meant for you in this lifetime.

slowly breaking the moment, lips almost trembling but your composure well gathered now. “if we do this- ya’ can’t treat or make me out to be some fool of a house wife. i-i’m more than that and i’ll be damned to be one of your puppets.”

moving out of his reach makes you ache for it more yet thomas sees something within you. you were sorta like polly sometimes. strongly determined woman.

“ya’ help me stay together, ya’ help me keep this household together... my family together and whatever ya’ want is yours.” flickering from each eye, he awaits your response and you nod.

“i agree, to be your wife. i agree to hold your secrets, now for i wish to get rid of the jewish ways though... go back to the gypsie ways. please.” your desperation was without notice and he kisses you.

kissing you felt like kissing grace.

setting down the glass of whiskey, your eyes train along the inside courier. everything was simple, everything was different. charles was taken to bed not too long ago, you didn’t see much of him but it made you think.

too take on this responsibility was what you were raised for. yet you ran from it because eric was a vile man... so is thomas. your heart aches though due to the surprising feeling erupting yourself; that you may just like the man ever so slightly.

with your past and his it felt like you both being so fucked up, it could work? sighing heavily and grabbing the glass once more. the liquid slips down your throat as you enjoy the peace of true alone time.

telling his maid, well lady of help to head to sleep since you were up. if charles was to awake you could handle it or if need be. get her up. charles really ponders through your mind, for you would be like a mother.

you could be his mother, yet you would never wanna replace his true mother. what was she even like? what did she view or believe? what the hell did she see in thomas shelby?

he said she was a bit like you, in what fucking way?

you move and see her painting and you looked nothing of her. she looked of class and elegance, some real princess shit. you didn’t compare to that, so what motive was this?

make me alive again, was this his plan? biting your lip you throw back the remaining liquor. rolling your eyes at the empty cup, you head towards the kitchen.

smiling to yourself of the kindness that francis left out the bottle for you. moving forward you almost reach the counter but you were hit over the head. your body hit the ground harshly, the glass breaking surrounds you.

it flashes back to the moments of your mothers death. yet before you could react you were hit again, and the darkness overtook you.

you awoke in a moving vehicle, head pounding your face contorts in displeasure. trying to focus your vision, your eyes land on a priest as well as a few other men.

“hello miss solomons.” the priest smiles wickedly and you stare back unfazed, or atleast as much as you could appear.

“well you see, there’s so many ways this here can go. yet as of right now, you are actually of great use.” his tone menacing and your head was spinning.

you try desperately to maintain eye contact with his. unsatisfied with your response of nothing; he nods as one of his men move forward. the hit makes your head sling to the side. blood literally splattering onto the window beside you.

the taste of blood in your mouth has became a all too familiar feeling. as you let your head hang lowly, you over hear someone mutter. “we are almost there.”

moving your hand to wipe your chin, seeing the back of your hand covebloody finally angers you. not knowing where this was going, you finally look back up. “i think we might just have to use the boy instead.”

your heart drops, distracted now. the boy? of course it had to be...

“what boy?” you finally speak, it slightly muffled due to your severe swollen lip. this gets the mans reaction. “she speaks!”

“what boy?” you question again, feeling a sense of protectiveness all of a sudden. what is going on with you?

“ahh, mr.shelby’s boy. ya’ see we have a deadline, and i do have orders with him. oh i spoke to your cousin mr.solomons... he does seem to have a keen interest of seeing you.”

sitting back you take in everything, the deep wrenching pain in your chest over came you. ”didn’t mention if it meant alive or dead, though. dear.”

tears fill your eyes, as you realize everything. this was all a lie, a pawn, a game.

“yet your price is a wager, does thomas care more for your safety or does your cousin? or i could merely kill you now and just let you be what you so ‘desire’.”

his words let everything truly settle now. you never escaped. you just switched paths.

it almost could make you laugh, until it did. you looked crazy and stupid but you were laughing, hysterically almost. wincing at your lip throbbing, heaving out as your head pounds from the movement. you stare into the mans eyes dazed. he stares back at you in discomfort but looks away.

thomas got his own kid into this shit. he better have this all figured out. dizzy from the amount of hits to the head you’ve taken. you look back over and see the man on your right snatching out two pills. eyes widening slightly as you try to move back.

“what is that? wh-wha-no!” the men hold you down, your kicks and hits defenseless. the pills shoved in your mouth. water forced down your throat whilst your nose was plugged, left you choking on the water. forcing you to swallow.

yet they continue it for a few seconds longer, leaving you to start choking horribly. knowing it was swallowed, you were let go finally. shaking and drenched in water, you wildly swing your fist forward.

pure rage in hitting the man on the right. your leg kicks the other guy, before you hit the priest once. a strong hit leaves you slumped, mind swirling until you were no longer able to stay awake.

a strong jerk makes your eyes flicker open. charles was crying softly, making you ignore your own pain. sitting up you look at the man holding him. out of it but desperate you plea.

“give him to me. please, i-i was a mother, i know how to make him stop.” you lie out of instinct but the man seems irritated and hands charles over with ease. ignoring their looks as we come to a stop.

pressing a soft kiss to his head, you hold him soft rocking him softly. your watch the men get out of the vehicle, it was dark out now and your head hurt so bad.

keeping it together for the sake of charles, you try to stay focused. the priest man comes back and you clutch charles more tightly, charles surprisingly soothes down within your hold.

“come on, lets go.” knowing what happen last time, you slowly move out the car, careful with charles the cold wind hits your skin for your only in a nightgown and light sweater. which was blood stained.

the darkness led you to follow him, but soon a room with light appears. you sat down as instructed, feeling the light make your head hurt worse. you notice the two other guys didn’t follow through and he was now alone.

trying not to move, you let charles sit beside you. oddly enough he gave charles something to eat while you stay silent. he looks up at you with a smile.

“the deal is all taken care of, you will be taken care of soon.”

this sick bastard. he gets up suddenly looking back at me, “stay here.” the tone was threatening and you nod softly. scared of what might happen, you sit quietly listening in hard.

moments pass before you heard the words uttered, “please don’t shoot.” you fly up, feeling dizzy from the quickness, glancing back seeing if charles will be okay.

moving forward grasping the wall beside you, as the spots slowly fade from your vision. following the way he took trying to listen in on where the sounds were coming from.

moving quicker at the noise of grunting and painful sounds, ignoring your own pain. you round the corner, taking in the sight of the priest guy fighting a younger guy.

in the oddest moment you notice a hat, the familiar hat. the cap thomas had, a similar one on the ground. “you know who your fucking messing with?”

he throws the guy against a bench, swinging on him. both hands wrap around his throat in such a swift motion. the look on his face reminded you of what yours probably looked like. without thinking you grab a nearby book.

“i’ll take the fuckin’ life from ya’.” you throw the book, it missing your goal hitting him in the back. “leave him the hell alone!” rushing forward, as he turns around one arm coming out. his elbow hits you harshly making you fly back.

hitting the side of a bench, your ribs aching out from the movement. not even knowing what you hit, you stay on the floor. tears leave your eyes unwillingly from the pain.

flying back the back of your head slams into a bench, rolling over sideways. in a slump, you barely were able to make out what was in front of you. all the damage to your head, you knew in nursing this was severe.

“both of ya’ gypsie bastards” without a second thought, the man slices the priest eye. him stumbling back in pain, as the younger man kept coming and coming at him.

“melanie?” you call out as you swore you heard her voice. snapping out of it at the slam open of doors.

two men emerge from a door, too much in pain to handle that situation. trying to push up, hearing the sound of charles cries. “charles.” you gasp out, completely remembering the boy.

managing to get up shakily, moving forward only to stop momentarily. taking in the sight of the bloody mess of the once alive priest. the image locks you in, before you turn back. your were weak and slow but you reach charles.

collapsing beside him leaning back against a near wall. ignoring everything in the world, for it was too much to bare. how odd you found yourself near something of pure innocence; after the chaos you just endured.

charles babbles as you softly sob, “oh charles.”

“it’s alright.” the mans voice spoke, stopping you momentarily. you went silent uncertain exactly anymore of anything. despite everything though you speak up.

“thank ya’.” your tone hush as if you weren’t bold to speak loud. the man sighs out and you wince.

“but ya’ gotta get th-thomas.” the words slip out weakly, eyes flutter as they gaze upon the boy. not even noticing he came around the corner. blood soaked and shaken up, trying desperate to stay focused.

“i’m michael, i’m tommy’s cousin.”

so simple, which was all that was needed. “y/n solomons.” he helps you up, you lean against the wall as he scoops charles up. “hold onto my arm, there is a car outside.”

managing to get inside, but once settled your body slumps. you try to stay up, but the tiredness takes over.

still out not noticing you arriving at the shop, or that michael already took charles inside to the rest of his family. he notified them of you. ada and polly knew for they were the ones who helped you get your clothing.

thomas spoke of you to arthur once.

michael ends up carrying your lifeless looking form inside. polly rushing out orders, ada making a place for you to lay. you were set down and polly pushes your hair out of the way examining you, but when she touches you.

her heart sank. for no reason apparent it just did.

“someone call thomas.” and the cheerful glee of happiness of charles was apparent but the dark silent loom of your appearance was one of unease.

“mum, sh-she helped save him.” he confessed out to polly, who let out a sigh. “well call the damn doctor as well, for christ sakes.”

your eyes flutter open slowly, “charles?”

polly grasp your hand, “he’s safe dear, your both safe now.”

“n-no my head. i can’t my head.” you groan in agony, and your heart aches. “thomas?”

the room went silent. “tho-thomas?” polly speaks up, “he’s on the way.” yet after those words your eyes roll back. “the doctors on the way!” ada calls out and polly sighs in worry for the girl.

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby fic #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby angst #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders fandom

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moltenwrites · 3 months

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Thanks @nczaversnick for the tag!

I got tagged for a character name origins tag, but I did that very recently, and the post also mentioned talking about the characters origins, which I’ll gladly yap about!

The Artist

Gotta be honest, it feels odd that Ive BARELY talked about the artist here considering how important they are to How Our World Ended. The Artist is a God who can create universes, and observes them

The artist is a literal outline of a person, with a white line covering their eyes. They exist within a black void, as a result of destroying their own universe. The origin for this character is odd, and many years old, but I’ll try to get a good timeline.

Initially, they were just a character for me to project negative thoughts onto. Then, the idea of them being a creator of universes came into my mind. They were first put into a story during a OLD assignment which I unfortunately do not have access to anymore. While it was bad, it solidified the character in my mind. And they always stayed in the back of my mind, untill I came up with How Our World Ended. And considering how important they are to the ending, and hell, the universe of Souls Collide, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them ( random note, but I feel like the watcher from What If was a big inspiration of the concept )

RES

Ugh, so this one is a littttle embarrassing. A lot of my older ideas have evolved a lot, and that includes the early stages where they were inspired by some…. Odd stuff ( you don’t wanna know how souls collide itself started )

Anyways, if I remember right, I always liked the idea of doing a more medieval fantasy story. Souls Collide takes place in current times, so that line of thought was always an interesting thought experiment. Anyways, in 2021 I was watching the game awards because I had nothing better to do. I was kinda zoning out, untill the live performance of the song enemy started playing. And as it played, the premise of How our World Ended, or at least a rough outline, hit me. And as time went on, more music inspired more about the story. Hells coming with me by Poor Man’s Poison gave me an idea for a second half of the story that was, admittedly, terrible. But the ending, that was cool, and it stayed. That song also gave me the rough outline of what I wanted Res to be. A revenge fueled fire soul was how he initially was gonna be. But as time went on, a lot changed. I changed him to be an ice soul, as the protagonist of souls collide is already a fire soul, and I didn’t want to overlap that. Then, Res became more fueled by grief. Now, Res is cold and calculated. He works as a vigilante of sorts, and is far more caring once he gets to know someone.

Oof- that was long, I’ll do a quick lighting round of origins that are WAY shorter.

Salazar

Two big inspos for this guy. Firstly, I always wanted to do something similar to the organization 13 from kingdom hearts. Salazar, and his past in the council of fate, was initially gonna fill that role. Over time, the council shrunk and that role more fell to the gods. Then, for his explicit personality, it was heavily inspired by moon waltz by cojum dip. Something about it just fit the guy, and me misinterpreting the wrestling mask of the album cover as a masquerade mask 100% shaped both his chilling personality and his design

Nelios

Okay I think this one is just funny. So, I didn’t plan this book well. At all. I kinda just went “ fuck it “ and let it happen. That’s why the first draft is VERY rough atm. Anyways, Nelios wasn’t originally in the story at all. I was just gonna name drop him, and maybe give him a scene or two, but when I wrote a full chapter of him, I loved him so much, he became VITAL to the story. His personality came from a mix of “ how can I make an arrogant asshole likable? “ and “ how can one make this guy a fun ass character to write “

Okay I rambled for WAYYY to long there, but I have a lot to say haha. Anyways, tag list time.

Tagging @aintgonnatakethis @ddgraywrites @jjoneswriting @revenantlore @noxxytocin @yourpenpaldee @illarian-rambling @theverumproject @autism-purgatory @gioiaalbanoart @the-letterbox-archives

@mk-writes-stuff

+ OPEN TAG

#writers on tumblr #writing #writing on tumblr #howourworldended #souls collide #fantasy #writeblr #howe #writing community #writerscommunity #res #salazar #nelios #the artist #tag game #open tag

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lunawritesaa · 4 months

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— — > 4 years later..

honestly four years is absolutely crazy for me to fathom. i can’t believe it’s been that long since i took the plunge and decided to start writing for ace attorney. it feels like just yesterday i sat down and said “yeah.. i love this silly lawyer game” and started this blog.

-> so whats going on with this blog?

well, the long and the short of it is i don’t enjoy writing anymore. every now and then i get a small desire to write, but it fades so fast. i do miss it! i miss fulfilling requests, i miss mini headcanon mondays, i miss talking with people about my favorite game of all time!

but.. i got tired of it. if you’ve ever ran a writing blog, you’ll know that you can only write so many requests before you feel like you’ve written the same thing over. and over.

don’t get me wrong, i absolutely loved every second and every thing that i wrote. i have no regrets! i just don’t have that drive that 16 y/o luna had.

-> where have i been?

uhhh graduating college! i got my degree and have been job hunting, trying to get my life started. honestly, college took up the majority of my time these past few months. and now that i’ve graduated, my life is ramping up!

so, as much as i want to write again, i just simply do not think ill have the time. its unfortunate, i know. i see all your little notes in the reblogs and i appreciate the love and support on everything ive written. i just dont think writing is in the cards for me anymore

oh, i also got a dog and named her maya. she has a burger plush that she loves :3

-> what will happen with this blog?

i’ll leave it up. i debated deleting it a few times because it occasionally brought back bad memories. but so many people still follow, like, and reblog everything that i can’t bring myself to delete it. especially with the scraps of aa content that’s already out there lmaoo (trust me i was scraping the bottom of the barrel for content when i finished soj)

will i check back in? yeah occasionally. i have been for months. i just wont write.

————

i’m sorry to anyone who was hoping for me to one day come back. believe me, no one wanted me to come back more than me. i miss that itch, that drive to pump out content. writing just isn’t something i’ve done for a while.

i still love ace attorney. i beat the new trilogy about a month ago now and i loved every second, despite having played all three games before lol! there’s so much charm and love to the series.

i still would love to gush and talk more about it. i’ve thought about making a twitter account several times because i can be more active on there. so if anyone is interested lemme know! i can post on there and still interact with everyone.

but as for this blog - it’s time to adjourn court!

thank you for the lovely four years. and thank you for nearly 600 followers, my goodness! i love you all, and i treasure the love that has, and was, given to me.

- with love, luna <3

———

#mod luna talks #luv u guys <3

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plounce · 9 months

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ffxiv fic ideas that ping around my brain:

pre-shb thancred teaches ryne how to trap and skin a rabbit. and it's half about illustrating them living on the run & thancred teaching her survival skills. and half about the symbolism of it all. and ryne looking at the rabbit. this tug between "yes thancred interacting with me and teaching me, awesome i love positive attention" + "i love living out in the world and being Free" and... the rabbit, hungry and naive, baited into the trap. and thancred looking at ryne and trying to decide whether to have her be the one to kill it. or for him to kill this poor creature who just wanted to live, who he needs to die, in front of her. and they clean it, cook it, eat it, but when they go to sleep ryne can't get its shivering form and big glassy eyes out of her head. (will that be me?) [babybirch_joannanewsom.mp3]

pre-shb urianger taking care of ryne for a month while thancred splits off to throw off a eulmoran tail. urianger and ryne hanging out and having an alright time. half about their relationship (the sweetness, but also the tough spots - urianger's role in ryne's existence (he is guilty about it, while he's the most normal adult in her life so her brain is incapable of being mad at him about it (or is it), ryne's mixed feelings about how thancred is always happier and relaxed and nicer when they're at the shelves (yay he's happy! vs i wish i got that all the time, i wish he thought me worth his best self) (in general there's a lot about the ghost of thancred in the room); half about them exploring the ruins of the bookman's shelves (i firmly believe there are underground cellars), its neighbors, and voeburt in general.

urianger childhood lore. i had some headcanons about him being raised by an old, frail, distant grandmother which got squished a little by ee3 but the new lore is in line with my hc that urianger was neglected as a child and tbh im delighted for confirmation. some stuff about the augerelt family in general. their house (smaller than many in journey's end) having rumors of being haunted. moenbryda. autism.

urianger, moenbryda, thancred, and y'shtola (plus yda?) as teens in old sharlayan, for whatever overlaps they had in the city as youths. i strongly believe that thancred & moenbryda were closer than thancred & urianger were as teens. i also think there's something with y'shtola being forced to leave the colony (and also being raised by y'shtola) and away from matoya and thancred's teenage years spent in Spy School (where they melt your brain) that could result in two really temperamental, angry, resentful teens. louisoix delegating moenbryda to try to be a good friend (good influence) to them, urianger getting taken along for the ride

thancred teaching ryne how to swim.

there's more. maybe i'll add to this. who knows. if you get inspired by any of these please write to your heart's desire

epistolary/fake media fic. the one i wrote for ds9 is still my fave thing ive written ever. i'd love to write some scion paperwork

lucia and maxima hanging out and talking about growing up gay in fascist conservative garlemald, the revelations about emperor solus, their work in current garlemald, and their opinions on gaius (lucia does not like him over the livia situation, while maxima has always considered him a moderate conservative that he doesn't like but now there's also some strangeness from when they were in the burn in stb patches) (generally 'i dont like him but i dont hate him as much as i used to bc its complicated and hes become emotionally pathetic'). fic would end with them going "fucking nero tol scaeva though, right?" "OH my GOD."

#chirps #ffxiv #shadowbringers spoilers in here

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cosmostraveler · 2 months

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The context: I have a life that can be described as shitty. Many things have happened to me, many traumas. And as an outlet, I found writing. My project is to try to create a small biography.

Here is a first part that tells about my first 18 years on this Earth.

___________________________

"Chapter 1: The Roots of Pain"

I was born on July 10, 1998, in Verdun, France, in the Meuse region. My arrival in this world was anything but conventional, marked by a history of pain and resilience that began long before my conception.

To fully understand the circumstances of my birth, we must delve into my mother's past, a story so painful that it almost eclipses my own. Her childhood was a nightmare that haunted her entire life. From a very young age, she was repeatedly sexually abused by her own father. My grandmother, aware of these heinous acts, chose silence, becoming complicit through her inaction.

But the horror didn't stop there. At the tender age of eight, my mother was gang-raped, her father "passing her around" among a group of hunter friends. Desperate, she tried to alert the Social Services (DAS) of the time. But her voice was stifled by the respectable image my grandmother projected in the community. Active in town life, helping many people, especially those with disabilities, with administrative procedures, my grandmother was seen as a true Samaritan.

During a summons before the judge, just before entering the courtroom, my grandmother threatened my mother, telling her that what happened at home should stay there, and that she would deny all accusations. Trapped in this forced silence, my mother found herself defenseless against her tormentors.

The violence wasn't limited to sexual abuse. One day, for a reason as trivial as spilled or cold coffee, her father stabbed her in the thigh. These acts of physical brutality added to the constant psychological abuse, shaping an environment of permanent terror.

A decade later, when she might have thought she had escaped this nightmarish past, my mother was raped again. This time, it was in the street, at knifepoint, by a man of Moroccan origin. This tragic rape would lead to my conception.

When my mother learned she was pregnant with me, the fruit of this violence, her initial reaction was one of despair and rejection. In her distress, she tried everything to end this unwanted pregnancy. Excessive consumption of hard drugs - heroin, cocaine - became her refuge and weapon. She even threw herself down the stairs several times, hoping the fall would end my life in utero.

Despite these desperate attempts, I survived. Faced with this unexpected resilience, my mother decided to put me up for adoption at birth. A family was ready to take me in, present on the day of my arrival. But fate had other plans.

I was born two months premature, already bearing the burden of drug addiction. My first days were a struggle. Instead of gentle rocking and breast milk, I had to endure detoxification, forced withdrawal for a barely formed body. The beeps of machines replaced lullabies, IVs stood in for hugs.

Yet when my mother saw me for the first time, something inexplicable happened. A maternal love at first sight, as sudden as it was unexpected. Despite the pain that inhabited her, despite seeing in me the features of the man who had raped her, she was overwhelmed by a love she could neither explain nor fight. In a turnaround that would change the course of our lives, she decided to keep me.

The first five years of my life were spent in an apartment on the Côte Sainte Catherine in Bar-le-Duc. Our household consisted of my mother, my half-sister Marie, and François, Marie's father and my mother's partner. From the outside, we might have passed for an ordinary family. But behind the walls of our apartment lay a much more complex reality.

Despite her decision to keep me and the love she bore me, my mother struggled with her own demons. The shadow of the trauma she had endured loomed over our home, sometimes manifesting violently. I still remember the screams, the slamming doors, and that terrifying time when François took his violence to the extreme by shoving my mother's head into the toilet.

At the age of four, I experienced my first sexual assault at the hands of an aunt-in-law. Shortly after, at five, I found myself exposed to pornographic images in the presence of an adult whose identity I no longer remember. These experiences sowed the seeds of a mistrust that would grow over the years.

The times when we weren't at home were often synonymous with other forms of danger. My mother frequently left us, my cousin Morgane and me, with a friend addicted to horse racing bets. One evening, after losing his bets, this man insulted us and threw us out into the night. I was five, Morgane was seven.

The day that truly marked a turning point in my young existence remains etched in my memory. It was lunchtime, mashed potatoes and sausages on the menu. My mother was scolding me for putting too much ketchup when suddenly, the intercom bell rang. What followed was like a nightmare: my mother hiding us, the arrival of the police, my mother screaming as she was taken away on a stretcher, and me, handed over to a social worker.

At five, I was placed in foster care for the first time by Child Protective Services (ASE), separated from my half-sister Marie. At six, another change: a group home in Metz where I was reunited with Marie. But this respite was short-lived. From seven to twelve, I lived with a foster family in Dainville-Bertheleville, an experience that proved to be the most challenging.

In this new "family," the violence was psychological, insidious, constant. Love and affection were totally absent, replaced by systematic denigration and obsessive control. I remember meals I was deprived of as punishment, humiliating toilet sessions where every sheet of paper was counted.

It was in this hostile environment that I sank into deep despair. At eight, I made my first suicide attempt by hanging. The fact that my attempt failed left me at the time with a bitter taste of additional failure.

The years that followed were a succession of short-term placements, each new family bringing its share of quickly disappointed hopes and new wounds.

Finally, at fourteen, I returned to live with my mother, who had settled in the south, in Barry, near Tarbes. I could have thought it was the end of my troubles, the beginning of a normal life. But fate had other plans for me.

These early years of my life shaped the man I became. Each ordeal, each betrayal, each moment of despair left its mark. But they also gave me a strength I didn't know I had, a resilience born of the necessity to survive. My story doesn't end there, far from it. But these early years laid the foundations for everything that was to follow, for better or for worse.

"Chapter 2: A Troubled Adolescence"

At the age of 12, a glimmer of hope appeared in my life. The juvenile court judge decided that my sister and I could return to live with our mother. This long-awaited return was made possible thanks to the apparent stability my mother had found with her new partner, Eric.

At first glance, Eric seemed to be the perfect man for our broken family. Warm, friendly, with a good face that made you want to love him. In 2011, he even decided to adopt me, allowing me to bear his name instead of that of my maternal grandfather, the rapist who haunted our past. This name change also had a security reason. My biological father, the man who had raped my mother, had found me on social media and was trying to convince me to come live with him in Morocco. This wasn't his first attempt: when I was 3 or 4 years old, he had already tried to kidnap me, which led to me being escorted by police to kindergarten for a week.

Unfortunately, the reality behind Eric's facade was far from the image he projected. Admittedly, I wasn't the model child. In middle school, I was disruptive, with poor grades and problematic behavior that resulted in detention hours and days of suspension. This behavior was probably a reflection of a deep unease at home.

While my mother remained relatively conciliatory, content to lecture me without ever really punishing me in an extreme way, Eric didn't hesitate to cross the line. His punishments often bordered on abuse, and sometimes clearly crossed that line. I still remember the time he jumped on me while I was sitting on my bed, grabbing me by the throat. Or that other time when he threw me to the floor in the kitchen before kicking me repeatedly in the stomach and head. My mother, present during these scenes, never intervened. She let it happen.

My sister Marie wasn't spared either. One day, following a kitchen accident where she had unintentionally caused a fire, Eric insulted her with every name in the book, calling her a witch and a bitch, before punching her in the face several times.

This period of my life was also marked by acts I'm not proud of, acts that still haunt me today. Since my sexual assault at the age of 5, I had developed an unhealthy fixation on sex. This obsession led to inappropriate behaviors with my half-sister, which began when I was 7 and continued until I was 15. These acts, although mutually consensual towards the end, remain a source of deep guilt and regret.

Fortunately, despite the violence that often reigned at home, there were moments of tenderness and attention from my parents. When I was a victim of bullying at school at the age of 15, suffering racist insults related to my mixed-race skin color, my parents took the situation seriously. When I started hearing voices, they immediately took me to the emergency room, which led to a three-month hospitalization in a psychiatric center for adolescents. It was there that I started taking antipsychotics, a difficult experience that left me in an almost catatonic state.

Despite these three months of absence, I managed to obtain my middle school diploma, a small victory in this tumultuous period. However, the conflicts at home didn't cease. My sister Marie ended up being placed back in foster care, and the arguments with my parents became more and more frequent and violent.

At 17, I found my first job, and at 18, I made the decision to leave the family home and get my own apartment. I was on bad terms with my parents at the time. In parallel, I nurtured the ambition to join the 42 computer science school in Paris. So I left Tarbes for the capital, carrying new hopes and determined to make a fresh start, far from the torments of my adolescence.

#biography #sad life #writing #trauma #child abuse

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