#loving with a blackening heart –〚 dynamics 〛

[lalunanymph]

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?

includes: mentions of food, mentions of murder, talks of death, predator/prey dynamic, sword to neck trope, reader gets restrained, mentions of injuries, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader is in cerena's body, isekai-ed reader

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 3: THE VILLAGE

Life at this little village offered you a gentle respite from the fears eating at your soul, putting the memory of Satoru's bloodthirsty desires momentarily out of your mind.

Whilst under Aeva’s care, you learned how to use an old fire stove, sweep the floors with a broom made of brambles, and prepare some of Northern Haleway’s most famous fare—pigeon mince pies. 

In return, she offered you the room in her attic, a quaint, cozy space that did not perturb you with its lack of size but instead, reminded you fondly of your own bedroom back in your real world. 

When you weren’t busy with chores and cooking, Aeva gave you free rein to roam about the village with the condition that you were to never reveal your true identity to the poor villagers. You took her worries in stride, always leaving her home with your hood and cloak on; Cerena’s signature pink hair plaited neatly and wrapped under the scratchy hood. 

The reason for your excursions to town were simple: you wanted to find out the truth about why you were here in the first place. 

You struck up conversations with various healers, visited the village shaman, and even spent an hour talking to the friendly barman on the merits of body swapping and waking up in a different life. 

But, your research barely yielded anything fruitful.

It only served to increase your worries, driving you to the brink of a mental breakdown at the fact that you may never go back to your real world again. 

That you may never see your mother or listen to her laugh as you both drank rice wine on a veranda; happy memories illuminated by the sun setting over the paddy fields. You may never roll your eyes at your best friend’s piss poor attempts at setting you up on blind dates, or enjoy your morning commute with a cup of turmeric latte.

Every single thought drew you deeper into a pit of despair.

But, you knew you had to be strong. 

This was a temporary setback and you have to believe that you will return home. You have to believe that life would not be so cruel as to leave you stranded here, in a place where you were despised and ridiculed. You had to keep the faith; had to hold onto the hope that you would make it home in one piece. 

There was no other option. 

-

Satoru slowed his horse to a trot once he arrived in the market square, the guards flanking his sides dispersing to find you at his terse nod. 

Those unyielding blue eyes swept across the square, noting the various sellers and stalls surrounding him. The smell of horse dung and rotten food scraps burned through his nose with the force of a thousand fires, and he made a face, wanting nothing more than to get this search party over, find you and take you back to the King. 

For a man used to the trenches of war, peasant life will always astound him with its stink and squalor. Children with dirt-packed faces and blackened hands chase after each other. A skinny, malnourished dog feebly lifts its head when his horse trots by and a heavily pregnant woman with scars running down her arms gives him a scrutinizing look while she hangs up her linens to dry. 

Satoru intended to keep this visit brief, and he is no more looking forward to the reality of finding you than he is at the thought of how you would react.

It was obvious that this was one of your usual tantrums in retaliation for not getting what you want; an act of rebellion made to paint him in a bad light.

His jaw ticks and his mood darkens at the thought of what he would do if he ever saw you again.

First things first, Satoru wouldn’t hesitate to threaten you by sword point to return back to the castle. Then, he will interrogate you on where you had been, who you spoke to, how you escaped in the first place so he can put anyone and everyone who aided you in this resistance to the sword.

Those flinty cerulean eyes shift across the market square, hoping to find a glimpse of the hooded and cloaked figure Miri had informed him about. But, all his gaze does is meet more exhausted faces; the villager’s blackened, fatigued air drawing his lips downward into a grimace. 

He was close to redirecting the search party into the forest where he believed you would be hiding, when he sees the figure of his hunt.

A waifish, hooded and cloaked woman made her way past the fruit stalls, stopping to purchase an apple.

Satoru doesn’t spare another second. He threw his horse into a gallop, reaching for his sword and drawing it out of the scabbard.

The hooded woman seemed to sense his murderous intent for her all the way across the square and lifted her head.

Satoru’s eyes widened when he noticed the familiar slope of your nose; the parting of your cherubic lips frozen in a silent scream. 

“Cerena!” 

The blasted woman takes off, running as fast as she could straight to the forest’s edge. Satoru doesn’t know what compelled him to disembark off his horse, hastily tying the reins around an apple tree and tearing after you with his longer, stronger legs.

Your terrified expression seared through his brain when you turn around to flash him a pleading look. Satoru gritted his teeth, his larger lung capacity and fitter body making it easier for him to sweep past the trees, darting under the brushes and jumping over fallen logs to chase after you.

There is nothing but the thought of escape in your mind. 

As you weaved through the trees, bounding across brooks and fell logs, your breath came out in icy pants, crystalizing right in front of your face. 

You wanted to turn around and plead and beg with him to spare you, the sight of the broadsword in his hand pumping your veins full of adrenaline and the need to escape. Like a hounded prey, the predator behind you was closing in, near enough that you could hear his jagged breaths.

“Cerena—stop running!” 

You pushed yourself harder, ignoring his words, forcing your legs to bring you towards a gnarly apple tree. Using muscles you haven’t utilized since you were four when you were wildly swinging from jungle bars, you expertly swung your body up the tree, clambering the thick trunk and using the spruces as your support—trying to get off the ground and hide in the foliage so he would give up and leave you alone.

But, luck was never on your side, especially when it came head-to-head with Satoru’s determination.

He circled the tree you were hiding in, those frantic blue eyes darting through the thick leaves, trying to get a glimpse of you.

“Cerena, stop this madness at once and come back home!” Satoru bellowed, cheeks splotched red with anger and frustration. “You mad woman! Get down and face your repercussions, dammit!” 

A slight movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you rush to unleash your dagger, cutting through the stem of the hornet’s nest just a few inches from you.

Sensing danger, they hummed, digging their stingers into your vulnerable hand, but you paid the bites of pain no mind—focused completely on evading Satoru.

The prince’s keen ears catch a rustle, like the sound of something being sawed and he looks up into the trees, jaw clenched and icy blue eyes wild.

“Cerena! What are you doing up there? Come down, dammit!” 

Without warning, a lump of something brown and scraggly falls right at his feet.

Satoru barely had time to react before he’s surrounded by a swarm of nasty wasps, stinger-triggered and ready to attack him. The sight of him swinging his broadsword to ward off the wasps would’ve been hilarious, if you didn’t use this as an opportunity to scamper down the apple tree and take off like your life depended on it. 

“—Cerena!” 

Your stomach sank to your feet as you quickly whipped your head back to catch him speeding up to you, the mottled flesh of his face from the wasp stings and those raging blue eyes shocking you through the core with pure, unadulterated fear. 

“Please!” 

You screamed, needing to run back to Aeva’s hut. She will protect you; she has to. 

Sliding into the clearing, you’re almost to the home run when you feel a hard tug around your neck. Your head jerks back and you go crashing to the ground, Satoru’s bigger body enveloping yours. 

“No—no!”

The shine of his sword nicks your neck, and you’re both breathing hard. 

Satoru’s fiery icy azure eyes bore right into you with such potent hatred, you throw your hands to your face, bracing for the blade to slice through your neck hotly. 

One second turned into two. His heavy breathing becomes a grunt, and he yanks you unceremoniously to your feet. 

His arm tightened around your trembling body, face a few inches from yours as he sneered. 

“You will pay for what you did to me.” Those reddened lesions from the wasps littering his neck and cheeks strike terror into your numbed heart. 

“If only you hadn’t ran away from me,” he clicked his tongue as if in disappointment, and to your mortification, brought out a coil of rope from his jacket. “Then, your punishment would not be so severe.” 

A hushed sob slips from between your gritted teeth as he lashed your hands together with the rope, tying it tightly enough so you wouldn’t think of running away from him again.

“Please,” you started to cry. “Please, do not hurt me. Do not harm me.”

He grunted, looping the tie into a double knot. “What in the devil are you blubbering about, woman? I have no intention of hurting you.”

Your tears trickled your cheeks like fragments of icy shards, slipping down your neck as you attempted to resist, pressing your bound palms to his broad chest and trying to push him away.

Satoru growled: “Cerena! Behave.” 

The flash of disgust and anger in his eyes instantly brought to mind how he had held the sword to your bare neck—how he had wanted to kill you. 

Terror seized your lungs, your scream shattering the calm quiet of the forest.

“Help me! Somebody help me! Please!” 

You sobbed loudly and with full abandonment, balking whenever he tried to reach out for you, batting your useless hands against his chest and neck to try and buy yourself some time for someone to help.

In the midst of the struggle with Satoru, you missed a wizened figure stepping out of the hut, her bow and arrow pointed right at the crowned prince.

Gojo, noticing the intruder in this scene, raised his eyes, sneering at the lowly woman who dared believe she can take him on with a flimsy weapon.

“You dare point that at me? The crowned prince of the region?” 

Aeva steadied her aim, the tip of the arrow quivering. The expression on her face was of fierce protectiveness, surging from seeing you being manhandled like a sack of potatoes by a man who was supposed to honor you as his fiancé.

For a brief moment, you felt a shining sense of hope—that you were going to be safe. 

But, he does not yield. Despite not saying a word, his frigid glare is all the loathing he needs to dissuade Aeva from releasing the arrow. Her rheumy eyes shifted from your tear-streaked face to his furious glare and to your dismay, she slowly lowered the weapon, letting it dangle by her side.

Your gasp rang with betrayal and alarm. “Aeva… please…”

Smug that he was let off without much of a fight, Gojo used his raw strength to lift you over his shoulder, your bound hands dangling across his back, your slippered feet kicking in mid-air.

“Please! Don’t let him harm me! Aeva! Aeva—” you choke off a broken sob, unable to bear her devastated expression through your tears. 

With every jarring step he took, you get further and further away from the safe house; from finding your answers and plotting your return back to your world.

Satoru didn't just tear your hopes of returning home from your hands, he also stomped them to the ground with the impending dread of his promise to Miri.

The promise to kill you should he see you again.

Crippling agony washed over you, enough to make you bitterly wail, your cries weaving through the trees as fearful images of your mangled body flashed through your mind, the end of your life brought about by this cruel prince's hand. 

“Enough with the dramatics,” Satoru muttered frostily as he trudged through the thick snow, reaching his behemoth of a stallion. With barely an iota of effort, he heaped you onto the saddle, giving your thigh a hard squeeze in warning not to do anything funny. 

Mounting behind you, he used his sturdier build to keep you caged in between his arms. Gripping the reins and snapping it once, his great white horse whinnies, moving to a trot as the forest and the safe house you spent these three blissful days in disappeared from your view. 

You never thought your fate would end up like this: bound atop a horse like fresh game being brought back after a hunt, while a sadistic man who wants nothing more than your demise sat behind you, stoic and silent despite your hushed cries.

Anguish welled deep in your soul, manifesting as endless tears streaming down your face which you tried desperately to hide from him. 

His voice broke through your frantic thoughts as a low, baritone warning. 

“I told you I will force you take accountability for your actions,” Satoru muttered darkly, slowing his horse to a cant.

Without any warning, he grasped your chin and tugged hard, eliciting a gasp of fear from you, forcing your teary eyes to meet his enraged ones. 

“And your punishment has only just begun, Princess.”

mtt fun fact: minced pigeon pies were brought to northern haleway by merchants from the south who introduced this alternative meat source during one of the country's harshest famines

dawn says: what kind of 'punishment' do you think satoru meant? 👀

!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3

©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.

[darkdemeter]

BOW BETWEEN MY LEGS

⚤ Vampire King!Bucky Barnes x Vampire (Queen)!Female Reader 18+ themes and smut minors dni, consumption of blood, depictions and mention of gore, violence and death, unprotected vaginal sex, female oral receiving, dom x sub (light switch) dynamic, this fic contains some sexism/misogynist themes, usage of the name "pet", I think that's it. ✎ 5.4k What lies between a woman's legs is as powerful as you can grasp the idea that you can use it to your benefit. Like any man, no male vampire can resist such a sweet and enticing prize. In your stirred want for power that you see is rightfully yours, can you turn the throne in your favour and force the dark majesty who turned you to his knees?

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

The first kill is always the messiest. 

It’s a floating rumour among the commoners and courts that you’ve murdered ten king-husband’s on the night of your wedding. This is the eleventh. Each one with a throat torn and ripped open, guts assembled as a strangling corset around the waist and his heart missing… supposedly eaten. The maids would lay awake all night, pale and sickly as they listened to the darkened hymn of your giggles in the chamber above, followed by the drawled, pleasured moans of a consort receiving her master’s reward upon the very bloodstained sheets of her impure marital bed. Compliant to his schemes, wedded to his sensuous appetite and solely ordained to share his bed.

But now you hunger for the power he has taken for himself. Every kingdom he has come to rule over was because of you. You seduced your way through the courts and harems of kings, enslaved yourself to their foolish and mortal desires - pathetic wants of the flesh that left you unsated - and then presented yourself at the altar many a time to pledge your undying love. 

You have a treasure trove of gold and gems, accessories presented in proposal coffers and made in falsely forged promises of eternity. The only eternity was this one, with your master. The only one that kept you for himself, who adored and praised every inch of your body with awarded pleasures. He, who scorned and scarred you in passionate agony whenever you disobeyed him. 

This sudden whim of yours to act out disobedience is one he will tolerate no longer. A pet off its leash, a naughty and spiteful creature who’s collar he will reshackle a hundred times over to strangle some belonging sense into you. A correctional statement is what is needed. And you have forced his hand to command it so. 

Limbs of misty silk crawl along the floor, free to flow from the tapering veil of your gown where your breasts lift in a form meant to flaunt your provocative nature. From the golden rim of your goblet, you savour the taste of the tainted wine your kind dine to drink. 

A crimson smear paints a glistening spot on your lips and your tongue laps to suckle on the sustaining juices. The night is cool but it’s barely felt on your skin anymore. The moon, full and pale, casts a halo so bright that it bathes your form as you stand in the balcony’s doorway.

The fluttery garb of your gown falters down the slope of your shoulders, loosening at its silken belt to reveal your nakedness to the gust of wind. It is one pulled stronger to sweep over the ocean like a hurricane, through the coastal region where you had set your sight upon to conquer; to claim. But it seems not for long. Like everything you have, that you are, he wants. 

The wind has a voice, low and hollow like a haunting whisper. He appears in the chambers in a whirling spire of blackened mist, his body taking presence as a physical manifestation before your very stance. He looms as a tall silhouette that drowns out the moonlight, showering you beneath his powerful aura. You recall a time, before this stroke of independence, when you would sink to your very knees before him, eager to sate his carnal desires in the bloodied parlor of your slain king and promised love. To be commended for your work in succeeding his reign further over the kingdoms. To have the fanged venom of his undead disease riddle and writhe within your already alive corpse, to relive the sublime surrender in the midst of your orgasmic pleasure; one he ruthlessly denied you until you proved your loyalty to him. His darling pet, so sweet and so obedient to him. So pathetically wanting of all he would give you. 

Your lips pull to form a thin smirk of revile, his deadly glare condemning your lack of sincerity towards him. Within the intense luminance of his blue, ocean eyes, he undresses you with his gaze. 

Further adding to your insult, you act as though to bow before him, only to turn away as your shoulder addresses him coldly. “So, you’ve finally come to applaud my efforts, my liege?” 

His body stiffens, shoulders molded harshly into a damning intensity. “Is that how you dare speak to me?”

His head shifts on a sharpened axis to look at you, to follow your leisurely movements. Your bare feet pad along with a skinned, muffled pound as if weightless to this world. The thin body of your goblet stays between the bed of your fingers, tilting back and forth lazily. You tire of his growled threats. At least, you thought you did. You always do enjoy the roughened, dark demeanor of his commanding tone. 

With a sensual, teasing hum, you retort back, “It is.”

Beneath the baritone drum of another growl, beastly and dangerous, you continue in your saunter. Your eyes linger on the drapings of the stained bed, a grotesque display of a night creature’s artwork. His blood is no virgin’s, but it would do. The allure of such a pure taste drove you insanely blissed. What you would do for some in your goblet instead.

As if to see the nature of your grim, inner turmoil, your prior master moves towards you with a silent ease. Unheard but he is sensed.

His body stands close now, gracing the curve of your shoulder. He has this way that makes you feel alive again, like that virtuous, naive bride. The way his hand felt against you that first night, serpentine and slithering up to knead at your untouched breasts, squeezing them in his clawed grasp only to then wind around the column of your neck. 

“Turn to me,” he beckons you with a voice soothing and deep. Indeed, his hand is still as intoxicating. Your eyes fill with a heaviness and you turn to face him. He tips your chin to his desired angle and he leans his lips down to ghost over yours. 

“Open…”

Much like your first feeding, such a surreal and visceral hunger you’d felt in that time, long ago, the moment your lips lock together his tongue forces through the pass of yours, driving them further open. You moan highly and tilt back on your heel only for his hands to catch you, dragging your hips to meet his that desperately roll, arching them to spread to his welcome again. Goblet of blood abandoned with a cluttering fall, your arms find purchase as they always have around his shoulders, your nails scratch a trail that marks your claim. 

The lengthy tendril of his tongue shapeshifts with the disconnecting growth of his jaw, gums extending forward, allowing his mouth and gullet to expand and pour forth a pitcher of blood into your mingling kiss. You greedily lap with your tongue at the addictive flavour of virgin’s blood he graciously delivers to you. You almost falter into his hold completely, barely able to keep yourself upright and his arms circle around your waist, pulling you tight against him as he deepened the kiss. 

You purr into the cavernous depth of his mouth and he groans, not yet letting you go when he feels you begin to pull away with the large form of his palm pressing to the back of your head. No, there is still more to give you. There is still more blood to offer you, to feed you with. You must be starving, his dear and lost little pet. Most likely alone in the company of your bed, yearning for him.

His hips continue to grind against your core, eliciting that dark excitement he strives to rekindle within you, lustful in his advancement to retake you. 

He withdraws from the kiss, his tongue slowly licking over the sated roof of your mouth and over the purse of your top lip. 

“Be a good pet now and come back to me,” he purrs with a deepened rumble, smirking. 

You tut at him with a scolding glare as you immediately swat at his wandering hands that grope you and he releases you with a hiss. His intention to seduce you with the potent feed was close to breaking you, you may admit — invading your mind like a perving perfume  — but he would have to do better than that to lure you back into his dark embrace. He would have to offer something more than just blood and sex.

What you want is what was rightfully owed to you. 

You’ve wandered from his reach and your spine rings with that delectable sense that his blackened soul reaches out to drag you back into his grasp. To feel the deepening desire of his want for you. To know that he lusts for you after all this time. 

It’s empowering. 

And it is power you will use to your advantage. 

“Pet.” He warns you with a low tone of voice like a wrathful hum of thunder. You mock him back with a slight tilt of your chin, “My King.” You bare a crimson-stained smile of teeth and elongated fangs as you move your fingers sensuously slow over your lips to wipe the gathered dabbing of blood away. 

Your voice is a sunken purr, a provoking line delivered with a silken and soft cadence that hints at your powerful sensuality, given the way you see the azure bloom in his eyes brighten. 

The way he obviously stirs in the deep recess where his soul should be, where a man’s blood should run hot and heart beats fast. When your eyes only drift further down do you catch the heavy weight of his cock straining against his garments. Vampires may no longer be that of the living, but there are phantom semblances their bodies still cling to. An attachment of one’s life before. 

And the imposing stature of his cock standing erect, the one and very same you’ve trained yourself earnestly for millennia to take every inch of, is one of those semblances he’s clung onto all this time. 

He sneers with a beveled glare, “Cease this becoming of your petty nature and surrender yourself to me. I created you. You serve me.”

“That was when you took advantage of a silly, girl commoner who hadn’t an ounce of status in her life before.” Your objection is sharp to cut in. You come to stand before him, your hand moving to curl at the aroused pitch between his legs, smirking when he groans. “Since then I’ve acquired the taste of power… and I want more.”

He shakes his head with a bared snarl. “You wouldn’t know what to do with such power if you had it.” His hand snatches hold of your wrist and pulls you to press against him, earning a hitched gasp from you. “You're still just a silly woman whose place is better served beneath me.”

“Is that what you want to believe now that you see me retake everything from you?”

His eyes diverge from their scornful path, flickering down to gaze at the sinful way your lips move, allured by the empty promise of meeting them with his own in another heated kiss. And then you’re gone. Like a flame snuffed out by a sweeping draft, each withdrawing step you take away from him, your hips sway with a delightful bounce. 

When he turns to face you, you’re suddenly taking action to seat yourself on the luxurious lounge of his deceased majesty’s chaise. 

“You think I’m threatened by you?”

Your posture leans back, the draw of your silken dressing gown is draped loosely, falling down your shoulders and yielding quite easily to show your body. “I know you are.”

His words come out as a thick rasp. “Why are you doing this?” 

“You mean other than to cause you pain? Anguish?” Your head tosses back with a cruel, viscous laugh that bounces off the chamber’s stone walls. “I never meant to be cruel, but you left me no choice, my love. I do it because I want to see the turmoil in your eyes as you watch everything I have given you slip away; I want to see in your eyes the realisation that without me… you would have nothing.”

“A woman in power is dangerous,” he drawls, hand running over the stubble of his jaw slowly. 

Again, you cut in objectively. Your shoulders rise and drop with a huff, rumpling the folded brim of your robe to flatly dip lower over your breasts. “A woman in power is something you desire but not dare admit lest your own power be challenged. It’s why you’ve not taken me as your queen.”

“Ah,” he huffs in curt reply. The sound is dryly cynical, abhording the admittance in your statement. It’s his turn to favour feigned ignorance behind such a haughty announced noise, to hide the truth you already know too well. 

“As if I’d any intention of elevating your station within my court. Surely none would then suspect the favouritism I harbour for you already, what with the reserving of my bed for you alone… the personal feedings…”

He dares to make a mocking spectacle of his generosity. 

Beneath the snide of a coiled hiss, you say coldly, “It is a king’s duty to uphold the well being of his subjects and his realm. A good king deals with… the reservation of his bed and his personal feedings with a humble nod and smile. A bad king… tsk tsk,” you shake your head with the piercing click of your tongue. “That is certainly how a revolt occurs within the court.”

It wasn’t your fault that you craved more monogamous partnership from your king. Had you not worked yourself, bent yourself over and backwards to give him all you had? Every night you’d moan through your screams as he stretched you open, rawly taking you on the spear of his length until you cried a veiny river of tears. Bliss was it not as painful? 

To his every wish, you fulfilled it. Every dynasty he sought to rule over you set yourself upon it. The ladies you slaughtered, the ragged and alluring woman you portrayed yourself to be to ensnare the honour of mortal kings or the seductive muse within his lordship’s harem. The sting of tears on your wedding day shed not in your joy to spend your days beside your sire, but because furthermore, you realise you remain a puppet on her strings; at the tethered whim of a master. 

He scoffs at the notion that anyone in his court would dare rise up against him. More so he leers at you with this tainted ire, a darkened aura that compels you to obey his command. “You act as though I have not granted your endless desires. What could I possibly have denied you so that turned you against me?”

“Besides the still indebted orgasms?”

At that, he visibly stiffens at the burly muscle of his shoulders. The hardness causes his paled complexion to ripple, writhing with a course of venomous sinew and veins that runs through him. 

King John by no means would have meant you good but at least you would have had power. Something every commonor vied for. The lidded underbelly of your eyes raise to squint narrowly at your dark liege. Your body contorts to sit upright, leaning forward in a way that is rigged. Fragmented drapes of hair fall forward with a framed depiction over your brow. “All my life I have been at the whim of someone else. It’s my turn now.”

“And if I refuse to grant you what you want, pet?”

“Don’t you dare deny me!” The whites of your eyes become drowned with scarlet as a flare of gold takes over your irises. Your voice seethes with a venomous hiss. “I was meant as your consort! I am owed this, Buchanan. There is a debt to be paid.”

He tuts you with a coy raise of his brow and smirk on his lips. He has you riled, just as he wants you. He walks to you with a leisured step each announcing his powerful authority. His clawed thumb and forefinger take hold of your chin to tilt it up, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“I should have known you’d take to power once you had a taste. You wouldn’t remain that humble, silent woman in my court.”

Your throat rolls with a thick swallow, eyes pouncing with that scarlet aura. “I developed under your command, did I not? I thrived and did all you asked of me. So long as I’m given what is rightfully mine, I shall remain at your side.”

“You turned into a right bitch is what you developed into,” he snorts. When the wavering kink in his brow twitches, it hints that he sees no humour pass through you. Your hardened eyes are sternly upon him, the scarlet hue fading and the golden rings dim back into the coloured irises. 

“What is to happen if I refuse, Y/N?”

Reforming the delicate etiquette of your hair, fashioning it orderly as you rise from your seat, the robe dismantles its remaining hold around you. Your breasts allure him with a dangerous game as he stares fondly, the blackened shade of his pupils blown wide in his stare. You fix with effort the twisting etch of a smirk onto your lips. 

Quickly, you arch your head forward and lick a glistening streak up the bared scape of his chest, the muscles constrict tightly, alerted. Aroused. 

“Then coming here for me was pointless.”

Who are you to tell him that anything he does is pointless? How dare you call into question his pride? 

The assaulting bite between the clench of his teeth is revolting, a seething sentiment that you have sored him - wounded his ego by notching that sneaky, clever little blade you call wit into the unbeating deadness of his heart. 

Your naked form drifts past him and towards the bed with an elegant saunter and hips that sway with a pronounced accent, the beautiful locks of your hair that mist and ghost your features as a veil bounce as you move. His eyes follow you as slow moving orbs that reverb with a shaken essence, watching you slope in your descent to sit at the bed’s end. 

Around you, the world is taken by a facade as the air bends back and forth, the moonlight flittering through it like a sudden and exploding burst of starlight. No longer does he stand in the trespass of the murdered king but instead his own throne room, alone besides you and him. 

You’re no longer seated on the filth of a stranger man’s bed but instead, astride his grand and looming throne. Even for him, he knows his breath would have hitched in his lungs at the sight before him. Never before has he seen anything more dominating. Sinfully divine. 

Exotic. 

Coy, you adjust yourself in a way to purposefully allure to the form of your breasts pushing together, crossing one leg over the other to hide the glisten of your cunt from him and the regal possession of power you exude. 

“You mean to tell me you’ve never wondered what I’d look like, seated on your throne, you kneeling before me…” 

Even the beginnings of your twisted mingle between lustful fantasy and vie for power, you visibly shift. “…Your lips tasting me — devouring me — as I moan and arch myself like… this?”

The incline of your spine forces your breasts to bounce a little that has Buchanan’s eyes taken completely by the blackness, barely able to find the shade of blue within them as he stalks towards you before he stops, hesitant. 

“Or like this?” You gasp aloud, acting as if you can already feel him deep inside you, shifting yourself into a new position but still keeping your legs relatively closed, concealing just how needy you are for him. 

The pleasurable doting of his tongue parting your soft, delicate lips and dancing through the velvet slick of your cunt until he strikes that spot inside of you that has you pleasantly writhing. The sweet, succulent bloom to suffuse you once more. 

His lips part with a trembling swallow, sucking desperately to air he longer feels — no longer needs. What he does need is you.

“Dragă…” His chest falls with an empty excuse and his voice quivers, on the verge of his breaking point. His final resolve of control is crumbling and it’s yielding to you. 

His eyes behold you with a level of admiration you have naught but seen since your awakening. A greatness of marvel flashing in the clearer shine of his bright blue eyes, gleefully serene and covered by a dark delight. 

He commits the sight of you on his throne to memory, searing it to his mind before the facade can falter, disbanding his newly found obsession. 

With one single step towards you, your lips tighten into a coy purse. You roll your hips to shift your leg off the other and lean back, promising him a glean if he but steps closer; if he submits to you. 

He takes another step forward, followed by another and so on until he stands there, moving to lean over you like the darkness of the towers that loomed high above you so long ago. The dreamy capture of something so grand and powerful. 

But he’s stopped suddenly. The gracious perch of your foot hinders him, keeping him like a dog on a leash. A low growl reverberates off his tongue, snide and recoiling. Your throat chokes around a single-noted chuckle as you then push him back with the offending bareness of your foot, smirking when you see realisation come upon his brow like an ill fitted crown. He slowly, and with no power to compel otherwise, he begins to fall to his knees. 

With a tone curt with authority and spread of your legs to reveal your glistening core, you command, “Bow between my legs.”

A tart sound is a delicious poison on his tongue. You wish to devour it like the sweetness of blood. 

He gives in just as his knees brace him.

“I’ll do anything for you, my temptress,” he sighs, lips grazing the skin of your inner thigh with a savouring curse, “that and more, just please—”

You snatch hold of his jaw. An action he has done to you many times before, a physical measure of ceasing control over you, but now the game has changed, and he is at your whim now.

He is at your control now. He is your puppet to work on the strings, plucking and pulling tighter and tighter until he can naught but never escape your web. 

“You want this?” You ask him with a voice silken and ominously tender. He nods, his stubbled jaw tensing in your iron grasp. 

“You want me?” Again, he nods, his throat agape with an audible hiss. “Yes.”

That isn’t good enough for you. His eyes swell with a darkened glaze, the gentle melded ring lining the rim of his waterline as he pants like a starved beast. Your hand drifts back to wrangle him at the locks of his dark hair, scolding him harshly when he tried to plant his head between your thighs. His fangs bare with a strained growl.

You snarl beneath the shadow of a glare, “Then give me what is mine.”

“My Queen…”

You let out a small, toying coo and release him. His head immediately bows and his tongue on your delicate pearl has your spine arched beautifully, a moan once buried so deep down brought to the surface. You ease yourself with a roll of your hips and his hands find purchase there, holding you to him as he feverishly devours your cunt. He groans, bloodthirsty, he moans, entranced and drunken off your taste. His lips fold around your, drinking you in and his tongue teases your clit in long strokes and teasing dabs with its poised tip. 

Each languid motion makes your cold skin vibrate and the deadened core inside you churn with the pleasurable abyss. Your song of moans fills his ears with a beautiful orchestra, far more alluring than any creature he’s ever known. 

He pulls you forward to force his tongue deep inside you, invading the sanctum of your lower lips that ooze with your slick. You cannot help but chuckle, the sound a low and beating echo. How hungry he is to forfeit half his claim, a divide in his power in order to appease you. 

Whether he admits it now or later, he would have nothing without you. 

His tongue penetrates you with a sharpened edge that feels as though he cuts you internally, pulling forth a pleasured whine from you and your lower back rises higher. He growls at the sound, so beautiful and harmonic, laced with sensual want. You gasp and mewl, mortal breath having no place in your lungs but the root of it still remains just as the flow to his cock does. 

The glamourous vow of your lustful inhales and blissful exhales, all in whining tandem to succeed your euphoria; that is your treacherous semblance. 

Your hands tug and rake at the scalp of his head, ringing tightly to him as your legs quiver against him, curling. Your moans grow louder, become sired lyrics that break into a shattering as his tongue strikes you inward like lightning touching ground. Your world becomes hollow for a moment and instead of the purity of white to cover your vision, you’re thrusted into a blur of murky black. Spirals of dripping red bleed into view, slowed entirely into a near status of stillness, the buzzing hum of something baritone fades just as quickly as it’s heard. 

Unlike the winery of finer bloods, meant to be sipped and savoured, he displays a ravenous appetite for the spoils of your release. He groans between the tremble of your thighs that lock him there, tongue pulling and stroking in longer caresses against your hot, constricting walls.

Upon the retreat of his mouth against your hot, tempered core, you miss the connection of his lips on you. How you could have him between your thighs for milenia. But there is plenty of time for that, the thought brings a smirk to grace the twisted lines of your lips. 

He kisses with a darker tender to your thighs, each one a defined print on your skin. His tongue occasionally sweeps over your clit, eliciting an excited drawl from you and a shudder of your hips that causes him to smirk himself. 

His eyes gaze at you with a prowling nature. It is one that hunts you. 

You bask in the way he stares at you, with admiration and aroused ire. You love it to a sickening degree that would put the most spiteful spirits to shame. 

“Shall I grant you another, my Queen?” he asks, words mumbled between a humming crawl of a moan and his lips being fused to your cunt. With a confirming nod, you make an audible sound. 

“Yes… you have plenty still to give me.”

“Then I will begin here.”

In sync with the movement of his lips taking hold around you, his long fingers work to push aside your glistening folds. His claws rip and shred, almost tugging something inside of you as if to beckon you. Your gasps of pleased alarm become worn and ragged, cut into shortened tufts for phantom breath. His tongue and thumb roll with a teasing circlet over your clit, going slow then faster, and then slower again. 

He has you cumming again and choking on a moan before you realise it, before you can enjoy the climax of its build and you’re dragged back into the void of that pleasure. Each orgasm he pulls from you is a sin forgiven and there are many he atones for. But those are just from his mouth and fingers alone. 

By the time he’s delivered unto you several releases, he stands and looks down at you. A stunning corpse that writhes, smoothed to the silken drapes of the delicate fabrics. Was there truly anything more sweeter than to see you undone by your lust?

He’s always found you endearing. When he’d find you dryly dragging and rolling your hips into the silky pillows of his bed, thrashing violently in need of him. How he’d come to your aid swiftly, smothering you in his dark embrace — his shadow — so comforting and powerful and he would pound with such aggression into you that you could barely contain your screams. 

You too remember with a certain fondness, a noted sadness of those times. Even now, you reminisce as he turns you, priming you to the angle which he could sink himself to his large entirety. Propped up, his hands cover the globes of your arse, marvelling with a loosened chuckle.

“I’ve missed you, dragă,” he purrs with a touch of edge to his voice. 

“You’d better,” you retort. Another chuckle rumbled within his chest, tickling your spine as he grinds his navel into the small of your back, smearing your juices along his girthy shaft. 

His hips shove with a sturdy gate and he sighs aloud. Your body welcomes the intrusion that comes into you, splitting you apart so deliciously it borders on the stray of agony. A favourite addiction, a blended mix between the beauty of pain and the horror of something good. 

His pace is set ruthlessly and he anchors his weight so that he has you, pounding into you viciously. The sound of your skin slapping together in a brutal meeting pulls a string of moans between the two of you to share, each one underlined by a whispered praise. 

“So—nhhg… good.”

“A-ah, missed this—” His hips thrust harder against you as his hands grope at you with possessive need. His weight shoves you deep into the mattress, the boards of a mortal bed made of wood and luxury sheets creak and squeal and rumple with tiring energy. 

But you are not yet done. Not by any means. For many days and nights you could go on like this, lost in the intoxication of each other’s touch, fingers crawling and tongues tasting all sorts of sours and sweets. 

Your bodies locked in an intimate stronghold, devoted to defiling the other. It can happen. It has happened, the old fashioned term calling such devious occasions mating balls. 

You moan with a stutter, calling his name as your fingers claw and rip the sheets apart. His fangs scratch the nape of your neck, stirring within you those feelings you tried to keep down. The resurface of a pleading pet who understood her place beneath him.

You are his pet. You are his queen. A unique combination, a passive yet resistive opposite to his dance. 

He pushes a hand firmly to the crest of your belly, feeling the bulge that flexes there, slinking in and out with rapid succession. His lips turn into a deformed and fanged grin. 

“You enjoying my cock? Hm? You missed me, didn’t you?”

You nod with a curt hiss, arching until your hips meet his next thrust. “Yes…”

“We’re good for one another.”

“Y-yes…”

“I’m going to give you another.”

“Yes!”

He knows that tone. That impatient drawl that teeters on the verge of a scream he hears in his dreams with a smile. On his cock, your walls tighten around him like a vice, claiming him to remain buried deep inside you as you revel in his essence. His lips lay a cascade of worshipping kisses to your skin, chilling you as you near the void’s embrace; ready to become one with it — with him again. 

“Will you be my Queen and consort?”

“Yes!” You choke out a sob just as your walls grip around him and are flooded by the final orgasm that is owed to you, his cock faring no better before he spills his seed inside of you, swelling you with his claim. A claim that only a king has over his queen. Your body is pulled flush to his, where vampyric skins meet, laying against each other like two tombstones bound in eternal, undying unity. Much like how you will be seated on his throne, he seats you atop his cock, his arms caging you in the confinement you once discovered imprisoned you.

Now he makes you feel whole again. He treasures you with praises, vowing between each blooded kiss and forceful thrust of his hips, that you are now his equal.

Indeed, you have made your king bow between your legs. Right where he belongs. 

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ a note from the author, Decided to try out a bit of a new formatting.

[tsunami-of-tears]

But Daddy I Love Her

Mor x Vanserra!Reader (sapphic)

A/N: IMO this is some of my best writing yet. Thank you to the anon who requested some angst with Mor. I’ve been wanting to write some more sapphic stuff, so this was fun 💕  Also thank you to @daycourtofficial for being my sounding board ✨ As you can tell I didn’t go with either title option we discussed 😘

Wordcount: 4.4K

Warnings: Female Reader; Angst; Beron being Beron; Controlling father dynamic; visit to the Court of Nightmares; coming out; canon homophobia + patriarchal bullsh!t.

Reader

Your father was a complex character, to say the least. 

He was every bit the callous ruler that he portrayed to the world, but inside his blackened, hateful heart there was a soft spot. You. His only daughter.

While your brothers were pitted against each other and forced to fight for his approval, you couldn’t do much wrong. 

He was protective of you to a fault. So much so, that you were never allowed to court anyone. No one was good enough for his precious pup. Not that you were very interested in males anyway, having grown up with a litter of brothers. You found males irritating at the best of times, and utterly repulsive at the worst. 

You were closest to Beron’s eldest and youngest sons – Eris and Lucien. They were very protective of you too, but in more of an annoying way. They always had your best interests at heart. 

You were never allowed out of the Forest House unsupervised. Adventuring with your brothers was the only time you got let off your leash. You could run with the hounds, fish in the stream with Lucien or just simply be – relaxing under a tree, reading aloud to Eris. 

You often dreamed of a world where you were free. Free from your father’s strict rule. Free to do as you please. Free to be whoever you wanted to be. 

But alas, this was not a world for the dreamers. 

————

The conflict with Hybern was drawing nearer and your father was summoned to attend a meeting with the six other High Lords of Prythian. 

Your entire family was to attend, to showcase the strength of Beron’s brood.

You enter the meeting room together, sticking close to Eris and trying to seem confident, bored even. You keep your head held high, ignoring your brothers’ sneers beside you. 

“Enough” Eris murmurs, calling all three brothers in line. 

You take in the grand room around you, and the wealth of power convened within. 

You recognise most faces from Under the Mountain but some were new to you, their allegiance given away by the shades of midnight blue and black that they wore - the Night Court. The Court that your father despises the most. The Court you were raised to hate.

The High Lord, Rhysand, sat with a casual grace, his great taloned wings stretched out behind him. Beside him was his High Lady, Feyre - the saviour of Prythian - in a glittering dress that looked like it was made of pure starlight.

They were a beautiful couple, and you wonder how evil the male could truly be if he proclaimed his wife as his equal, something that had never been done in all of Prythian’s history. 

The rulers of the Night Court meet your curious gaze; for a second there is understanding on their faces and you have to remind yourself not to smile. 

You break their stare and your eyes flit over two more winged males and a female who shared the same golden hair and blue-grey eyes as Feyre before they settled on a blonde female. 

To describe her as breathtaking would be an understatement. 

She needed no introduction. Not with the rage upon her face as she watched your family, the pure venom in her eyes.

The Morrigan.

You’d never met the female your eldest brother was formerly betrothed to, and he never spoke about her. 

Morrigan’s fury wanes as she looks at you. For a moment you can see behind the mask she was wearing. You can feel the pain underneath, you can see the love for her family and her Court. Only for a moment before she built that wall back up again, sealing herself within. 

You knew her anger towards your family was justified and you couldn’t help but empathise with that. Like so many women, your mother included, she’d been dealt a losing hand.

You successfully kept your eyes off Morrigan for the remainder of the meeting, remembering the role you had to play – the shy, pretty pawn of the Autumn Court. 

If you failed at this game, the results would be devastating.

————

After the meeting ended so terribly, you were hiding out in Eris’s quarters, avoiding the path of Beron’s temper. The pair of you were curled up in front of the crackling fire with Clove, your favourite hound, asleep in your lap. 

Eris has been quiet since returning from the Dawn Court. His mind was surely racing after the encounter with her. 

You turn towards your brother slowly, breaking the silence, “You never mentioned how beautiful she is. You never speak about her at all.”

Eris knew exactly who you meant. “What’s there to say?” He shrugs, “She’s free from the burden of being with me in this festering court.”

“You think so low of yourself, Eris. Someone will be very fortunate to have you doting on them one day.” 

Eris wraps his arm around you and kisses the top of your head affectionately. “Until then it’s just you and me, bright spark.”

You smile at his nickname for you, one he gave you when you were just a faeling. “Don’t forget Clove!” You exclaim, ruffling the hound’s coat.

————

In the months following the final battle against Hybern, Eris spent a lot of time in the Night Court, working to secure a strong alliance for Autumn. 

Eris was about to head off again, to a ball at the infamous Court of Nightmares. 

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Morrigan. 

You needed to see her again, but she’d never step foot in Autumn. 

You’d have to go to her. 

By the grace of the Cauldron, Beron said yes to you attending the ball with Eris. You were both so stunned by his answer, that you were lost for words. Before dismissing you both, your father had one order for Eris: Do not let her out of your sight.

And so you found yourself in the Night Court, deep inside the Court of Nightmares.

You did your best to bite down on your anxiety as you walked up the dimly lit hallway leading to the ballroom. The intricate carvings of beasts on the walls only add to your feeling of unease. 

You breeze through the large doors, arm-in-arm with your brother. The two of you are the epitome of Autumn. 

Eris wears a suit in a deep burgundy colour, much like the spiced wine you drink to warm your belly on a crisp evening. Your gown of burnt orange swishes around you as you walk, the sequins catching in the faelights, twinkling like the embers of a dwindling fire. 

All eyes turn to you as you walk down the aisle, but you don’t notice them. 

All you see is her, and that golden thread connecting your souls, sealing your fate.

Oh no.

Oh no no no. 

Panic floods your veins as you realise who you’re walking towards. 

Your mate. 

Your brother’s ex-fiancé. Your father’s enemy.

Not her, it can’t be her.

Not here, with so many people watching. 

Your feet slow to a stop halfway to the dais and you turn to Eris. Concern flickers on his face - he can sense something is wrong, he has no idea just how bad it is.

You drop his arm, mouthing ‘I’m sorry’, before disappearing into the air. 

You don’t know where you’re headed or what you will do next. All you know is you need to leave. Now. And get someone safe. 

The thought, somewhere safe, echoes through your mind as you appear in a clearing atop a mountain. 

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, making the sky glow a brilliant shade of orange. The air is cold against your skin, and you rub your hands on your biceps in an attempt to regain some warmth. In moments like these, you are thankful for the fire within your veins. 

You look around, attempting to glean your location. You spot a cabin on the other side of the clearing. As you turn towards it, the front door swings open. An invitation. 

You approach the open door and wonder if there’s a spell on the cabin, tricking you into a false sense of safety to lure you inside to your death. 

You glance around, the only movement you spy is the rustling of leaves in the wind. 

You peek inside and see the small dwelling is well-maintained, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone home. It looks comfortable and homey, with whimsical paintings of vines and flowers framing the door.

Whatever is inside that cabin can’t be worse than the wrath you surely face back in Autumn, so you step over the threshold. 

————

Rhysand

Rhys watches intently as his guests from Autumn walk towards the dais. 

Eris is his usual cocky self, strutting beside his sister. Every bit the High Lord’s heir. Y/N looks like a living fire, glowing as she walks beside her brother. Despite being siblings, there were clear differences between the two fae. Unlike Eris, who Rhys found to be insufferable at times, Y/N had a kind warmth to her. A sweetness that somehow hadn’t been soured by her father over the years. 

She was like the flames that dance in a hearth. The kind of fire used to warm a home or cook a comforting meal that chases away the cold and loneliness. 

Of course, those flames could still burn you if you got too close. 

Y/N stops in the middle of the room. Her eyes not moving from Rhys’s cousin, stood beside his throne. 

‘Something is wrong,’ Feyre says into his mind. 

Rhys quickly throws a glamour over his guests, shielding them and his Inner Circle from the rest of his court. 

Rhys glances at Mor, whose eyes are glued to the flame incarnate before her. 

The expression on Y/N’s face is pure terror as she disappears into a cloud of smoke. 

Eris grabs at the wisps of darkness but it’s too late. Y/N is gone. His eyes are filled with panic as he turns back to Rhys. 

“You Vanserras love to put on a show.” Rhys drawls. “How did she get out past the wards?”

Eris rakes his fingers through his hair, tousling the slicked strands. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know she could winnow.”

Rhys clicks his tongue, “It seems the little fox was hiding some tricks.”

Eris looks Rhys in the eye. “We need to find her,” He says. 

Rhys raises a brow at the Autumn heir. “We?” 

“Beron will kill us all if she’s gone missing. His only order was not to let her out of my sight.” Eris shakes his head in shock.

‘Azriel, go. See if your shadows can find her.’ Rhys orders his spymaster mind-to-mind before the male vanishes into the shadows.

“If she’s still in this court, we’ll find her,” Rhys says calmly, expertly masking his concern that the Jewel of Autumn vanished while in his court. “Let’s go, we can continue this little chat somewhere without an audience.” He rises to his feet, dropping the shield and addressing his court. “I’m afraid I have to leave you to play amongst yourselves. Keir, don’t make too much trouble while I’m gone.” 

Rhys strides out of the ballroom with Feyre by his side. Eris follows behind closely with Cassian and Mor on his tail. 

————

Once out of view, Rhys takes Eris’s hand and winnows him to the Moonstone Palace on top of the mountain. Rhys heads straight to one of the living rooms, opting for somewhere more comfortable to continue the conversation. He silently requests Nuala bring up a tea service as he sits comfortably in one of the plush armchairs. 

Eris slumps down in the chair opposite Rhys, rubbing his temples. His complexion has paled to a colour much like the white stone walls of the palace. Eris’s usual swagger and charm disappeared with his sister. 

“I shouldn’t have agreed to bring her,” Eris sighs, hands ruffling his red hair.

“I’m surprised Beron let her out of the palace,” Rhys admits. As much as he detests the male, he can’t help but feel sorry for him. 

“No one is more surprised than me,” Eris says. “She was the one who asked to come. When Y/N really wants something, not even my father can say no.” Eris smiles softly, as if picturing his sister’s compelling arguments.  

Rhys nods in thanks to Nuala as she sets down a tea service. He starts pouring a cup for Eris as he turns towards him. “What happened then?” Rhys asks. “Y/N looked as if she’d seen a ghost.”

“The bond snapped,” a female voice says from the doorway. 

Both Rhys and Eris’s eyes snap to Mor as she strides across the room and sits across from them on the sofa. 

“What bond? And who with?” Cassian asks from behind her. 

“With me,” Mor says quietly.

Rhys can’t keep the shock from his face. “But you’re…” He trails off, gesturing at Mor’s figure. 

Mor just sighs, “Cousin, I’ve always known that I preferred the company of females. That’s why he, you know.” She risks a glance at Eris who is meticulously masking his real feelings as he sips on his tea.

“Cauldron, I didn’t think I was that bad,” Cassian jokes.  

Mor rolls her eyes and nods her head towards Eris. “He knew. That’s why he didn’t touch me.  That day on the autumn border, Eris gave me my freedom. I let you believe him to be horrible because I wasn’t ready to embrace that part of myself, truthfully I’m still not.” Feyre places her hand on Mor’s arm as she makes her admission. 

“We’d never judge you for that, Mor,” Rhys says sincerely. 

“It’s been instilled in me since I was a faeling, the fear is not something one forgets easily,” Mor shrugs.  

“When did it snap for you?” Eris asks, his face still void of emotion. 

“At the High Lord’s meeting,” Mor responds. “That’s the only reason I came today, hoping to see her again. I know Beron would never let her be with me, but I still had some shred of hope. Clearly, he’s poisoned her view of me…” 

“He hasn’t,” Eris interrupts. “You’re not a frequent topic of conversation, and Y/N never asked about you until after that meeting. She never said, but I suspect it’s why she wanted to come today. In some ways, she’s lucky that she’s been so sheltered. She’s still kind. She saw how all of you acted that day, she saw through the masks. My father’s only weakness is her. Beron is completely blind where Y/N is involved. He will start a war if we don’t find her.” 

“We’ll find her,” Rhys says. “Do you have any idea where she would go?”

Eris rubs his chin as he contemplates. “She doesn't ever go anywhere unsupervised. She loves being in the forest, but there’s no way she could transport herself that far.” 

“I’ve got Azriel searching,” Rhys says. “There’s not much more you can do right now. You can stay here, I’ll show you to your suite.” 

Eris nods, “Thank you, but if you think I will sleep while my baby sister is missing, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Rhys smirks back at the male. “Oh I know, but this way you can sulk in private.”

————

Eris

Eris is pacing in his room when there’s a soft knock on the door. He exhales before opening the door to the blonde female in the hall. Eris folds his arms across his chest and inclines his head, inviting her inside. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell them the truth,” Mor says. “I’ve been lying to myself for so long, I’d convinced myself that part of me didn’t exist.”

“There’s always got to be a villain, I understand why you did it. But thank you for apologising.”

“This bond... It is not going to go well with your father.”

Eris nods, agreeing with her. “We’ll deal with that later. When I’m High Lord, you’ll be welcome in Autumn again, if you ever wish to return.”

“Will you have me over for tea?” Mor scoffs. “I don’t know how this will work with Y/N or if she even wants it. But I’d like to try if she does.” 

Eris straightens defensively. “I’ll support whatever will make her happy,” He says. 

The pair stand in silence for a few moments before Eris smiles sadly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known,” He laughs. “When she was a child, she never wanted me to play as a prince, we both were princesses… As she grew, she never took much interest in courting anyone. If Beron had forbade me or my brothers there would’ve been a riot on his hands. But Y/N was never phased by it. Truthfully, I think she was relieved.” 

Mor returns his smile. “I’m glad she has you. We’ll find her, don’t worry too much.” 

————

Reader

In the cabin, you stare at the eyes on the wall. You would know them anywhere. 

You knew your mate had been here, maybe it was even her cabin. Deep down, your heart knew you’d be safe here. 

You feel so tired, right to your core. You didn’t know you could winnow, your leash had been so tight you never even tried. Mother knows how far you just travelled. 

A steaming cup of tea appears in your hands, the scent of cinnamon and chamomile reminding you of home. Somehow, the cabin knew what would calm you down.

You pull a blanket around your shoulders and sit on the lounge, worn with decades of use, admiring the colourful paintings adorning the walls and every surface. You can tell this place is well-loved, and many happy moments have been spent here. 

Exhaustion nags at you and you fight your drooping lids until you can’t any longer. You slip into the darkness of sleep, wrapped in the blanket, with your mate watching over you. 

————

You’re woken by a cool sensation on your ankle. You look down and see a wisp of shadows wreathing around. It circles a few times before disappearing into the air. 

It’s early in the morning, the first light creeping over the mountains outside. You’re still wearing your ball gown, the fabric creased from your slumber. 

Your head spins as you remember the events of the night before. 

‘How long have I been sleeping? Oh gods, Eris must be going out of his mind…’

A sharp knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. 

You stand slowly, stretching your stiff limbs and go to answer it – for a moment you forget it’s not your house.

One of Rhys’s winged friends stands on the porch. “Y/N, are you okay?” He looks you up and down, taking in your dishevelled hair and wrinkled dress. “You’re not injured? And how did you get inside?”

“I’m okay, I guess. The door opened for me. It felt safe.” 

The male nods, “Eris is worried about you, I’ve just let Rhys know I found you and you’re unharmed.”

“Thank you,” You say. 

“Mor wants to speak to you, is that okay?”

You nod in answer, “Yeah, we probably need to have a chat.”

“She’ll be here soon, can I get you anything?” He offers.

You shake your head, pulling the blanket further around you. 

“Okay, stay inside, she’ll be here soon.” 

————

Eris

Keeping to his word, Eris didn’t sleep at all. He was watching the sunrise breaking over the mountains when he heard a knock at the door. “Come in,” Eris calls out. 

Rhys enters the room. “Azriel found her, she’s safe, Mor has gone to bring her back.” 

Every cell Eris was tensing is released at Rhys’s words. He tries to roll his shoulders but they are stiff after a tense night.  

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Eris asks. “She ran because of the mating bond.”

“Mor wanted to speak to her privately. They are the only ones who understand.”

Eris nods, feeling relieved that his sister has been found. He’ll be able to rest once he lays eyes on her again. “Thank you, for helping,” He says. 

Rhys waves a hand dismissively. “It does work in my favour to return her safely,” Rhys drawls. “But I would do it anyway.” He turns to leave, “You should eat something, it’s been a long night and we have much to discuss now.”

————

Reader

You do your best to freshen up while you wait. You smooth out your hair and change into some fresh clothes summoned by the cabin – a soft v-neck camisole, cropped at the navel and flowing harem pants, more skin than you’ve ever shown outside your bathing room. The matching set is a brilliant shade of forest green that perfectly complements your hair. 

A knock sounds on the door, announcing your mate's arrival. 

“Hello Morrigan,” you say stiffly, unsure where to look or where to put your hands. You settle with holding them clasped at your front to stop their trembling.

“Just Mor if you like, can we talk?” 

You nod and sit across from each other, the air hangs heavily around you.

Mor sighs, breaking the tense silence. “I guess it snapped for you?”

You nod, the words not making it past your lips. 

“This is a cruel twist of fate,” She laughs darkly, leaning forward on her knees.

“Do you not want it?” You ask, trying to hide the hurt in your voice.

“No,” Mor answers quickly. “That’s not what I meant. With my history and our fathers, I don’t see how it could work.”

Why beat around the bush, you suppose? “What happened, with my brother?”

Mor looks at you curiously. “He never told you?”

You shake your head. 

“We were amicable, not quite friends, never lovers. I confided in him about my preference for–” She waves at you. “Female companionship… and that I didn’t want to be someone’s wife. Of course, my father had other plans. I ruined them by… sullying myself, and my father dumped me on the border of your court. I’ll spare you the grizzly details right now, but your brother gave me my freedom. I wasn’t ready to tell people the truth, so I let my friends believe Eris to be a monster. In truth, I was the monster all along.”

You allow her candid words to wash over you. What your brother had done, allowing himself to be the villain when nothing was further from the truth.

You stand, moving to sit closer to Mor.

“I never believed the things Beron said about you,” You admit, looking into Mor’s warm brown eyes. Eyes that are full of hope. 

“I know that I’m sheltered, but I see the way he treats people. Even my brothers, Lucien especially. I do love him as a father, but as a person… he is awful. I long for the day when Eris takes over Autumn, and I can finally be free. Until then, I will dream of a better world.”

A tear falls from the corner of Mor’s eye and you rest a hand on her knee. 

You steady your breathing before continuing, “I’ve never had much interest in males and never allowed myself to consider alternatives. I’d like to try this, if you want to. I know courting in secret will be difficult, but I’m willing to give it a go. I’m ready to start building the world I’ve been dreaming of.”

Tears stream down Mor’s face and she pulls you into a hug. You savour the moment and for the first time, you allow yourself to hope. 

————

“ERIS!” You call out, running towards your brother and jumping into his arms. 

He catches you easily, wrapping his arms around you. “I was so worried, bright spark,” He says softly into your hair. 

“I know. I’m sorry to do that to you. I panicked. I didn’t even mean to winnow, it just happened.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay. But maybe don’t show that trick to anyone else,” Eris puts you down and stands back, taking in your appearance. “It seems this court suits you, Y/N,” He smiles. “Come now,” he extends his arm for you to take, “We’ve got business to discuss with Rhysand. We need to figure out something official so that Father will let you return here with me.” He winks as he walks you to meet with the High Lord.  

————

You’re convinced your brother is a genius. 

He told your father that you and the High Lady got on well and that your presence allowed him and Rhys to get on with business while the females ‘talk about fashion and whatever else they like to discuss.’ 

You had batted your lashes at your father, insisting that the High Lady needed some help with fae etiquette and that she was seeking your help on how to be a proper lady. 

Beron scoffed at the thought of the ‘wild human harlot’ ever being considered a lady, but he couldn’t say no to your wide-doe eyes. Especially not when Eris mentioned that the friendship could give Autumn more sway in political discussions. 

Eris winnowed you both to Rhysand’s Moonstone Palace for your regular ‘meeting’, where Rhys, Feyre and Mor were waiting for you. 

Mor looks ethereal under the starry night sky. Her hair flows like liquid gold in soft waves down her back. Her dress is a deep wine red, paying homage to your home court and hugs her curves perfectly. Your eyes linger on her figure for a few moments before moving back to her face. 

Thank you, Mother.

Rhys steps forward. “Welcome back, we won’t be staying in the Court of Nightmares this time,” He explains. “We thought it was time to show you our true home.” 

Feyre smiles warmly, her eyes twinkle with anticipation. 

Rhys takes Eris’s hand and Mor takes yours, winnowing you into the sky above a sparkling city. 

Wind rushes around you as you free-fall. The stone floor of the balcony getting closer and closer until it hits your feet. You steady yourself, feeling grateful for your fae reflexes. 

Still holding Mor’s hand, she leads you to the balcony's edge. You look out at the city sprawling below you, alive and bustling. The humming sound of life below is like music in your ears.

Mor smiles widely at you. “Welcome to Velaris,” she says. “The Court of Dreams.”

[missmeinyourbones]

SWEET NOTHING

cw: a direct nod to sweet nothing by taylor swift because @ghostbeam put this idea in my head in october and i haven't been able to shake it since >.<

Touya’s begun to realize that the hole long ago singed in his heart has slowly but surely been mended by you.

There’s something familiarly foreign about what he has with you, this selfless love that doesn’t cut corners or bury hatchets. He’s not used to a dynamic where he doesn't have to give any more than he wants to, let alone any more than he physically can. It's a breath of crisp air that swells in the hollowed confines of his blackened lungs.

He finds that the simplest of moments with you are what sticks with him the most.

Today, he idly watches you prance around the tiny kitchen, organizing spices and scrubbing stained dishes. A day filled with nothing that feels like a whole lot of something in his heart. He leans against the counter in a slump, fully content with watching you do nothing more than exist.

Amongst the silence and stolen glances, you finally catch his eye and the look you shoot him magnetically pulls him closer to you.

“Can we play?”

Even without context, he knows exactly what you're referring to by the twinkle in your eye. And though there’s no verbal response, his silence and raised eyebrows answer your question. 

You don’t bother containing your smile at how easily he gives in.

“I spy with my little eye, something…” you gaze around the room before deciding on a secret object, “green.”

The complete opposite of your giddy excitement, Touya unenthusiastically scans his surroundings.

His eyes lock onto the potted English Ivy that sits in the corner of your hallway. “The plant,” he deadpans. 

“Nope,” you childishly beam. 

He continues his guessing streak with every item in sight that slightly resembles an emerald hue. 

“The dishrag.”

“No.”

“The tree in the window.”

“No.”

“Your coat.”

“Nope.”

“Then, fuck if I know,” he huffs a bit obnoxiously.

The tiny tantrum has you turning your attention back to him. A smile breaks out across your face when you see his brows furrowed in slight agitation. Your finger instantly finds his forehead, caressing the wrinkled and stressed skin. 

“Do you give up?” you whisper into the softness of the touch. 

He doesn't say anything out loud, but the way he bites the inside of his cheek says otherwise.

With a hand softly cradling his jaw, you turn his head slightly to the side before pointing towards the front door. “The bowl.”

By the front door lives a tiny little ceramic bowl, washed out olive in color, that sits on a shelf as a home for your keys. Touya doesn't use it, but then again, Touya doesn't use his key. It's tiny, barely seen from the angle you’re at with the way it hides behind a pot of white lilies and in between your discarded wallet. 

When Touya sees the small dish, he disapprovingly tsks at your choice of item.

“Course, how’d I miss that,” sarcasm stings in his response as his jaw rests atop your head. “And that’s fuckin’ teal, not green.”

You tilt your head up to look at him, and his chin slightly falls and bumps against your forehead. 

“Don’t be a sore loser. Your turn.”

It's taken Touya a terribly long time to realize, let alone admit, that he’s not meant for the blood and armor and pain of it all. His core is liquid, like a melted honeycomb. He doesn’t have to be guarded and prickly around something as soft as you. 

His whole life, he's been pushed to his limits. Make more, do more, be more. And now, he’s enough for you. More than enough for you, just the way he is.

And sometimes, he feels the most worthy of it all in silly little moments like this, over a game of I Spy and his lover’s laughter dancing in his ear. 

With an exhale that's meant to be intimidating—but you both know holds nothing but patience—Touya's expression doesn't change as he scans the room for an object for you to seek. 

“Something red.”

He ignores the fire lit in his core when you pout and insist with a whine that he, “Say the whole thing.”

He takes a deep breath. 

“...I spy with my stupid little fucking eye, something red.”

“Red?” you perk up in interest. Almost nothing in your line of sight even resembles a shade of the scarlet warmth. You gaze around the apartment a few times, trying to find an inkling of crimson that could serve as a guess.

“Yup,” Touya smirks triumphantly, knowing he’s selected something foolproof to lead to victory, “red.” 

“The soap?” he hears you ask. His head turns to the sink where a peach-scented hand dispenser sits by the faucet.

“That’s pink, you moron.”

Unphased and determined to find his item, you turn to the garbage can where an orangey-tinted chocolate wrapper peeks out from the corner of the lid. 

“That candy wrapper?”

“You colorblind or something?”

“There's nothing red in here!” you defensively throw your hands up by your sides. 

Touya’s hand finds your waist as it soothingly trickles up and down your sides. 

“Give up?” he returns, leaning against your forehead. 

A frown pulls at your lips when you mumble out a tiny, “Yeah.”

Touya smiles to himself. He brings a calloused thumb to your lower lip and you think it's to make fun of your pout. But it’s not—he gently rubs over a tender spot on the sensitive skin that slightly stings where he brushes against it. 

“Your lip,” he states, before lightly pulling it and crinkling his eyes at the objection that slips from your throat. “S’all chapped.”

With a furrowed brow, you trot over to the nearest mirror as Touya trails behind you. He’s right. The tiny cut sitting on your lower lip is swollen with the slightest amount of dried blood embedded in its cavern. 

“Oh yeah,” you notice in the reflection, “guess I must’ve bit it in my sleep or something.”  

Touya hums behind you. At first, it's a noise of agreement, one that lets you know he’s listening. But as he continues to wrap himself around your frame and sway the two of you back and forth, he finds himself mindlessly humming a tune.

The melody doesn’t sound familiar, as in a song you’ve heard or a rhythm that he’s hummed before. But it feels familiar, like a comfort only he can bring you with the simple vibration of his voice. 

You let him hold you there for a while. It's peaceful, safe, until your perking up in his hold and turning to face him. 

“That's cheating,” you suddenly realize, referring to the silly little game and his choice of red object to seek. You point to your dried lip, “I can’t see that.”

He places a delicate kiss on the cut before cooing, “Don’t be a sore loser.”

[remi-harbinger]

Breaking news: Bingyuan is more toxic than u believe?? (not clickbait) (reaL)

ok so ive been thinking long and hard about their relationship and it doesnt make sense to me its so toxic and idk why theyd be the main pair of svsss that has so much potential for healthy loving ships (re: liuyuan)

Firstly: their relationship as a whole Binghe is notoriously sticky, and because we are sort of reading the novel through shen yuans eyes its an endearing trait. But if you think about it isnt it suffocating? It also shows an innate lack of trust in SY to do his own stuff and come back afterwards because of Binghe’s trust issues (ofc id have trust issues too if someone pushed me off a cliff but still). Binghe needs to work this out because the smothering is so toxic…

Next: love bombing and semi stockholm syndrome? this relationship is so funny to me because its like stockholm but weirder. SY literally lived in fear that LBH would murder him in the future and this causes him to cling to any affection LBH is giving because he’s taking it as reassurance to himself that he’ll live to see another day. Also im going to be honest the way SY treated LBH is sort of love bombing. He acts like a stern shizun at the start of the novel to not be OOC, then suddenly starts treating LBH as the sole star shining in the dark, then throws him off a cliff… It really gives a guy whiplash yk? Especially when you consider that aside from the washer woman, LBH has never been treated with love in his whole life up till this point. Hes been bullied so badly and even his own shizun hates him. He’s a literal child at this point in time, he’ll crave any love given and it is easy to see how this thirst for love could spiral into the more obsessive tendencies.

Now: Binghe and Bingmei I think that as Demons, you could sort of boil both OG!Binghe and Binghe (Bingmei)‘s treatment of SQQ into the base 7 deadly sins. Binghe would be Ira (Wrath/Hatred) and Bingmei would be Greed (Obsession). Their growing years as children under their respective shizuns has shaped their views and their feelings towards said shizuns have been carved deeply into their hearts. You can see how strong these emotions are in both Binghe’s elaborate and drawn out torture of OG!SQQ and Bingmei’s stickiness and overall yandere tendencies towards SY. Judging from the scale of LBH’s hatred towards OG!SQQ and drawing a parallel, current Bingmei’s obsession and greed for SY’s love is off the charts.

So what would happen if SY didnt reciprocate these feelings? If he did something that made Bingmei irrevocably angry? Emotions are wildly changing and never constant, and thus Bingmei’s affections is and will always be a damocles sword above SY’s head. SY may think he loves Bingmei, but he clearly doesn’t trust the constancy of the reciprocated feelings, and he definitely thinks about LBH getting blackened.

LBH and SY’s befuddling relationship dynamics: Now, they started off as master-disciple. This may seem not as important, but in Chinese there’s this saying “teacher for a day, father for a lifetime”. Do you understand what this means now that theyre in a relationship? Its a really weird power dynamic. Not to mention the whole “Demon lord/Person who swallowed said Demon Lord’s blood”. As I mentioned previously, because we are seeing SVSSS out of SY’s perspective, the importance of this is sort of glossed over with a “but its Binghe! Binghe’d never hurt me…”. LBH is able to control the blood to harm on scales unimaginable. He can kill, torture, cause you to be in excruciating pain, etc. LBH forcing his demon blood in SY is equivalent to LBH ripping out SY’s beating heart and holding it in his palm. He can literally crush the heart at any given moment and end SY’s life. Much motivation to convince yourself that you are in love with the one holding your life in his hands, right?

Wrapping this up because idt people will actually even read this: SY and LBH’s relationship may look like love up close, but its really toxic and they clearly lack the trust needed in a relationship. If there isn’t mutual respect and trust, can you even call their relationship love? I personally am of the opinion that it isnt love, especially considering the obsessive tendencies of LBH.

Ofc I have more to say and I hope you guys will discuss with me, but its late now so im keeping this quite short. If you’ve read the entire post marry me and pls still read SVSSS its a gem :)

[harleyquilt]

A Moment's Respite (Touken/Kanetou Fanfic)

Summary: Set around chapter 131 (tg;re), Kaneki worries about his future, knowing his life is on a timer. But when Touka comes to his side, all he can think about is the love he feels for her...

Words: 3,056~

Notes: It's Toukenversary! So I decided to write something a lil angsty, a lil fluffy, and jussst a touch....smutty, and all centered around one of my favourite chapters in the series! Please enjoy~~

Warning: Explicit smut, 18+, dom/sub dynamics

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

The sound of running water echoes against the dilapidated walls of the underground building. Droplets fall onto the ground around Kaneki's feet, it's cold touch rolling down his neck and creeping underneath his shirt. Goosebumps rise on his arms and he suppresses the urge to shudder. Brushing back his damp hair, Kaneki stares at his pallid reflection, the bags underneath his eyes all the more darker against the sharp contrast of fluorescent light. There are dark stains on his cheeks, and rubbing his hands under the faucet, he wipes away the dark tears forming in his eyes. 

You're ageing, at a frightening speed.

Nishiki’s words come to mind, Kaneki grimacing at the thought. He twists the faucet off and takes a towel to wipe off any remaining traces of the tears, before tossing it to one side. 

Gripping the sides of the sink, he bows his head, his shoulders hunched. The familiar pressure of Death's glare weighs on him heavily, its chilling breath against the back of his neck. There is no telling how much time he has left if he is to continue, but there are no obvious solutions that come to mind. Must he shackle himself to Death once more to preserve the lives of those he loves? It would be easy to say that this is a sacrifice he is willing to make, but looking back at his reflection – his eyes now a pinkish hue and his cheeks notably gaunt – he knows better than to indulge such shallow ideals. No, he would take responsibility, just as he had decided when he first struck down the Reaper.

Even then, his time is running short to make a decision. Swallowing, he can still recall the taste of ghoul flesh on his tongue. More foul and rancid than the likes of human food, like rotting meat clogging his throat. Back then, he forcibly pushed the meat down his throat, savouring the power it brought him, in hopes that it would be enough to distract him from the temptation to throw up. Clenching his hands, the cold ceramic against his fingers, he continues to toss around the few options Nishiki offered. 

Hands wrap around him from behind, Touka's body pressed against his back as she holds him in an embrace. He's surprised at first, but seeing that it is only her, he relaxes, placing a hand over hers. It's pressed over his heart, now slowed to a steady rhythm. 

“Are you okay?” She asks, giving him a squeeze. 

“Mm,” Kaneki nods, shutting his eyes. Her skin is remarkably warm. “You just surprised me.” 

“Did you not hear me walking towards you?” 

Kaneki opens his eyes, staring into the dull, grey colour of his irises. “I guess I was preoccupied with my own thoughts.” 

Touka doesn't respond and she instead steps back, gently turning Kaneki around and meeting his eyes. He worries for a moment if there are any more blackened tears gathering in his eyes, but the worry escapes him when he sees Touka smile softly, her hands running down his arms before she takes hold of his hands. A smile creeps onto his lips, his hands squeezing hers, and he brings them up to his lips, where he plants a chaste kiss on each finger. 

“You're really important to me,” he murmurs, eyes half closed. “I hope you know that. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She lowers her head, trying to hide her growing smile. “I know that, silly.” She then turns away from him and pulls him along behind her, their fingers laced together. “Come on, let's get some rest.” 

He follows her, his eyes taking in her figure. He had once watched her in a panic, always seeing her run ahead and straight into danger. And seeing her back now, he can still sense that fear now, bubbling at the back of his mind. But she's strong, stronger than he could ever be, he thinks, and he had to have faith that she'll be fine by his side. If not…well, he is determined to make sure she is. To think otherwise is a thought too grave for him to even try to comprehend.

Reaching the bedroom, he tugs on her arm and pulls her back towards him, wrapping his arms around her. She lets out a small yelp and before she can say anything more, Kaneki silences her with a long, firm kiss. Moving her hands to his shoulders, she pulls back, an exhilarating jolt in her heart. 

“Restless, are you?” She smirks, watching Kaneki's blush deepen. “Why? Do you want to…” She lets her words trail off into a suggestive silence, a familiar, playful glint in her watching eyes.

Kaneki's eyes dart away. “That wasn't– I mean, I don't mean no, it's just that–” 

“Hm?” One of her hands moves around to the back of his neck, her fingers tangled in his white locks. He enjoys the sensation of her nails against his skin. “What do you want, Ken?”

She rarely calls him Ken. When she calls him Kaneki, there is a sense of familiarity, of belonging, that he craves, and it is soothing to hear her say that name. A sound that will always remind him of home. But when she calls him Ken, he finds himself growing increasingly flustered, the sudden intimacy almost too much to handle. It speaks to something deep inside him, a side he hadn’t really known until he reunited with Touka again. A desire to belong to her and her alone, just as she belongs to him. 

And with that thought, he kisses her again, pushing his tongue between her lips. She accepts it eagerly, his tongue massaging hers, and as Kaneki’s hands move slowly down her body, she lets out a quiet moan. She tightens her grip in his hair, tugging it back gently. Tilting his head back, their lips part, their breathing heavy and their cheeks warm. Touka keeps her tight hold, playfully pulling his head further back and latching her lips onto his craned neck. 

“Ah!” Kaneki winces, gripping her waist. He moves his hands underneath her shirt, reaching her soft, warm skin, while she continues to lightly bite his neck. “Y-You’re going to leave marks again.” He murmurs, tilting his head back further.

“Good.” She bites down, hard, drawing some blood. Kaneki yelps, but only tightens his grip on her waist, pulling her body against his. They can both feel him harden and Touka smirks, a wave of satisfaction and pride passing through her.

The bite leaves behind a sharpness that fades into a pleasant, tingling sensation, and Kaneki shivers as the pain quickly melts into pleasure. She laps up the blood with her tongue, the delicious taste coating her mouth. Her other hand slides down his chest, running over his hardened muscles and over his taut stomach. Kaneki swallows, his breathing quickening. Once Touka loosens her grip, her fingers brushing through his hair, Kaneki moves his head back down and their eyes meet. They smile, enjoying each other’s unspoken affection. 

“I like making you moan.” Touka confesses, moving her hands back up his body and cupping his cheek. “It’s cute.”

Kaneki looks away, bashful. “Touka-chan…” 

She leans up, kissing him, but softer this time. Delicate. They continue to move their lips against one another, their ears filled with the sounds of their racing hearts. Breaking away, Kaneki reaches down and lifts Touka, wrapping her legs around his waist. She gasps, holding onto his shoulders, and before she can protest, he silences her with more kisses, now quick and fervent. As if trying to steal as many as possible. 

He moves her to the nearest wall, pressing her body against it. The surface is cold and rough, but Touka’s body feels far too hot for her to care. Holding onto Kaneki’s face, he continues to trap her lips with his, his movements almost desperate – much like their first night together, Touka thinks. He moves one hand to her breast, squeezing it over her shirt and bra. She moans against his lips, breathing in sharply, and pleased with her reaction, he grinds his crotch against hers. 

“K-Kaneki…” Touka breathes between kisses, his lips moving deftly across her jawline and latching onto her ear, teasing it gently between his teeth. His hand, meanwhile, continues to massage her breast. Her moans, that she tries, (and fails), to suppress, only spur him on, and in a smooth motion, he lifts her shirt over her chest. The cold air touches her skin, Kaneki’s lips hot as he trails kisses over each mound, sucking her skin and breathing in her delectable scent. 

A finger hooks into the lace hem of her bra and he tugs it down, releasing her breasts. He takes a stiff nipple into his mouth, Touka’s head arching further back and her moans suddenly loud and needy. She pushes her chest towards him, quietly urging him on, and in turn, he begins to circle his tongue around her nipple, teasing the other between his fingers. Her thighs begin to shake and he smirks, pushing his crotch hard against her. 

“You’re mine.” Kaneki whispers, his lips moving against her skin. 

Touka nods, breathless. “Yes, I’m yours.” And with a shaky smile she adds, “My king.” 

Kaneki lets out a moan, his cock twitching when hearing Touka address him in such a manner. His eyes dart up to hers, a dark shadow passing over his face. She’s enticed something primal within him, eagerly encouraging him to indulge his desires. Pinching her nipple, he leans up and catches her lips between his, biting down softly on her bottom lip. She groans, reaching down to unbutton her shorts. She’s reaching her limit, just as Kaneki is reaching his.

Letting her down, he pulls her shorts and tights down to her ankles, his hands smoothing over her skin. Gripping her waist with one hand, he moves the other between her cunt – now incredibly wet and slick. Pushing his tongue into her mouth, he feels the vibrations of her moans against his lips. He then begins to rub between her folds, slowly, teasing her entrance with a finger before moving back up and lightly petting her clit. Her body flinches with each deliberate gesture, her thighs pressing together, and her jaw going slack. Kaneki leans back, watching her with satisfaction as her eyes widen when he pushes a finger deep inside her. Her eyes-half open, she struggles to form words, his finger moving in and out of her with a painful slowness. She clearly wants more, but judging by her expression, Kaneki wonders if she feels too proud to beg. It only spurs his torturous movements more. He wants to test her limits further, rubbing the back of his palm against her flushed cheek. 

“What do you want, Touka-chan?” He asks, watching her wince when he shoves his finger back inside her. “Tell me.” 

She presses her quivering lips together, swallowing, and squeezes her eyes shut. “I…”

His other hand moves under her chin, and pinching it between his finger and thumb, he tilts her head up, his face inches away from hers. Pulling his finger out from inside her, her wetness dripping down and coating his hand, he positions a second along with the first, teasingly massaging her entrance. She lets out a long, helpless whine, gripping his shirt. Clinging to it. 

“Say it.” He orders. “What do you want me to do?” 

“P-Please,” she gasps, speaking through a moan. “Please, I want to–.” She cries out as Kaneki slams the two fingers into her, her body quaking in response. She’s so close now, and yet…

“Louder.” He slowly pulls the fingers out, promising her more pleasure if she submits. 

“Make me cum, my king!” She yells, almost screaming. Her fingers are digging into his skin, her legs shaking. 

“Good.” He breathes, pushing his fingers deep inside her and hooking them, stimulating her most sensitive spot. She whines, biting her lip, and he quickens his pace, soon bringing her to an intense, overwhelming climax.

“I-I’m–” Her words fail her as her orgasm seizes her whole, wave after wave of pleasurable euphoria washing over her. Kaneki continues to finger her, his pace quick and his reach deep. He kisses her, helping her ride out her orgasm. Moving his hand away and parting from her lips, he shoves his coated fingers into her mouth, feeling her tongue lazily lap up her juices. 

“Good girl.” Kaneki says, unbuckling his belt. “Now–” 

Touka sighs, resting her head against his shoulder. But before he can continue, she grabs his collar, pulling him down and pressing her lips against his. He can taste her on her lips, his cock aching at the thought. Touka pulls back, smiling, and kicking away her shorts and tights, she pulls him towards the nearby bed. 

“You’ve had your fun.” She says, looking over her shoulder. “Now it’s my turn.” 

She pulls him around her and pushes him onto the bed, straddling him. Kaneki, looking up at her, takes hold of her hips, waiting gleefully for Touka to take charge. Leaning back, she pulls off his belt and unzips his trousers, all the while rubbing his aching cock through the fabric. Pulling his cock free, she can see the tip leaking with precum, and rubbing the tip, she watches Kaneki’s eyes flutter shut as he’s quickly overcome with pleasure. 

“So hard.” Touka remarks, whispering into his ear. “Does this feel good, hm?”

He nods weakly and grinning, Touka lowers herself onto his lap, his cock between her folds. She slowly moves forward, spreading her wet juices over his hard member. She shivers, eager to feel him inside her. But seeing Kaneki’s crumbling composure, she instead moves her hands slowly up his body, pushing his shirt up. Without a word, he removes his shirt, and leans back, waiting for Touka to continue. 

“You look so cute like this.” Touka comments, lightly running her nails over his stomach. He swings his head back, letting out an embarrassingly loud moan. She moves her hands further up, continuing her slow hip thrusts. His cock twitches impatiently against her. “I like seeing you desperate. Pathetic, even.” 

He shivers, feeling her gaze cut right through him – putting him in his place. He was her king mere minutes ago, but now, he’s been seamlessly reduced to her plaything. Her ability to take away that power was exhilarating and he willingly surrendered to her wants. He could cum, just thinking about it. He only ever wanted Touka to see him in this state – it is what made it so pleasurable. And as he struggles to hold himself back from cumming in that instance, Touka brushes her fingers over his nipples, making his whole body react in turn. Humiliating pleasure shoots through him while she continues to tease his nipples, grinding harder against his cock. 

“Touka-chan, I’m going to– at this rate, I’ll–”

“Shh.” She pushes him down until he’s lying flat against the bed, and leaning up, she reaches down and grabs his cock, pumping it a few times until it's completely slick. “I’m going to put it in now.”

She positions it at her entrance, biting her lip as she sinks down slowly. His cock fills her whole, and both Touka and Kaneki moan loudly once she reaches the base of his cock. She takes a moment to savour the sensation, her walls being stretched open and his tip reaching deep inside her. Kaneki continues to hold onto her hips, desperately trying hard not to fuck her with all of his might. He would not have to wait long, though, before Touka begins to move up and down his shaft, her heavy tits jiggling with each bounce. He holds onto one, squeezing it hard enough to bruise the skin. Touka hisses through her teeth, enjoying the pain, and her pace quickens, pressing her hands down against his stomach. 

“Touka-chan…” He whines, breathing rapidly. “Touka-chan, Touka-chan!” 

“Cum for me, Ken.” Touka groans, keeping her eyes on his. Hearing him call her name in such a way sends butterflies in her stomach, her cunt clenching around his cock. “Cum inside me.”

His jaw clenched, he begins to thrust his hips up, their bodies slapping together as they quickly reach their climax. They both cry out, Touka’s pussy quaking and Kaneki’s hot cum spilling deep inside her. He thrusts into her one final time and Touka falls forward, lying on his chest. 

Wrapping his arms around her, they take a moment to catch their breath, feeling the cum spill out from inside her and down his crotch. He kisses her head, shutting his eyes, and moves her damp hair away from her face. She turns to look at him, her cheeks flushed, and they take a moment to watch one another. Quiet. Content. 

“I love you.” Kaneki says, his voice quiet and soft. “I love you, Touka-chan.” 

She reaches up and pinches his cheek, smiling. “I love you, too, silly.” 

Slowly, Touka pushes herself up and gently pulls Kaneki’s now-soft cock out from inside her. She moves to his side, their limbs tangled together while they continue to embrace, exchanging lazy, long kisses in between soft-spoken words. 

As they drift slowly towards a deep sleep, Kaneki wonders how he is so fortunate to have Touka in his life. Despite everything that has happened, that he has gone through, as well as all those he has hurt in turn, he has still found comfort in the arms of the woman he loves. And she accepted him, even while knowing everything about him and his past, and for that, he would be eternally grateful. He rubs his hands over her back, feeling her breathing slow, and he kisses her shoulder, her warmth sinking into him. 

He decides, then, that he will do whatever is necessary to live as long a life as possible, as long as it means staying by this woman’s side. But before then, as sleep creeps over the two of them, he wonders if there are any special rituals when it comes to marriage between ghouls. It is the first commitment he wants to make, he decides, his eyes falling shut – the first commitment to many, in the life he wants to spend with Touka as his partner. 

[archduke42]

OK, I've had time to really reflect with this trailer

I still have some mixed feelings. Part of me hoped they would not bring Barriss back because maybe it was time to move on. After 11 years, I felt like I was just being suckered by red herrings. It's a little exhausting when opportunities happen and everyone speculates but it becomes a false alarm. Plus I used to be rather arrogant over the thought of Barriss being an Inquisitor. Used to irritate me a lot that fans even wanted that to happen. "How can anyone want this?" I used to ask myself. But I'm old fashioned, from a time when good guys were good, bad guys were bad, and Hero(ine) blows up the super weapon. All this character ambiguity people embraced for their Star Wars was a bit alien to me. It was enough that she was supposed to die in Order 66, but this was almost too much. The backlash against "The Wrong Jedi" was a tidal wave at the time, and lots of fans (myself included) cried hard at Filoni and Lucas' casual retcon.

But then, I'd been writing hero journey stories for Barriss since 2005 or 2006 and the whole villain plot twist was infuriating. And there was so much hate for Barriss on the internet at the time. I cursed Filoni's name with an old man's fiery blackened heart. My Muse had become the most hated character in Star Wars, and I had become a hot mess for several years after so much heavy emotional investment. I wanted to channel all my energy into Barriss stories (and eventually Barrissoka stories, since they were such a perfect couple) I also commissioned some shipping/wedding/marriage art to maybe push back against people's notions of a revenge fight between Ahsoka and Barriss. I have been blessed with discovering a huge Barriss Offee/Barrissoka fan community out here, and I think we have all built so positive energy in our love for these characters. Being a writer and reading the works of so many others has helped me grow with the community and learn so much. I am grateful to the art of people like @grissaecrim, and stories by people like @jedimasterbailey and @stellanslashgeode (and so many others) I can be excited that Barriss is officially coming back! The wait is over, and my anxiety returns. but I also have had a long period of time in 11 years to accept these new dynamics for Barriss. I am ready to accept whatever Destiny is in store for Barriss, though I suspect Filoni will be giving her a journey of sorts and not just leading these episodes towards a villain death for her. I suspect this journey may even go to live streaming with Ahsoka involved but time will tell. I still loath the concept of challenging expectations, but I realize that Star Wars characters have to grow out of two dimensional designs. Heroes don't need to be sparkling perfect and Villains can have a moral compass of sorts. I just wish Lucasfilm would stick to a consistent history with all this. I'm certain Filoni will have more retcons to drop on us. It's his style. But in fairness, the trailer was exciting, the animation looked really good. And I enjoyed seeing other minor characters involved, like 4th Sister, Grand Inquisitor, etc. I look forward to the exciting battles with Elsbeth and Grievous, etc. Most importantly with this trailer comes the enthusiasm to see Barriss return. Much of the hate is gone, and the Star Wars community in places like Youtube, Tumblr, etc is blowing up with excitement for this. The majority fans are ready for her adventure to continue with open minds. I think that gives me more joy than anything, that fans actually want to see her again, and want her to win at this in the best way possible even though she is starting from a dark place. I'm ready to see how this goes. This could be one of the best Star Wars experiences of 2024.

[darlingpwease]

CHU WANNING, who perhaps becomes too absorbed in you even when you first meet; your face is not much bigger than his palm, but your eyes shine like milky stars on the night veil while you look at him with absolute adoration, as if there is no one beside you and him, as if there is no one but "you", a little burning the sun, and him, is nothing more than a moth that you have chosen as your favorite, and his fingers are trembling with a painful desire to touch you and make sure that you are real.

and so your dynamics go.

you are rather a little sun that constantly circles around him, but over time he gets used to it — when you capture space, when you capture heart, when he tries to treat disciples the same, but the way he implicitly favors you is almost "shameless". he's not emotional — he's not used to being emotional, doesn't like to be emotional, a world of muted and cold tones — but you're so dazzling that he doesn't know why he lets you circle around him and try to get under his skin without realizing how thin it is. he is not worthy of you — definitely not worthy, especially when your mere presence again becomes enough to make him feel good, calm, like at home, and everyone around notices how you influence him, like the only person the cat loves.

when one of his versions comes back just to make sure that the CHU WANNING of the past does not let you go, he is already burned by his mistakes, you really try to bring the plot back to normal, not understanding why an innocent and beneficent character has sharply blackened, wanting to kidnap you and keep you only with himself, ignoring all events if you sell at least a hint of an attempt to pull away.

you're just an emotional crutch! it is just support for the characters? you didn't even change the plot much, did you?? can anyone do anything about it???

[magnoliabutters]

• THE DEVIL OF HELLFIRE •

pairing: kas!vamp eddie munson x (she/her) reader

warnings: 18+ content, mdni, adult language; violence, blood (he be vampin'), mentioned; hostage & kidnapper dynamics, internal dialogue/processing, etc.

word count: ~3.3k

support your writer: reblogs for vamp daddy kas 😈✨

stories of eddie munson series •  season two • 

note: inspired by @steveshairychest & this post, fantastic ideas y'all, check 'em out; it's a rather short part for this series, but i think we can take our time with it ♥️ we finally get to meet kas, i hope you like him...

Lightheaded. That’s the last thing you’ll ever feel as you collapse into your killer’s arms. Familiar arms, but you're not sure why. You hear sucking against your skin. You smell nothing, not a single thing to identify this entity. You feel your blood trickling down your collarbone and chest. It’s a lot - a lot of blood.

A rush of energy pulls you out of this darkening vision. Your eyes blink open, widely, as you take in the scene before you. With a quick decision, you dig your elbow deep within the gut of your killer. Their arms let go of you as a loud grunt escapes their lips. You run like a bat out of hell. You run as fast as you can, desperate to get out of this new version of Hawkins. Back to the school.

You feel the adrenaline bursting through your body as you run, faster than you ever have, to the border of this hellish place. Your breath is heavy and rapid. You feel like you're running low on oxygen. There's not enough in the air. The streets are dark. Those eery blackened veins are covering the road signs. Your home town is now unrecognizable.

At a crossroads, you decide to run left - hoping that may take you to safety. You continue running as fast as you can. A part of you is shocked that you've maintained your speed. That's when you hear it. A rustling of leaves. Your heart drops and you turn to your right, praying to see a rabbit or a deer as its cause. Unfortunately, there is nothing. Nothing but pitch black darkness. All you see is the cloudy breath in front of you. Your hair begins to stand on its ends. Your heart begins to beat faster, so fast that you can hear and feel it. You are terrified.

“What was that for?” a voice appears behind you. It sounds ... It sounds like... You turn around. Your eyes are huge saucers as your brows pull together in a mixture of excitement and sadness. His name escapes your lips softly, "Eddie?" You take in a sharp breath. A pale shell of a man stands before you. A smile across his face with blood falling from his lips. You note sharpened teeth hiding behind his grin. A huge blood soaked stain on his shirt making what was bleach white now deeply crimson. His - no, a black and white bandana across his forehead. Curls puffing out beneath its tie.

Your gut screams that the individual before you is a stranger, an absolute stranger. Yet, he has the face of an angel - your angel.

The man before you looks at you with amusement and a slight twitch to his eye. “Wrong answer, try again,” he laughs. Your eyes rake his face, his hair, his body. Physically, there is nothing different. No way to discern what part was the love of your life and what part is your apparent killer. His paleness and sharpened teeth continue to pull you out the rumination. His fair skin honestly brought out his chocolate eyes even more. But this - this thing in front of you? This is not yours.

“Who are you?” you ask with a shaken tone as you shuffle a few steps back. He follows you with excitement. His eyes watching you as though you are prey. His neck extends as his shoulders come to his ears. “See, I thought we were guessing,” he shrugs with a smile. “Where were you going?” he asks innocently with a slight tilt to his head. “I’m leaving,” you say weakly. Your lips involuntarily quivering in fear.

The man walks up to you. His face floating beside your neck. You feel those familiar curls brush against your shoulder. It's so confusing. “And who said you could do that?” he whispers as he brushes your hair back once more. He eyes the side of your neck that isn’t already gushing blood. You place your hand against his chest. You attempt to push him off but it required so much effort. Eventually, he let you push him off of you.

He swiftly moves in front of you, blocking your way. “I want to go home,” you whisper, holding back your tears. He sucks his tongue against his front teeth. “Honey, you don’t have a home,” he says with laughter. “Wanna know why?” His body moves closer to yours, smooth like a snake about to pounce. “Because you’re dead,” he whispers into your ear. He tongues those ivory fangs before licking your sensitive skin.

“Just!” you yell, as you feel his hot breath against your skin. “Just tell me what you want and-and then I get-get to leave - alive,” you mutter sternly. Your gaze still at this chest, not wanting to look into those chocolate eyes. “What I want is swimming inside your body,” he says as he circles his finger in your face. “There’s nothing else you can offer that would beat that-" He interrupts himself to think. A smile sprawling across his lips is now something that causes you fear. "Not unless..." he trails off playfully.

“Not unless what?” you ask with fear stuck in your throat. “You can suck me off,” he whispers as he bites his lip. You pull away from him in shock as he bursts into maniacal laughter. “Just kidding,” he scoffs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” He begins to walk around you. His eyes rake you up and down as a beaming smile grows upon his face. “I need Henderson,” he mutters. “If you bring me the boy, I’ll let you live - easy as that.” He shrugs as he walks around you once more.

“W-what are you going to do with him?” you hesitantly question. The man laughs as he clicks his tongue. “Hm, no questions from the audience.” He leans in once more. His cold finger trails your cheek bones down to your jaw. “Yes or no?” he asks. You are disgusted. You take a step back as you feel bitterness in your mouth. “No, I’m not bringing him here for you to kill him!” you yell as you place more space between you two.

He rolls his eyes with a smile on his face. “Is his life more important than yours?” he asks with a growing smirk. You remain silent, unsure of your answer. He steps closer to you once again. You step back only to back into a nearby tree. His hands float to your waist and pull you closer against his groin. You shake in his embrace, unclear if this will be your last. “He’s not worth your life,” he whispers as he leans closer to your mouth.

Your eyes remain on his, fearful for your life. “I’ll let you live,” he says nonchalantly. His mouth draws closer to yours. “But you’ll be staying with me for a while,” he whispers with a grin. “What’s your name?” he genuinely asks. You take in a shaky breath as tears well in your eyes. Confusion written all over your face. He doesn't know who you are?“Y/n,” you whisper. “Beautiful name,” he says as he licks his bottom lip. His eyes now fall upon yours. Slowly, he leans in and presses his cool mouth against you. This is the first time you were able to recognize Eddie within this interaction. You feel him, deep inside this hardened shell of a being.

As the man pulls back, his eyes slowly opening, his thumb rubs against your hip bone. “I’m Kas,” he smiles. “And boy, are you pretty.” You watch in horror as your sweet boy has somehow become a monster in a span of days. “Kas?” you repeat. “It sounds better coming from your mouth, darlin’,” he laughs. You watch him in absolute shock. You tremble in his proximity. Your mind is working hard to comprehend that someone who looks like your Eddie is not your Eddie.

“Follow me,” he whispers as his finger curls back to him. A smile pours over his face. You barely move your head left to right, but you can feel yourself shaking - wanting to say no. He walks forward and then turns back suddenly. You jump from your stance. You note that any movement he makes is no longer comforting. “Wait, I haven’t met you before, right?” he laughs lightly. “W-what?” you say as you release a breath. “Have we met?” he asks again as he swings his finger between you. He slyly steps forward and pushes your chin up with that same finger.

You wince at his touch. Another thing that pains you. You should never feel your skin crawl when Eddie touches you. This isn’t Eddie, you remind yourself. “I have never met you,” you whisper as you pull your chin from him. His soft face grows into another smile. “Good!” he smiles as he reaches for her hand. “If you did, I would've had to kill you," he responds nonchalantly as he walks off, pulling at his grip. "Now, come on." You're frozen still, but he continues to drag you to whether he intends. He has excitement in his eyes. A goofy laugh falls from his lips as he pulls you off the road and into the woods.

You rush behind him. Your feet have a hard time catching up. You watch as your town has completely changed into something so deranged and scary. Those small, thin black roots that you saw coming in are now huge, at least a good foot tall. The air is muggier, colder. He jumps over a huge thick vein acting as a dam for, what used to be, a strong river. “Careful with those,” he says as he points back. You nod and carefully step over it. It’s texture looks wet and disgusting.

“Vecna doesn’t like when they get stepped on,” Kas mentions as he gently supports your elbow as you cross. You still shudder at his touch, but your face shoots towards him as soon as “Vecna” left his lips. Vecna was an evil villain in Eddie’s campaign. Why was he talking about that now? “It’s just a little further,” he says with a smile. His energy is ecstatic and vibrant. He resembles an excited child, just like Eddie did.

With another few scrambling steps, he climbs up a rope ladder that swings against a tree. You follow it to see a rather large tree house in the middle of the woods. You take a look around and realize that you have absolutely no idea where you are. There are no clear signs that can point you home. “Come on!” he yells in excitement. Your body starts to panic. The oxygen is escaping your lungs once again.

A ticklish sensation on your outer wrist pulls your attention. You turn to note the heavy blood streaming down your right arm. “Kas,” you mumble as you watch the blood actively trickling onto your collar bone. He jumps into the wooden tree house above you. He peers down the opening. You look up to see his sweet face. In this lighting, in this direction, he looks like your Eddie. Why can't he be your Eddie?

"What's wrong?" he asks, absolutely clueless. “I-I can’t climb,” you whine as your shoulder crashes against the trunk. That lightheaded feeling returning as your legs begin to feel wobbly. Kas jumps down immediately, not at all phased by the distance of the fall. “Hey sweetness,” he says as his hands hold each side of your shoulders. He prompts you up against the trunk, enjoying his work. With a smile, he then takes a finger and pricks it with his right fang. He lightly taps it against the two holes dug deep within your skin.

Within seconds, you feel undeniably better. You roll out your shoulder in shock. “Hurry up, slow poke,” says as he jumps onto the rope again. You laugh, partly because you've just witnessed a miracle but also out of complete shock. You reach for the rope. It feels rough and textured against your hand. It's thickened bristles poke you. You giggle again. Why does this rope feel so funky? You grip against it harder, feeling all those bristles dig against your palm. Suddenly, you lose your grip. Suddenly, you lose everything as you fall onto your back in the cold dirt. You feel slime against your hand. You attempt to hold your head up but it's incredibly heavy. You manage to look over to see that you feel atop a few of those disgusting veins before your eyes roll back and you drift off into a mind-numbing sleep.

Your eyelashes flutter. Your head aches and burns. A gentle hand pushes your hair back. “Didn’t expect you to make it,” he coos. You open your eyes to see a smile spread across his lips. Those two pointed teeth flash behind his thick upper lip. “Welcome back to the living, darlin',” he whispers with a light laugh. You push your brows together, wincing from a pretty powerful headache. “Eddie?” you ask, still unsure if the last 24 hours was a nightmare or reality.

His tilts his head. His right eye squinting as he watches your confusion. “It’s Kas,” he says sternly. “Do not call me that again.” He stands, cursing under his breath as he walks into the other room. You gasp. It’s slowly starting to sink in. This is the new reality. You’re in Hell Hawkins and the man you love is gone. Gone, just like they said.

You hesitantly pull yourself up without issue. Your hand floats to your neck. It doesn't feel any bumps, pain, scabs, or bruising. Your neck is fine. How is it fine? With barely opened eyes, you turn to see red devils everywhere. You immediately recognize the devil of Hellfire club, despite its many alterations, painted over the wood paneled walls. It’s horns harsh and more curved. It’s ears like yellow bat wings. They are larger than normal and expand over at least one full wall. The fangs now bloodied across its bleached teeth.

Kas comes back into view as he crouches in the corner of the room. His eyes rest upon you in excitement as his hands smoosh the sides of his cheeks. “What happened?" you ask with a coarse voice. He giggles with glee. “I’ve never shared my blood before,” he states. “It was an experiment and look! You lived!” He claps his hands together proudly as his smile grows larger. "Good thing you were asleep the last couple days 'cause you fell on a few of those vines I was telling you about," he whispers as he grabs hold of a stool nearby. He sits on it before you. "Vecna would have killed you on the spot if you didn't already look dead."

Your brows pull together as you attempt to wrangle your control of this headache. You recognize that you are laying on a couch. You look down to see that your bloodied clothes are gone and you are now in one of Eddie's grey sweatpants and hellfire shirts. "A few days?" you ask as you place your hand to your temple. You apply pressure to aid the pain. Your mind races. Who is taking care of Pete? Is he okay? Does he think you abandoned him? "Yeah, it's honestly probably been closer to a week now. But who's counting?" he laughs as he shrugs.

You shake your head as you weakly push yourself up off your side. "Where did you get these clothes?" you ask as you try to catch your breath. "I found 'em in this old trailer," he shares. "Man, do you usually ask so many questions?" You look at him in confusion and disgust. "Yeah, when I find out I've been unconscious for a few days, I usually ask a few questions," you spit out sarcastically. "How did I get in them?" you ask sternly. Fear collapses your heart as you await the answer.

"I helped you out," Kas mumbles, pouting as he crosses his arms over his chest. "You undressed me," you restate with disappointment. "What?" he scoffs. "Was I supposed to leave you in all that blood? You would've started to stink." Your skin starts to crawl. "What are we doing here, K-Kas?" you ask, but the name was difficult to push out. "I was thinking we have a bit of fun," he says with excitement. You let out a shaking breath as your fingers dig into the couch's cushion. "What kind of fun?" you ask with a monotone.

He sighs and stands from the stool. His fast movement scares you. "God, I thought we could just have fun in town and get to know each other," he whines. "I thought - Ugh, I just - You're pretty, okay?" By the end of the sentence his voice had become more genuine, sincere. "I have seen a lot of ugly things in the past few days," he starts with a serious tone. "You're the first beautiful thing I've seen since." You watch him in horror as neurons fire off repeatedly in your head, attempting to make sense of the scene before you.

You rest your chin against your palm as your fingers grab hold of your cheeks and mouth. You quickly switch to bite your nail as you watch him in a panic. "W-What happened to you?" you ask hesitantly as all your muscles tighten in worry. He watches you with thoughtful eyes, until they drop to the floor. Then those eyes become saddened, horrific. "I woke up, just a few days ago, in front of that trailer I was talking about. I don't really know what happened, but I know that I was alone," he mutters. "I had a lot of blood on my shirt. Got left with some pretty gnarly scars, already healed right up."

With deep breaths, you try your best to keep from crying. What had happened to Eddie where he sustained an injury so horrible like that? And then he miraculously healed? Just like you. Kas shakes his head as he leans against the wall. "Then this burnt ass naked dude showed up," he continues. He looks off to the side as though he was brought back to that very scene. "He walked up to me and said that my name was Kas. That I was his 'puppet.' That I died alone," he whispers. His brow furrow. You watch in horror as he recollects the memory. "That my friends left me to rot," he ends with anger. He pushes himself off the stool and into your face. "That is why I need to find Henderson. I remember when he left him - me behind," he shakes his head in confusion.

Your horror undeniably becomes rage as you place a gentle hand upon his cheek. "They left you?" you ask with tears in your eyes. They start to spool over your waterline and down your cheek. Kas watches you in bewilderment. He doesn't understand why you are crying. Why he can hear your heart beat increasing in speed. He slowly nods, curious as to what your reaction will be.

Your mind spins out of control. Is this why Dustin wouldn't tell you where Eddie was? Is this why they so confidently said that he was dead? Because they left him behind? A person so gentle and sweet, left behind like trash while they all get to live their beautiful, normal lives? No. You've lost Eddie and now have an emptied psychotic shell. You feel dead inside without him. Lack of life, lack of love, lack of morals. "I'll help you find him," you mutter as your eyes fall upon the wooden floor. He smiles as he places a hand out for you. Your jaw loosens as it hangs in disappointment of yourself. The words feel disgusting out of your mouth.

But if they left Eddie behind? You will stop at nothing to make sure they feel the very same pain he felt. Dying. Alone. You grab onto Kas' hand. "Lets go."

note: shit, vecna manipulated kas and he be manipulating our reader? they are both of his puppets now. what the hell is gonna happen next? i don't even know! also the title? bitches, i am so pleased with it. perfection. and the gif? thank goodness for whoever did that. you a real angel.

next part • as you wish •

please comment with your thoughts, lmk if you want more! comment or message if you wanna join the taglist!

taglist: @babeyglo, @dotslabyrinth, @wheaty-melon, @mattymurdocksbitch, @sammararaven, @onlyfengs22, @perle1990, @ms1oftheboys, @ghosttownwherenoonegoes, @tayhar811, @hiscrimsonangel

• nav • no-no plagiarism • series • requests open •

[blue-unifox]

perhaps......yuour babygirl.........

vibrates

First impression

Funnily enough, Oralech didn't really grab me much at first. Only thing I knew about him was that he had white hair (my friend who got me into Pyre was like "pspsps it has a white haired man just how you like" and I was... INTRIGUED, but that didn't sway me much) and that he was edgy and had some kind of sad backstory. That started to change like... in the process of learning who he was and finishing the game.

Impression now

AAA well you could've noticed by now... 👉👈 I have the old man brainworms now, what can I say. His story just touched me and the fanfiction just made everything worse HJSDJKHSD. I think he is a tragic character and that there's just enough breadcrumbs for further depth?? Like as is, he's pretty flat. BUT WE CAN DEVELOP HIM!! He actually has a kind heart? That was blackened by hatred and pain?? And it all was outside his control??? Sign me up. Also in my opinion he is quite handsome, no I'm not biased at all. i gotta make that post abt why i like him so much... who said that??

Favorite moment

UHHH well out of like all 5 appearances he has... I'd say my fave is where he's talking to Ti'zo about joining him. IT'S SO SAD!!! TWO GOOD FRIENDS ON OPPOSING TEAMS!! Also that scene shows Oralech has some softness in him still... just that it's quickly shoved aside bc of stubbornness (or maybe something else?). Or uhh your love be damned one but its not as good so there.

Idea for a story

SO I have a few ideas as you know... but most of them are ingrained into the coughs many volfralech ideas coughs. Tho I did have an idea for like... post-game situation, where he is the Chief-Physician and some years had passed, but he realizes that doing politics isn't what he truly desires. But also he's been doing this for so long! And helping out Volfred! Surely he can't back down now. So this whole story would be him realizing the importance of self-worth again (and also that he could've just asked to be on a different position and Volfred would've complied, no questions asked lmao). And that would include learning how to use a cane, since his transformation is receding and there's nothing wrong with using mobility aids like that, it's not a sign of weakness.

Unpopular opinion

Uhmmmm despite what i said earlier he's not that pretty...?? SDHJDSDHJSK I mean, have you seen how his face becomes from afar?? it's terrifying, also if u look at his features long enough you'd see they are pretty disproportionate (i love him anyway)

Favorite relationship

WELL.... UM.... old men yaoi I'M VERY PREDICTABLE DHSJDSD They just fit so well together, they're each other's foils, and have a potential for like an actually functional relationship. I like that they have a lot of history between each other and angst, but also hey canon says they become friends after all... It's a dynamic relationship!! And again, potential....

Favorite headcanon

I like to think he can sew (useful for patching up wounds and also he did get those raiments somewhere... so I like to think he just stole pieces of clothing from diff triumvirates and just. sewed those together) and that he needs glasses for that at some point later :3c

[georgiapeach30513]

Okay but Mark on me is absolutely perfect and I can't wait to see how their dynamic progress!

Steve is showing a little softness with some heavy possessiveness and why am I falling for this crazy man lol.

When he calls her DOVEY omg idk why but I just wanna throw my phone at the wall and scream into a void. Dovey is such a cute pet name. I have so many feelings towards that pet name that I feel like if my bf started calling me Dovey I'd probably suck his dick immediately.

I feel like for me, the softness of that pet name is perfect and contrasts and balances out the hard, scary character of Steve's.

Oh 🥺 I don’t think you guys realize how much I love these two, and the fact that so many are loving them as much as I do fills my blackened heart with so much joy!!

Steve above all is possessive. His attitude is up and down all the time, but Dove is enjoying it. She is loving that she is the only one that gets to test him like that.

Dovey 🥹 it’s such a sweet and innocent little name, but it suits him. Whether it’s Dove, Dovey, or little bird, I love all of them for her!! I think Dovey is one of my favorite nicknames ever!! Well…she did finally get some dick action. Dovey loves Clarence. Seeing her trying to figure a few things about Clarence in their next chapter is going to be adorable.

Steve is scary, but Dovey doesn’t hate it. But yes, it shows the softness that he has for her! It’s just oddly sweet!

[fluideli123]

The Depths Of Our Heart Have Blackened the Sun (WIP)

So, when OFMD first came out, I read a fanfic where Alma and Louis board Edward's ship and thought it was an amazing concept that I wanted to try and develop in multiple directions!

The Main Idea of the story:

Blackbeard comes across Alma and Louis by accident, in a strange change of events Blackbeard takes it upon himself to care for Stede’s children and get them back to their home land. On the venture there Edward learns about Stede through their eyes and Alma catches on to Edward’s pain in ways Blackbeard never expected. The crew watches as the children lighten up the ship and Edward’s suffering, even for just a little while. 

But I'm also going to dig much deeper into the concepts, explorations, and perceptions of characters. So, if you don't want to read that skip this part and read below the cut!

Character Dynamics:

Alma & Louis: Alma is quite an outstanding, headstrong, brave character who is the complete opposite of her timid, shy, caring brother. In this story, I wanted to dive into their childhood, how Alma and Louis become the siblings they are now, how they view each other, their family, and, most importantly, pirates. On top of this, I wanted to show the hobbies, interests, and special skills they possess, not only Stede's kids but Mary's too.

Alma, Louis & Edward: Most people know the intention of most fics is the dynamic between Stede's Broken Hearted Man:tm: and his kids, but I wanted to dive deeper than just the kids getting to know Edward and Edward getting to know the kids. In fact, I wanted to show Edward's past pirating rules through them, his childhood, what made him carefree and childish, and what made the kids strong, fearless, and so on. They are reflections of Stede just as they are of Mary and now everyone else on board. There is nothing like seeing the world through two different eyes when the world has been shattered to pieces.

Alma & Jim: Two stubborn hotheads who don't back down to care for those they love? The fact they mirror each other in many ways and possess aspects that cause hidden characteristics in the other to stand out? The SHEER CHAOS? HOW CAN I NOT EXPLORE ONE OF MY FAVORITE DYNAMICS EVER MAN?! Also, the inside jokes could rule all the seas man, all of them!

Louis & Izzy Hands: Now, this one may or may not take a lot of people by surprise, but I have never thought that this dynamic couldn't be seen through because it SO can. Externally they are complete opposites; izzy hands is selfish, immature, a dick, and the definition of toxic masculinity. Louis on the other hand is overly worried about others, observant, fragile, and just a young boy who hasn't been tainted by the world the same way izzy has been. There is so much under the surface however that make these two one of my favorite dynamic to explore in this concept.

It's been quite a while since I wrote this (since it's been a year AND WE STILL DON'T HAVE A SECOND SEASON) but my love for the characters and ideas still burn strong! So, if you ever want to send in asks concerning this story, go on ahead! I'm more than excited to discuss and answer questions in regards to it!

Thunder rumbled and roared from the harsh, heavy, hoary sky, flashes of lightning illuminating the intimidating clouds, leaving an electrical sensation in its wake with each strike across the sky and towards the sea. The ocean rolled dangerously in response, leaving The Revenge creaking and groaning as each wave repeatedly pounded against the ship's sides. Rain smacked down like bullets on its deck as its new crew tried to save the sails and masts from the merciless, chilled winds, changing course to sail at an angle, causing the waves to attack the strongest areas of the vessel. 

Throughout the chaos, a single silhouette stood, tied to the base of the mast, dagger dug within the tough Brazilian wood, holding onto the weapon with an iron grip. Long hair snaps with the wind as the kohl painting his face smears, dripping and trailing across his face in a newly deranged style, falling away with sharp breaths of air. Blackbeard stands clenching his teeth, staring forward with unnerving malice at the storm as Izzy continuously barks their Captain's orders over the booming culmination of noises on the main deck in front of him. 

It was satisfying and utterly irritating how the storm reflected Blackbeard's fervor. Numbingly cold, bone-rattling, and absolutely, catastrophically, furious.

The storm had snuck up on them, nearly causing the ship to take on water before Blackbeard appeared from his chambers to save this god-forsaken ship from sinking before Izzy could make his way into the Captain's quarters to screech at him for allowing them all to die. All because he was too busy locking himself away to use his 'excellent' sailor skills to predict this stupid fucking squall.

Blackbeard ran on rage and the downpour only fed into his quickly dwindling supply. He was angry, so fucking angry, and with every bolt of light that lit up the sky like an explosion, Blackbeard felt his chest take on every beating the world gave to fill the aching emptiness that settled there. 

He was a dangerous, heartless monster and the sea knew it. 

An exhausted voice in the back of his mind hoped the rope and dagger tying him to safety would snap so he wouldn't have to depend on this burning, heated, thrashing feeling any longer. The idea of drowning was almost pleasant; he would never stand a chance against the waves in this storm.

"Captain! I can't see the weak point!" Fang shouts from behind him, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life. Blackbeard's head snaps around, trying to peer through his hair for the calmest part of the storm they'd seen only moments ago. All he's met with is a roar of thunder and dark, inky water rolling towards them. 

"Fuck! There!" Jim responds, limbs intertwined within the netting at the bow, a hand barely able to keep their hat on as they point toward the ship's left, obscured by the mast Blackbeard had attached himself to. 

They start to turn towards the calm of the storm as swiftly as possible, tipping to the right at the sudden turn, the sea's tormenting only aiding its motion, though dangerously. 

Izzy slides with the last few objects that hadn't been consumed by the ocean, hitting the taffrail with a pained groan as he ties himself to the rails. Frenchie and Ivan had secured themselves on the Quarter Deck directly behind Fang. Frenchie practically hyperventilates himself to death as he trips, trying to stand on the soaked, tilting deck as Ivan tries to keep Fang from fucking up the steering so they don't flip over.

Blackbeard feels his wrist and muscles burn as he pulls himself toward the mast by his dagger against the wind and a tidbit of gravity. "Hold!" 

Fear and tension mix with the crackling of the skylight as Fang and Ivan groan and clamor to get hold of the situation as they start entering dangerous territory. Jim hides their face in their arms and hat, protecting their face from another fierce splash of water onto the forecastle deck. Izzy bellows at Ivan and Fang to get their asses in gear as Frenchie squeezes his eyes shut and screams bloody murder in nearly incomprehensible English about magic and sea witches. 

"Hold!" 

Izzy scurries away from the edge of the railing, Jim starts swearing in Spanish, and the panicked shouting from behind drowns together.

Blackbeard turns his gaze to the ocean they were slowly tilting away from, cold and remorseless, ready to engulf everyone on board with a single lashing wave. His hold on the dagger falters as he continues to stare, the whisper in the back of his head growing louder. The storm wouldn't make him feel irate forever; the anger would dip away; he couldn't chase those feelings locked deep down in his gut when they reached safety. 

A spine-chilling wind whistles against the vessel, a dark promise only solidified by the salty water sending another threatening spout that washes away half the kohl left on the right of Edward's face. Leaving him spitting the water that had made its way into his mouth, turning a sneer towards the murky waters.

Edward shifts his gaze towards the mast, to the only other scar in the wood, smaller than the one Edward's dagger would leave behind, yet not as deep. 

"Did I do it right? He missed all the important bits."

Edward rips his gaze away as lightning strikes. Waves swell as he clutches the dagger tight, quickly grasping the rope tied around his waist, breath hitching, ignoring the screaming of his arms at their use.

With a last knee-weakening rock, the ship rights itself as the waters soften and settle, the pitter-patter of rain turning into droplets, the wind no longer infused with electricity. They're in the calm of the storm. 

Relief floods through the air. 

They wouldn't die today. 

Blackbeard rips his dagger from the mast with three sharp, wrangling tugs, sheathing his weapon and looking towards the worst of the squall they had just escaped. Most of his kohl is gone, barely staining odd bits and parts of his skin, entirely doused in sea and sky water. 

The emptiness creeps around his heart like a familiar sickness as he watches his merciless death and surge of zeal pass. Hopelessness stings his eyes before he gently closes them. He clenches his jaw. 

No one would notice the warm tears that blend perfectly into the storm's residue like a disguise. 

He was so tired. So fucking tired. 

The cheers of ease from his crew are short-lived by a snarl from Izzy, followed by quick steps towards the first mate. 

When would this end?  

The sound of Izzy wincing in pain. Ivan shouts for someone to help him bring his first mate to the infirmary. Unsteady steps.

When would it fucking end? 

A door closes. 

The subtle clap of thunder and glint of lightning echo the throb of Edward Teach's heart as the overfamiliar deep-seated pain returns to coat the emptiness in a virulent shell casing. 

He silently wishes he let go instead. He wishes he could feel anything other than this.

The sea knew its Kraken well. But it also knew Edward Teach. 

The storm responds with a gust of icy wind, chilling his tears, whipping them away.

-

"We've spotted a small passenger vessel approaching, Captain. It seems to have been set off course by the storm we passed a few days ago." 

Blackbeard mindlessly watches his crew from the rails of the quarter-deck, holding his second bottle of brandy that morning as Izzy stands tall and attentive beside him despite his nasty bruised ribs and side. He was still healing, but he never outwardly showed any pain he might be experiencing, being idiotically stubborn about being bedridden as always. 

"Are we low on anything?"

"No, Captain."

"Board the ship, loot it for any valuables to trade-off once we reach land."

"Will you be joining us this time around?" 

Blackbeard downs his alcohol, marveling at the burn as he shifts to walk down the steps, shooting Izzy a threatening expression the moment the drink settles in his stomach. He doesn't answer his first mate's question.

A pair of eyes burn into the back of his head as he descends, the sensation leaving his stomach churning. He doesn't acknowledge any of it as his heavy steps send a warning everyone knows by heart, a familiar thrum. Don't bother the Captain unless absolutely necessary.

It was only a portion of the wordless tunes the crew had learned to listen for and follow, a dance everyone had to learn to survive Blackbeard's ever-shifting melody, his state of mind. The crew responded with distance and sure footsteps with every thundering bellow of his boots. A crescendo of broken glass bottles and furniture, the ostinato of their Captain's unbridled rage to be swiftly answered with shared looks, a sign to speak to the man only after an hour and a half of eerie silence. The Revenge was a stage, and the Captain's Chambers was the backroom. Whatever happened behind the curtains, no one dared to acknowledge past the cues and resounding echoes of whatever had turned the ship dim and mourning. 

However, whatever happened at night when everyone settled to sleep was a different world altogether. A time when the show didn't exist, and with each hushed conversation, the crew would utter a discussion formed on how to escape, to shut the performance down, and theories about what happened behind closed doors. 

The Revenge was a hell of a place to be for the three weeks following Edward's sudden change of heart, and it showed. 

The burning sensation of Izzy Hand's gaze as Blackbeard makes his way through the doors to the hallway eases. The moment Edward is free from prying eyes, he presses his back to the door, letting out a shaky sigh, trying to hold himself together with pins and needles. 

He gulps down the remaining brandy in his grasp to help dull the erratic, nauseating emotions clawing at his insides as he makes his way to his quarters. He sets the empty bottle down when he closes the door and reaches the desk in the middle of the room, grabbing for the others littering the window stools as he passes them. He pops the cork off and doesn't hesitate to take another swing as he all but carelessly throws himself across the length of the bed, eyes easily finding the lighthouse painting he couldn't toss away with the rest of Stede's things. 

His heart clenches painfully at the memories attached to its existence, from the plan to become a lighthouse to fool the Spanish to the late heart-felt, soul-wrenching breakdowns Edward has experienced more than once following Stede's absence. The ones that left him conversing with the lighthouse as if it was the only company he'd ever had. The only thing that has seen and heard everything Edward has ever uttered in this room. Aware of the depths in which the pain rooted itself into his being. The only object that would listen without him needing to fear the possibility of being pitied or hated.

Edward Teach may not know who he is without the Kraken, Blackbeard, or Ed, but if anything were to grasp an idea of who that person would be, it would be that stupid fucking painting. He's laid himself bare and shielded himself in front of it more times than he can count. 

Would it be silly if he'd somehow become attached to the one thing that embodied everything that boils his blood, tortures his heart, and frees him all at once? 

The Kraken would say that attachment led to heartbreak, the one thing he desperately wanted to escape from. So why would he stoop so low as to keep this useless object around? It wasn't anything to him. It wouldn't fuel his path of destruction or aid him in his quest to show the world how monstrous he truly was. It wouldn't make those around him tremble at his mere name or make the blood staining his hands taste any sweeter.

Blackbeard would say that he didn't deserve the reminders, that warm longing that slithered its way between his ribs at the thought of the Gentleman Pirate's shenanigans, the odd way he did things. The way his eyes widened, looking at Blackbeard with the kind of awe that festered without fear, unlike anything he's ever encountered before. The way the Gentleman Pirate's words were the only weapon that cut people down ten sizes and set fires. 

And Ed? Ed would say nothing else mattered when Stede's kind smiles shone brighter than the sun. When his tongue dripped of golden honey and white clovers with every sickeningly sweet phrase, he'd utter about the places within Ed that no one else bothered to set tender eyes upon. If he could keep Stede's soft, caring, and clumsy fingers caressing his heart to settle the most vulnerable parts of him securely in his palms, then there would be nothing to think through for the rest of his life.

Edward guessed the question didn't matter in the end, he was torn apart from the very seams in three separate directions, and not one of them could give him the answers he yearned for. 

He takes a sip from his drink, eyes never leaving the lighthouse. 

"I hate you," Edward whispers. "But I hate you less than him. Consider that the closest thing you'll ever get to a compliment from me." 

The image leans back and forth with the rock of the waves. 

The man looks out the window, barely acknowledging the glint of the sun's rays across the ocean's surface. "I do hate him, right?" 

The picture's silence is all he needs. 

Edward downs the rest of the bottle.

-

Blank

-

The muffled sound of terror-stricken screams fills the pauses between each boom of the canons and faint splashes of bodies hitting the water. The raid had been going on for a while now, long enough to leave Edward's inebriated mind to wander through memory lane like it wasn't one of the worst parts of his mind to stroll through. 

He'd already done the usual emotion-infused ramble towards the lighthouse and nearly killed himself with his own dagger while sloppily performing tricks with it. He is playing a pitiful excuse of Russian roulette with himself to scratch at the growing itch to feel nothing. So, what's adding walks down memory lane to his routine? Surely it only got worse from here. Why prolong the inevitable? 

A single stifled gunshot finds its way past the walls of The Revenge, and a memory spills into his consciousness like black ink. 

Blackbeard snaps his head back, eyes easily finding the young man holding the gun that had just saved his ass. Israel steps beside him, shoving the crumpled body to the side with a sharp kick, shooting Blackbeard with a dark, cautionary look.

"Watch your ass, Captain, or we won't be coming out of this one alive."

Blackbeard grins something wicked. "Come on, Israel, look who you're talking to." 

"Precisely why I have to remind you." 

The pirate Captain barks out a laugh that sends a chill through the air, stilling a few of the poor souls who'd crossed paths with him on their venture across the seas, leaving his crew to deal a fatal blow at their short bout of fear. Bodies fall to the floor coldly, staining the deck red.

Blackbeard clasps a large hand on his crewman's shoulder, the glint in his eyes morphing into something vile. "I need to get below deck, watch my ass for me then, mate." He tosses the crewman a grin as he turns, cleanly slicing at a man's arm, the appendage falling to the ground with a sickening thump. The man's scream of pain never comes as a bullet between his eyes swiftly ends his pathetic life. 

Blackbeard cackles.

Israel does exactly as he was told.

The Pirate Captain sidesteps when someone chances a slash at him. Israel quickly blocks the recovery attack, giving Blackbeard enough time to rip out his gun and blast the motherfucker in the torso, sending him flying back and crashing into another fellow. 

Death trails heavily behind them like a warning. Lifeless eyes stare after leather boots caked in crimson, a flintlock's echoing boom and a foil sword's piercing whistle. The two fought together perfectly, covering each other's blind spots and filling the spaces where the others' skills faltered. 

Destruction had met calamity, and it was anything but sweet. The taste of iron and sweat hung too heavy on the men's tongues to imitate anything but irreconcilable power, piquant and tangy. 

The two made it below deck to the galley with a few enraged stragglers betting their chance at surviving. Israel fended them off as his Captain searched the room only to deflect a killing blow to the head by a cunning foe; grabbing a pan at his side, Blackbeard smashes the assailant's face with a hideous crunch. With a glance around to ensure there was no one else Israel couldn't deal with, Blackbeard rummaged through the room for only a few moments before seeing it. 

What followed next was a burst of flame and heavy smoke filling the dreary sky as the ship slowly sank the remaining men that hadn't been kept as hostages. Blackbeard's crew watched from the safety of their vessel, the blaze warming the quickly chilling night, the frantic yelling barely recognizable over the sounds of the fire. 

And there, watching the aftermath of their handiwork as the helmsman steers the crew away and out towards the endless sea, Israel stands at Blackbeard's side. 

With the smell of burning flesh in the air and the itchy, sticky feeling of dried blood on his leather and skin, the Captain realized how easy his crewman fell into the role. His ability to match Blackbeard to a T, to follow through with unwavering fidelity and obedience, the voice who always stood on Blackbeard's side when no one else would and without hesitance.

It was the night Blackbeard made Israel Hands his first mate.

"Above all else is loyalty to your Captain, Israel," he'd stated, leaning against the rails, smoking as his newly appointed first-mate watched him in earnest. "Remember that." 

"Of course, Blackbeard."

The door slams open with a violent bang. 

"Stop the raid!" 

Blackbeard unsheathes his gun on instinct, pointing it towards the person with the balls to burst into his quarters and demand anything from him. He shoves away the insecurities bubbling in his chest. Having been found vulnerable and unguarded, the tear stains standing out from the kohl smearing his face, burning as an unwanted reminder at the pairs of eyes suddenly in his presence.

"It was in Blackbeard's authority to loot and raid that vessel. Get back on deck!" Izzy barks, sneering at Jim as he steps towards them only to have a dagger swiftly placed at his throat, blood trickling down his neck. 

"Don't," Jim growls at the first-mate, turning their gaze back to Blackbeard. "Call off the fucking raid now! There are children on that ship-" 

"Jimenez-" Izzy bites out in warning, but Blackbeard's already lowering his gun and rushing past them both, shoving Izzy to the side as he dashes up to the deck, Jim hot on his heels. 

His mind fills with curses as fierce anger licks at his insides, igniting the embers in his chest, fueling his urgency without the help of his unsteady steps as the alcohol makes the world tilt. 

He doesn't acknowledge the pain in his shoulder as he harshly stumbles into the door frame as he passes through it, too occupied by the sight of the two children sitting on his vessel in front of Fang and Ivan, shielding the kids from the passenger ship.

Eerily familiar shouting and shattering bottles mesh with the battle's unfiltered outcries and impacts. 

"Worthless goddamn woman!"

His hands tremor with the sudden adrenaline of the faint memory, breath catching in his throat. It doesn't last long when a piercing wail buried underneath the bluster snaps the recollection away as fast as it had appeared.

Blackbeard calls for the raid to stop immediately. Ordering his men back onto the ship, trying his best to cover their asses alongside some of his crew as guards appear from the upper deck of the other vessel, raining down bullets on the pirates trying to leave at their Captain's orders. When Blackbeard's informed that everyone's on board, including his injured men, he shoots the remaining guard's up-top himself. He may be drunk off his ass, but he still knew how to use a gun, unlike Calico Jack. The motherfucker. 

With no one else to worry about, Blackbeard orders Fang to get them as far away from the ship as possible, eyes quickly scanning the crowded deck for a particular person.

The Kraken makes his way towards Izzy, grabbing him by the shirt and shoving him into the nearest mast with a snarl that matches the magma warming his insides, lava leaking from his mouth, searing the man in his clutches from the white-hot fury churning in his belly. "What the fuck were you thinking?! You know the rules when looting vessels! And don't feed me that shit about you just following my fucking orders! You've done everything but listen to me ever since we set foot on this ship!" He unsheathes his dagger and stabs it into the mast at the side of his first mate's head as he turns dark, steely eyes to pick out Jim in the mess of his crew, "And you, don't you ever fucking barge in like that again, or I'll grind your fucking bones to a pulp!" 

Jim doesn't even bat an eye at his threat, and it only fans his rage as he turns back to Izzy. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't tie you up and leave you on the doorstep of the fucking English!" 

"Blackbeard-" 

The Kraken tugs the dagger out to ram it harder into the mast nearer to Izzy's neck and roars, "Tell me, dog!"

When the shorter man only sputters nonsense, the Kraken shoves his first mate to the side, forcing him to the ground, standing above him. 

His breath reeks of booze as his hands tremble. The kohl still marks traces of weakness down his cheeks as his messy hair falls across his tense shoulders and face, framing fierce eyes that bore into Izzy with an intensity that would have anyone else shit themselves. But not Izzy, never Izzy. His first mate never backed away when he was violent. It used to be a comforting quality, but now it just made him want to rip the man apart. 

Izzy growls, scowling, "You're not yourself!" The smears on his face sting at the statement, leaving the Kraken suddenly overly aware of the eyes watching them, the tension settling thick in the air. "It's my job to make you, you again!" 

"Oh, by disobeying and betraying me every chance you fucking get?!"

"I'm doing this for you!" 

"Fuck off!" Blackbeard snaps and quickly unsheathes his gun, cocking it at Izzy, who lets out a sputtering breath at the weapon. Edward's eyes start to sting, the anger in his chest wavering as shame, self-loathing, and insecurity mix into a concoction of nerves. "I said give me a reason!" 

"The English are still after both of us! If you toss me to the sharks, there's no way for me to help you with them! Even if you can deal with them alone, there's no telling what would happen! You need me," Izzy boldly states, "You fucking need me, Captain." 

The Kraken bares his teeth at his near smugness and pushes a leather boot to his first mate's neck, choking him. "One more mess up, and I'll kill you my fucking self. Do you understand?" 

A pained groan escapes Izzy's lips. 

"Do you understand?!" 

"Yes, Blackbeard." 

The Captain removes his foot, and Izzy moves to his side, coughing as he holds his throat, face red. Blackbeard glares at the rest of his crew. "Back to work!" 

No one needs to be told twice as the deck busies itself with ship maintenance, fixing what had been damaged in the semi-failed looting. 

Blackbeard peers over at the children taken aboard and out of the skirmish. He glances down at the gun in his hand, noting how hard he's shaking, thinking better about approaching them. He was drunk and had just reamed his first mate a new one in front of the entire crew, minus those in the infirmary. Now wasn't the time to be dealing with children. Instead, he motions Jim over from where they were staring him down from across the deck and charges them with the responsibility of watching over the kids.

Neither of them says anything as Blackbeard retreats back below deck, not gracing Izzy so much as a glance as he passes by him as the shorter man holds his wounds that had undoubtedly been worsened in their little confrontation. 

The Kraken couldn't care less about his state. The bastard didn't deserve his concern.

"Izzy?" Blackbeard repeats, a small ghost of a smile forming on his lips, raising a brow at his first mate.

Leaning against the mast of the quarter-deck, Israel glances at Blackbeard, narrowing his eyes, instantly defensive. "What?"

"Nothing, I just didn't know you had a nickname, mate." Blackbeard crosses his arms, peering down at the shorter man, amused by the roll of his eyes. Always so easily ruffled, no wonder people loved to talk shit about him behind his back. "You told the boys you prefer it over your actual name. Why didn't you tell me?" 

"It isn't important," Israel firmly reasons. Blackbeard takes note of the suppressed connotations hidden in his words. "It doesn't change anything about my role as your first mate." 

Blackbeard leans against the mast beside Israel. The man looks up at him, brows furrowing. "I don't know about that, Israel," Blackbeard states, shifting to look up at the evening sky. Israel watches him, studying his amused expression. "Calling you Izzy isn't taking away from your role as my first mate either. If everyone's calling you Izzy, isn't it really fucking weird that I don't? You're my first mate and frankly the only first mate I'd trust with my life and with my name."

"Your name?" Israel repeats, taken aback.

"Yeah, my name," Blackbeard confirms, face contorting into its natural cold, stoic state. "You know what happens to those who call me by my real name. You were there for most of the executions, which should tell you how much I trust you, Israel. You've proven yourself to me on more than one occasion." Blackbeard turns his gaze to Isreal, "So, let's make a deal."

"I'm listening," Israel states.

"If I get to call you Iz, then you can call me Edward," Blackbeard proposes.

"Deal."

"You've always been a reasonable man, Iz." He claps Izzy on the shoulder as selfish glee leaks into Izzy's expression.

"I learned from the best, Edward."

Blackbeard chuckles. Izzy's lips nearly twitch into a smile.

-

A gentle, caring hand wipes a tear from her cheek, barely brushing the bruise already forming there. "Alma, look at me." 

The girl forces herself to do as she's told, turning her gaze toward her mother, who kneels down in the grass. Alma bites down on her bottom lip, trying her hardest to keep the lump in her throat down. Her hair waves ever so slightly in the warm summer wind. The shadows of leaves dance across them.

"Do you know the difference between someone stupid and someone brave?" Alma shrugs her shoulders, shifting her gaze to stare at her mother's cravat, fiddling with the black cloth. Mary settles her hands on her daughter's forearms, eyes scanning her expression. 

"An idiot doesn't care about who gets hurt. They don't think about anyone else but themselves. And, to be honest, they don't think about the consequences of their actions either. But someone brave?" Mary shifts, holding her daughter's hands securely in her grasp, leaving the cravat to fall from Alma's fingers as her mother tries to catch her gaze. "She does what she knows is the right thing to do. Not just for herself but for everyone she cares about, those who matter. She doesn't back down even when it's scary, even if she's made a mistake. She follows through, faces it head-on, and isn't afraid of admitting that she did something wrong, that she's scared." 

Alma meets her mother's determined, understanding eyes, unspilled tears blurring her vision.

"You're brave, Alma. Never allow anyone to tell you any different."

Louis's hands are clammy as he grips her hand and arm, clinging to her tightly as he hides his face, hiccuping between each sob. Alma holds her brother as close as possible, watching as the man with the black face paint stomps away. 

"Alma, what do we do?" Louis asks in a small, unsteady voice. He peeks up at her, rubbing his cheek on her arm, staining her with warm tears. 

Alma turns her gaze away from the pirates to glance at her brother, uncertainty making her eyebrows pinch together, trembling lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't know."

"I want to go back home, Alma," Louis pleads, tugging at her.

"I know," She states, eyes catching sight of someone walking towards them. She impulsively tugs Louis behind her, glaring up at the person as she stands tall in front of her cowering brother. 

The pirate wearing a hat narrows their eyes at her. "Follow me." 

Louis releases a terrified gasp at the words, digging his fingers into Alma's dress and pulling the two away from the person watching them like a hawk. "They're going to kill us!" Louis weeps frantically, starting to hyperventilate at the alarming situation they both found themselves in. "Alma, we can't go down there, please, we can't- Alma, I'm scared."

Alma pales and stares up with wide eyes at the person, suddenly hit with the same realization. 

They were going to die, weren't they? They had just been hiding in a room what felt like seconds ago before being spotted by two leather-clad men. The same men forced them to board the ship while protecting them from most of the sights and sounds of whatever was happening before being called away, leaving them alone hesitantly. Alone to be approached by this person who was surely about to take them downstairs and end their lives. Because these were pirates. The real pirates their father had read to them. The pirates that left Louis waking up in the middle of the night crying after Alma had indulged Stede's endless stories of fearsome outlaws in lawless seas. 

They were about to die by real, true pirates, and there was nothing Alma could do to stop it.

"You're not going to die."

The words cause Alma and Louis' tear-stained faces to blink up at the pirate, not quite understanding. 

"I said, you're not going to die." The words are less harsh, softening around the edges, though barely.

"T-Then where," Alma swallows down her stutter, "Where are we going then?"

The pirate crouches, looking the two children in the eyes as Louis steps back in fright. "My room, if you can call it that," The pirate half mutters to themself.

The children share a look, brows knitting.

The person raises a brow almost light-heartedly. "Would you rather stay out here and fry yourself in the sun and piss everyone off when you get in their way instead?" 

The words leave Alma studying the pirate, face scrunching up in consideration. 

They seemed odd, like how the men who brought them aboard were strange. The one with the white hair and beard had tried to calm them, and the one in the striped shirt and dreadlocks had physically shielded them more than once following every big boom. The pirate standing in front of her now seemed desperately trying to look approachable despite appearing unsure, annoyed, awkward, and determined. 

All three might have acted the way they did to build a false sense of safety, so this stranger could lure them downstairs to kill them, but that didn't feel like an accurate assessment. 

So, that really only left one other possibility. These were perhaps somewhat friendly pirates, and if that was the case, following this pirate might be the best thing for her and Louis. They had, after all, pointed out what would happen if they stayed here.

Alma swiftly thinks through their options. 

"Alright, we'll follow you."

The stranger nods their head and stands back up, walking towards a flight of stairs. It takes a moment of quick explanation for Louis to not panic and instead cling to Alma, following after the person, shoes clicking against the floor, watching each leather-wearing pirate walking past in fear and suspicion. 

When the three step down further into the boat, Alma experiences the same feeling most characters in her favorite books do. She recognizes the uneasiness in her shoulders as she scans the nearly bare hall. As Alma studies a broken cabinet lying against a wall and a covered mirror, something drops in her stomach. She even experiences the tug in her chest when she notices the shadows that dull the warm sunlight that creeps in from the wooden floorboards and windows. 

It looks like a place a monster would hide, the kind that was once an ordinary person cursed to hurt others. Like La Belle et La Bête by Beaumont, a vampire or a werewolf, maybe even a vengeful ghost who fractures or hides things around them to feel better about what's happened. 

Alma quietly wonders if that's what these pirates were, cursed seamen wondering the tombs of a life they once belonged to and longed for. She can't help but find comfort in the thought of all this being one of the stories she'd sneak into her bag and read when no one was looking. Even the ones Alma would read under the tree near the creek a little ways away from her home, the little spot when she didn't want anyone around, especially her brother. 

She loves him dearly, but Alma always wished he wasn't with her all the time, wanting to do and be a part of everything she did. But, ironically, she didn't want Louis to be anywhere else but with her right now. She wasn't sure she could stay brave without him here to become a living, breathing reminder of what brave big sisters did; protect their little brothers. 

They eventually reach a room deeper in the ship, and the pirate ushers them inside, instructing them to sit down on a nook. Louis holds Alma's hand tightly, squeezing it as he leans his head against her shoulder. His wide, teary eyes follow the stranger's every move, flinching as the person squats in front of them.

"Are you guy's hurt at all?" The pirate asks, shifting their hat back to better look at the kid's physical state.

Alma shakes her head, "No." 

The stranger acknowledges this and stands back up, gracefully taking a seat on the bed across from them, crossing their legs and slouching. Uncomfortable, tense silence fills the space between them, only interrupted by Louis' sniffles and horse coughs from wailing loud enough that even the man in the face paint could hear him over the fighting when he emerged.

Alma's brows knit in thought as a question comes to mind. She glances at the pirate chewing at their bottom lip, looking somewhere to their left, uneasy and restless. This stranger might be the best and only person Alma can voice her question to, considering they haven't done anything terrible yet.

Uncertainty eats at her as she tries to frame her question. Stealing her expression and squeezing Louis' hand, she repeats her mother's words in her head. 

You are brave, you are brave, you are brave…

"The man-" The stranger looks at her, "-with the black face paint and the one he was yelling at. Who are they?" 

The pirate huffs, lazily shrugging their shoulder, answering the girl’s question. “The whiny guy practically trying to get himself stepped on was Izzy, Blackbeard’s—or the Kraken’s, fuck knows what he’s calling himself now—first mate.”

Alma sits up at the familiar name, "Blackbeard's on this ship?" 

"Yeah, he's the Captain," They nonchalantly gesture to their face in a fluid motion, "Black face paint guy." 

Alma blinks, suddenly overcome with curiosity. 

She knew about Blackbeard, especially since her father had read stories about the Pirate Captain to her months ago before he'd abandoned her and their family. But, even when Stede returned, he'd spoken about his adventures with Blackbeard. 

Alma hadn't necessarily believed him at the time, more because he'd decided to come back as if nothing had happened and less so that he may be making up the tale. Her father was always a bad liar regarding things he was passionate about, making it easy to pick up if his stories were false. 

But, even if her father might not have lied about his pirate life, there was no way her father could have gone on an adventure with the man she'd just witnessed minutes ago. Stede ran away from geese like her grandfather had told on countless occasions and became increasingly disturbed when confronted with the idea of violence. 

A nervous, eccentric man like her father couldn't breathe in the same room as the Blackbeard she'd seen without most likely fainting. She was certain.

"Wow," Alma breathes, staring off into the distance. "My father was more courageous than I thought." The stranger raises a brow, and Alma clarifies. "My father told us he had met Blackbeard on a Spanish ship, the two of them going on adventures together." 

The pirate's eyes widen, multiple emotions playing out across their face all at once, eyes glancing between the two children, realization quickly dawning on them.

"What were your names again?" 

"Alma and Louis Bonnet."

"Mierda…"

Alma's face scrunches up. "Did you know my father?" 

"Know your father?!" The stranger exclaims, standing up sharply, causing Louis to press himself closer to Alma, flinching. "He was my Captain por el amor de dios! And he just flat-out disappeared! Are you saying he's alive? Is he coming?" The pirate waves their hands wildly. "Wait, no, don't answer that question. We can't get caught talking about him." They quickly make their way over to the kids, leaning in close, causing Louis to hide his face, a frightened squeak leaving him. Alma just stares, completely lost. "Never talk about him, especially in front of Dickbag Captain. He'll toss you off the ship quicker than you can blink. ¿Comprendido?" 

The two kids share a look.

"Jesucristo," They rub a hand across their face, "Do you understand, numbnuts?" 

"Why doesn't Blackbeard like our father-" Alma's question is drowned out by a series of loud shushes, a hand slapping over her mouth. 

"What did I just say?!" 

Alma grumbles, her irritated comment muffled against the person's hand.

Louis looks between the two a little ways away, having quickly scooted away from the pirate when they quieted Alma, turning pleading eyes towards his sister. "Alma! You're going to make the pirates mad! Stop it!" 

The girl pry's the hand off her mouth, "Well, it's not my fault! It was just a question!"

"A question that'll get you killed, now zip it, or I'll zip it for you!" The pirate warns, matching the glare Alma turns their way.

"Make me banana breath!" 

"Alma!" 

"Banana breath?!" 

"Hey, Jim, are you in there?" The three turn their eyes towards the door as a rhythmic knock follows. "I don't want to get threatened to death again, so, if you can, let me know when to come in." 

The stranger rolls their eyes, walking over to the door and swinging it open to show a man standing on the other side, his eyes glancing between the three of them and the floor, head bowed. 

"What?" The pirate asks, harsh and direct. 

"Ivan and Fang sent me," The man looks around at the floor, never looking the pirate in the eye for long. "They wanted to know if the children were alright. Since you know," He vaguely waves his hand. 

"They're fine, though I think Señorita bocaza here will get herself killed before the night's end."

Alma puffs, glaring daggers at the back of the pirate's head. The man at the door snickers as the pirate whips their head around and shakes their head mockingly, sticking their tongue out at Alma. Louis looks like he's about to cry again as he shakes his sister's shoulder, silently pleading for her to stop. 

"You never told us your name," Alma points out, ignoring her brother again. 

The pirate opens their mouth to respond in annoyance when the man in the doorway interrupts. Pointing to himself and then the stranger with a smile. "I'm Frenchie. This is Jim." 

"Alma and Louis Bonnet," She responds, gesturing between her and her brother. 

Frenchie's eyebrows raise as his mouth goes slack, "I'm sorry, did you say, Bonnet?"

"Does no one here know how to shut up?!" Jim shouts, throwing their arms up, exasperated. 

"It's polite to introduce yourself," Alma argues.

"We're on a ship! This isn't some fancy little tea party, so can you all just stop risking everyone's lives for a second!"

"Uh," Frenchie glances between Jim and the children, face pulling into a worried expression, "If you're his kids, what do we do about that little problem, then? I'm not sure we have any more things on board he can break." 

"Easy," Jim responds through gritted teeth, "Don't. Say. Anything. About it."

"And if he finds out anyway?" Frenchie asks, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. 

"Well, they're not my kids, so…." 

"Hey!"

Jim waves Alma off, "I'm half-joking; I'll just go through with my original plan." That catches the little girl's attention, and Jim instantly shuts her down. "And no, I am not telling you about it." They push Frenchie into the hall. "Now, it's the grownup's time to talk. If you come out of this room at any point, I will hunt you down and stab you, got it?" 

"Uh-huh, sure you will," Alma groans as the door slams shut. 

A muffled shout answers her through the door, "Don't make me regret keeping your asses safe!"

There's a short pause before Louis speaks up from the nook, knees to his chest, half of his face hidden in his arms. "You're really brash, you know that?" 

Alma turns to her brother, the joy from the interaction slipping at her brother's frightened voice, her smile faltering. "Yeah, well, at least we know more than before."

"Oh, do we really? I learned that pirates are just as scary as I thought and that you're the worst sister ever!" Louis cries, chin trembling as he curls into himself, hiding the rest of his head in his arms. 

Alma's shoulders drop, guilt turning in her tummy as she watches Louis start to shake again. She slowly makes her way over, taking a seat next to him, letting him shuffle away from her as she crosses her legs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be…brash, as you put it. I mean it."

Louis sniffs, using his sleeve to wipe at his face. "I know. It's just what you do." Alma lowers her head, playing with the ends of her hair. "You did the same thing when our cousin visited last fall when you got in trouble for throwing mud at her face." Louis glances at Alma with a shy expression. "It was kinda funny." 

Alma smiles, "Yeah. Just not something you'd appreciate, right?" 

Louis lets out a wet sigh. "I just don't know how you do it, Alma. Aren't you afraid that you'll just make people angry? Or that you'll be hurt if you keep talking and acting all tough? Those people could have killed you right now because you wouldn't stop being nosy!" 

"But, they didn't, did they?" 

"That's not the point!"

"Then what's the point?"

"Aren't you scared of what could happen? Don't you ever think things through?" Louis stresses.

"I think things through," Alma states, "And I just know that the worst possible thing I could ever think up is what won't happen. Remember what Doug taught us? Always remember the most realistic outcome when thinking of the worst possible scenario. If Jim and Frenchie wanted to kill us, they wouldn't have been kind enough to ask if we were okay and introduce themselves. Even though Jim didn't particularly like talking to us, they still answered some of our questions." 

"And what were those?" 

"Blackbeard is on this ship, and if what father said was true, they used to be friends. Jim and Frenchie knew our father. And there's also a rule about not speaking about him in front of Blackbeard." Alma turns a contemplating look to Louis. "The ship must have been looting ours, and that's why they attacked us, which was by accident. Or at least, I'm guessing, based on what Blackbeard said while scolding his first mate."

Louis nods, rubbing his arms. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

Alma shifts closer to Louis and wraps her arms around him, squeezing him in the hopes of comforting him, squashing every ounce of fear that plagued her little brother. "We're going to be alright."

Louis leans heavily into her sister's embrace, a warm, wet smile appearing, closing his eyes at her reassuring words and confidence.

"I trust you."

-

"Don't make me regret keeping your asses safe!" Jim shouts at the door with a huff, fixing their hat as they turn back to face an amused-looking Frenchie. They curl their lip, "What?" 

"I didn't peg you as an 'I'm actually not that bad with kids' type," Frenchie comments, cocking his head to the side. 

Jim crosses their arms, rolling their eyes. "I'm not good with kids either. They're loud, obnoxious, stupid little attention seekers, and I want nothing to do with them. If I didn't want Captain Dickbag on my ass, I wouldn't have come within fifty feet of them." 

"That's not what it looked like," Frenchie remarks, smile growing. 

"Shut up and get your eyes checked," Jim grumbles non-threateningly, grabbing Frenchie's sleeve, pulling him further into the hall until the door leading to their room is farther away but not out of sight. Their eyes check their surroundings briefly before settling back on Frenchie. "Now start talking."

"Well, there isn't much to talk about, really." Frenchie fidgets with his green scarf. "Captain has locked himself up again, and everyone is busy with the ship and tending to the rest of the Kraken's crew." 

"And Izzy?"

"Forced back into the infirmary," Frenchie answers, frowning. "You were serious, weren't you? You're thinking about going through with your original plan." 

"With these kids on board, I might not have a choice," Jim admits. "He's lost it. He fucking marooned our crew! He isn't getting out of this unscathed!" 

"Yeah, but it's Blackbeard, not only that but now the Kraken. You're going to get ripped to shreds."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Well, unless you've spoken with a very powerful sorcerer and don't get turned into a snail, I think going up against the best, scariest sea captain alive isn't the best move." 

"Mira, tonto, he's already left our crew to die. What's to stop him from killing us all because he wants to?" Jim pointedly gestures towards their room, venom dripping with each hushed word. "These kids are now onboard a floating fucking prison, and I will not stand here waiting for the off chance we can escape!" 

Frenchie raises his hands, backing a step away from Jim. "Nope, you're right, totally." 

Jim huffs, muttering something under their breath before slipping their thumb through the holder around their hips. "Look, I'm not stupid; I know what I'm doing. Just make sure to stay out of his fucking radar unless absolutely necessary, got it?" 

"Uh-huh, got it."

"Great, glad we're on the same page."

"Right, like we ever were."

-

His shoulder is sore from running into a doorway from his rage-infused drunken stupor, having given up massaging it. Trying to use the slight pain to ground him and make the nausea in his gut settle. 

Edward is peering through the only window he dares to unveil, holding his legs to his chest, cheek pressed to his knees, eyes glazed over. He half-mindedly watches the ocean sloshing against the ship and witnesses the first seconds of dawn, painting the sky in a deep amethyst purple. There are specks of glistening white stars standing against the slowly retreating night, clouds mixing between dark navy and lavender blues that caress the gentle sky. He can feel the ship rock underneath him and the red robe wrapping him in familiar smooth velvet, pooling around him. 

It's been hours since he was last on deck, the door locked shut, barricaded with the piano he hadn't tossed off the ship's edge. He didn't want another repeat of one of the crew members barging in, not when he felt raw. 

Izzy had been right, the English was sooner or later going to become a pest, and it was better to keep Izzy close, under wraps, so to speak. His first mate had pledged himself to the king and fought for an agreement to save Blackbeard from biting the bullet, leaving the English now pissed off with their broken allegiance. They were in danger of getting their asses blown to hell worse than before, and if the Kraken had gone through with his warning of tossing Izzy to the English, God knew what would happen. Izzy might drag Edward down with him given a chance or lose Izzy's usefulness when push came to shove. 

Nothing with his first mate was as 'simple' as it used to be. Nothing snapped into place anymore; they didn't click. Everything they had at the beginning of their partnership has dissolved and left nothing but a frustrating thorn in his side.

The only thing he had to fall back on was his old life, the predictable, legend-infused pirating he can never seem to escape from for too long. He has been met with defiance whenever he's ever tried to be anything other than a bloodthirsty, born-of-the-devil monster. It's a lesson he's learned early in life, but somehow he'd forgotten all about it. 

God decided Edward wouldn't be a man surrounded by anything soft and beautiful. He was meant to be a poor, worthless little boy who grew into the role of a monster with age, and she wasn't about to flip the script now. There is nothing for Edward here. The Kraken is everything he's meant to be. So why try anymore? What's the point?

Edward closes his eyes.

He was tired, and it wasn't just emotionally and mentally this time. His eyes ached, and his bones felt like anchors, leaving him unable to move from his seated position deep down in his ever-restless mind despite the faint ache in his shoulder and the oncoming protest of his knee. 

His mind kept consuming question after question, thought after thought, never leaving a second of peace for Edward to sleep longer than a few short hours. Yet again, it's hard to sleep when every dream is accompanied by soft, gentle smiles and sweetness so thick it always leaves Edward sick to his stomach.

Despite Edward's best efforts, he can't escape Stede, even when unconscious. He has recurring dreams, ones where the smell of salty seas is thick, and Edward can hear Stede's voice reading to him over the gentle whistle of the wind. Sometimes the scent changes into scented candles, and the feeling of the wind turns soft and cozy like thick blankets pressing against his body and the warmth of Stede's own at his side. 

The dreams reflect a memory that makes his heart swell, squeeze, and weep each time he remembers it. Most people think Edward—much like every other pirate—can't read, and they wouldn't be entirely wrong. Stede had never assumed; he always seemed to excel in curiosity but never made blatant assumptions regarding Edward. 

So the night they'd been talking about his ship's library, the topic of conversation had elegantly changed over to Stede's favorite books. His preferences, how he'd read to his children every chance he got, and how much his daughter enjoyed the adventure stories he'd read. Most were stories about pirates because it was Stede, and Stede had latched onto piracy with every inch of his being. Inserting it into his daily life with his children to share his interests with them, set an example to follow so that they'd share what they loved with him, too, or something along those lines since it usually never went as planned, or so Stede explained.

Then Stede had asked if Edward had any favorite books, and if he didn't, what would have been a book he had always wanted to read. 

If it were any other person, Edward would have answered with the usual fib that he couldn't read at all, that he'd never been taught, too poor to get a decent education. But it'd been Stede, and he never judged Edward. Yes, Stede was an insane idiot who was a total dork, but Stede never once pushed Edward or asked anything from him that wasn't Stede's weird way of making Edward happy, comfortable, or reassured. At least, before the English, so he told him the blatant truth.

He had taught himself how to read in his youth with a sheer 'fuck you' mindset when someone had told him he wasn't smart enough or capable before Izzy came around and taught him everything else he hadn't learned by himself. Blackbeard could read, and it came to his advantage when everyone around him believed he couldn't understand a scrap of it. Carelessly leaving out documents and not sparing him a glance when he inspected pieces of paper, studying his enemies, gaining information. 

That, however, didn't dissuade the second truth of the matter. Blackbeard was 'word blind,' or as Stede had helpfully given on the academic term, Dyslexic. Edward had only ever known the phrase 'word blind' because his mother's boss had some kid who couldn't read or write like everyone else. His mother had explained it had something to do with the eyes since it was a visual deficit. The eyes couldn't see words right, messing up what they saw to the point that some people can't read, even when taught by the best schools. 

Stede had given him one of his many warm smiles when he caught on, politely dismantling the false explanation for the disability. Explaining how it had more to do with the brain and how it interprets language. 

That night Edward learned what it felt like to have a deeper perception of himself, even if it was just a portion of who he was. The feeling of understanding settled snugly into his chest every time Stede brought up a struggle he'd experienced before, a characteristic he knew all too well or an ability he always prided himself on that was somehow linked to this learning disability. It was one of the conversations Edward kept close to his heart, the same part he'd placed in Stede's hands when the man told him he wore fine things well. 

It made the empty, throbbing void where his heart used to be, ache worse every time he woke up from those dreams. That made Edward hide his face in his hands, eyes stinging with the lump in his throat from every replay of the same moment. The same feeling of consideration that struck him in the chest made every kiss to dream Stede's shoulder tender, a thousand 'thank yous' hidden in every single one of them. 

It was one of the reasons he had to get rid of Stede's books. When he first returned to the ship, Edward had spent hours looking through Stede's library when he had the energy to do something more than lay in his own pit of despair. Damaging the pages with sticky marmalade fingers and thick tears before eventually giving up on trying and crying into the unfortunate pages he'd stop at to weep into like the pathetic heartbroken piece of shit he is. 

He couldn't stand to look at them once he realized people like him didn't get libraries on ships. Not because he couldn't make it happen—he could—but because the Kraken didn't have any need for books and useless decorations. They reeked of Stede, and even that was enough reason to throw them out to end up at the bottom of the ocean, where everything that held Edward's fragile sensibilities is buried more and more every day. 

Edward opens his eyes to shift his head to gaze at the empty shelves hidden in the pitch-black darkness that engulfed the cabin early in the morning. They looked as hollow and lifeless as Edward feels most days when even misery takes its leave to join anger somewhere far away from him. Leaving him with nothing but the echoing emptiness.

Everything was so fucking depressing, and Edward didn't have the energy to give a rat's ass anymore. The itch in the back of his mind makes itself known with the sudden longing to be at the bottom of the sea with Stede's things. 

The sensation doesn't last long as his mind turns to the likelihood of the ship they'd nearly attacked being left at the bottom of the ocean with a sudden shock of dread. They hadn't done enough damage with their cannons to sink a ship, but God herself knew that that doesn't mean shit when you have Izzy Hands as your first mate. 

Blackbeard rubs at his face, somehow reaching a new level of exhaustion. He would have to demand his first mate to tell him what damage he'd caused. Also, Blackbeard had to figure out what to do with the children on his ship. 

The simplistic answer would be to drop them off somewhere safe as quickly as possible, but Edward isn't about to drop two fucking minors off anywhere. He'd have to talk with them about where their destination would have been or have someone else find out for him. But then again, after the shit Izzy pulled, he doesn't want anyone else to be given a chance to fuck things up around here.

Blackbeard groans as he shifts, flinching from the ache in his knee as he unfolds it, painfully stretching out the stupid fucking thing across the bed. Ignoring the chill that runs up his spine, forming goosebumps across his skin from the brisk morning air cooling his quarters. 

Continuing to massage his knee, Blackbeard picks his clothes off of the floor near the broken dresser the lighthouse painting is settled on. Pulling on his pants, he fastened his brace, lifting his leg off the bed to move his knee around, grimacing with a sudden surge of pain from the movement. 

"Fuck," he mutters to himself as he lets his leg drop sharply, going back to massaging it through the leather instead, hoping it's not going to be one of those days where it bugs him unless he boils some water and warms the son of a bitch with a rag. 

It takes some time until it doesn't bug him as much anymore. Eventually, he can stand up and shuffle slightly towards Stede's secret closet, delicately folding up the red robe and storing it away, unable to look at anything directly as he shuts the hidden wardrobe behind him. He continues getting dressed, seating himself back on the bed when he's fully clothed, using the light of the only open window and the reflection of his dagger to apply kohl to his face and the growing beard before clipping on his single dangling earpiece. 

With all the parts in place, Blackbeard lifts his dagger and stares into his reflection one last time, eyes cold and threatening, darkened by the black kohl staining his features. He slowly utters the phrase under his breath that rips Edward away from him.

"I am the Kraken, the killer in the flesh, a monstrous legend bound by nothing but rage and hatred..."

Sheathing his dagger, he stands, head held high as he makes his way out of his chambers, removing the piano and setting it in front of Stede's other closet carelessly. There's no sound besides the skeleton crew above deck as Blackbeard makes it towards the infirmary first.

The Captain keeps his eyes forward, actively avoiding the few broken and untouched decor pieces. The sight of the fractured paintings, maps, and the weapons and tools fastened to the walls all make his fingers twitch. The Kraken wants to rip each one with his bare hands. Feel how the metal bends in his fists, hear the crunch of wood, the tearing of canvases and frames. He doesn't indulge the urge; instead, he forces his attention on the few injured men occupying the beds as he walks into the ship's infirmary, making sure his steps barely stir the room's occupants from their slumber. 

Blackbeard finds his first mate easily, dozing in the bed farthest from everyone else despite the room's size. He looms over Izzy like a shadow, mildly reminded of the day he severed the man's toe and fed it to him. Though he was much more dressed now than before with only his vest gone and his shirt unbuttoned to not constrict his healing ribs. 

The Kraken pinches his first mate's forearm with a twist of skin, pleased when Izzy jolts awake, harsh words muffled by the gloved hand that swiftly finds its way over his mouth to ensure he doesn't wake the others. The remarks quickly die on the man's tongue when his eyes meet the Kraken's gaze, watching him with uncertainty as his Captain leans in close. 

"You will answer every single one of my questions," The Kraken whispers into Izzy's ear, words thick with a warning. "Or I'll feed you more than your toes, got it?" The Kraken can feel how Izzy's throat bobs as he swallows, head nodding in understanding. "Good," The Kraken removes his hand from his first mate's mouth and pulls away from Izzy's immediate space. "Now, how much damage did you cause to the ship you attacked yesterday? Did you damage it enough to sink it?"

"No, Captain," Izzy whispers, shaking his head, "I merely ordered warning shots and ensured the crew disposed of the guards. Word has spread that we've been looting vessels left and right, and ships are starting to become infested with guards, making it harder to ensure that our remaining crew is kept alive." 

The Kraken narrows his eyes, ignoring Izzy's observations, "Are you certain there's no way that ship could have sunk?" 

"I'm certain, Captain."

"Good," Blackbeard half-heartedly mutters, moving to leave.

"It was never my intention to disobey you, Captain," Izzy states quickly, sitting up. Blackbeard pauses, head turned away from his first mate. 

"You know I would never ignore your mandates without good reason, Blackbeard. Bonnet ruined you, turned you into something you're not," Izzy starts, exasperated. Blackbeard clenches his fists and jaw, body tensing as he snaps back to face his first mate with a burst of rage. Izzy simply never fucking gives up, does he? Edward is tired of hearing this spill, of this fucking excuse. "I have always done everything you have ever asked of me and more. He left, but I have never abandoned you!"

"Israel!" The Kraken barks, watching the flash of distress that swiftly appears across Izzy's face with satisfaction.

"It's my job to make sure you are content!"

"When have you ever made sure I was content?!"

"If that means disobeying," Izzy raises his voice, ignoring Blackbeard, "Or bending your commands to ensure that you remain yourself, remain my Captain, then I will! Even if that means protecting you from Stede's brats before they can destroy you too!"

Edward freezes, the air suddenly knocked out of his lungs, mind silent, body stiff. For a moment, all he can do is stare through his first mate, the world slowing down as the words ring in his mind like a piercing echo. All traces of his hungover state seem to evaporate with it.

Denial is the first emotion to arrive at the ludicrous mention of Stede's children on board The Revenge. Stede was never shy about speaking of the family he left behind when it was simply him and Edward. He knew of Mary's hatred for the sea and her disdain at Stede's idea of living out on the waters as a family. If these were the same children raised under her, then there was no way they'd be here at sea. Who was with them, if not Mary? Would the woman Stede described even allow her children near a boat, let alone on one? 

Uneasiness accompanies the thought of Stede having been on that ship. Was Stede the one who was watching over the children? Why was he there with them? Did Izzy know he was there too? 

Had Stede been killed by his first mate in a supposed declaration of 'protecting' Blackbeard?  

Multiple emotions come to life at the question: worry, hope, confusion, countless amalgamations of feelings he doesn't have the time to unpack as they eventually rapidly tunnel into that all too familiar searing outrage. 

The Kraken takes Izzy's shirt with a tight fist, tossing him onto the floor carelessly, thoughtlessly, ravishing in the pained gasps, wheezes, and groans, the tremor that ignites Izzy's body in near-visible pain. The others in the infirmary do nothing but add to the satisfaction feeding the sea monster's wrath. Their bodies tense in fear from their beds at the chill that freezes the room with each thump of the Kraken's steps towards Izzy Hands. 

"Don't fucking mess with me, Israel!" The Captain yells, the words booming, sharp enough to slice Izzy three feet shorter. "The next words out of you better be a god damn explanation, or your spleen and kidney will go nicely with your fucking rations!" 

Izzy meets the Kraken's gaze without issue, "I was following your orders when Fang and Ivan reported spotting children aboard. I had been ready to cease the raid, as always, until I caught sight of their faces, and I knew I had to keep them away from you! I ordered the attack to continue, but Jim intervened before I could follow through. I would never harm those children, Blackbeard, but I had to protect you from them!" 

Edward sucks in a sharp breath, knees starting to tremble as a lump forms at the back of his throat. The Kraken wants to tear Izzy apart limb by limb without mercy. Watch him squirm, cry out, bleed. 

It must show on his face because Izzy's frozen in place, staring as if holding his breath. An unsettling calm settles over the Captain as something cruel slithers its way up Edward's spine and fixes itself tightly around his heart.

The Kraken sneers.  

"You're worthless, Israel Hands. Not a spec of value in you."

Izzy's expression cracks. Edward's heart suffocates. 

The Kraken looks away from the pathetic man and steps around him to the door, looking towards one of his injured crew members, pausing at the entrance. 

"You," The Kraken barks at the bearded man, "Once you've recovered, you'll be filling Israel's place as my first mate, understood?" 

"Understood, Captain!" The man repeats, voice deep, expression composed, sitting as straight as he can.

Blackbeard knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he had been on the boat the night the Spanish nearly killed Stede. He wielded an ax, checking the surroundings behind him as he spoke to the Gentleman Pirate. 

The Kraken turns back to Izzy, watching the turmoil unfold across his face. Drinking in how his eyes turn desperately to him, stuttering out words that the Kraken didn't care enough to listen to as he shoots a glare that he hopes stops the man's heart for good before leaving Israel Hands lying on the floor, stripped of his name, title, and power. 

Edward doesn't leave the cruel clutches of the Kraken's grasp until he's standing in the Captain's Quarters, knees hitting the ground, shoulders heaving with each stifled sob.

-

"You'd think getting kidnapped would be a lot more eventful," Alma states, spread out across the floor, staring up at the ceiling. "Maybe we are being tortured to death, but with bordeom." Jim rolls their eyes as Alma turns her head to face the pirate, lips pressed together tightly, nose scrunched up, “I’ve seen it done before! Charles at the all boys school has nearly repelled every other kid his age from hanging out with him because of his long explanations on different types of fungi.”

“Kid, don’t you have better things to do than talk my ear off?” Jim grumbles, sharpening their dagger with frustration. 

“No, I just thought irritating you to death would be better than doing literally anything else,” Alma responds sarcastically, crossing her arms and looking back at the ceiling with a condescending shake of her head. 

“Oh, you’re a little fucking shit.”

Alma doesn’t respond, trying to stifle a grin at Jim’s comment. Louis’ snores and the echo of footsteps around the boat are the only sounds filling the early morning between the pirate and girl. 

It’s only been a day since they were taken, but Alma’s found out that despite how dark and depressing the ship is, speaking with Jim was always entertaining. They always acted so tough, mysterious, and annoyed by everything that it made poking and prodding at them unexpected fun. 

“I’m sure you’re used to it by now, you sailed with my Dad after all,” Alma comments. Jim shoots Alma a glare as the girl let’s out an exaggerated sigh. “‘Don’t talk about Stede aboard The Revenge or someone might hear you and tell Blackbeard and then he’ll get really mad,’ I know, I know.” Alma turns to face Jim, settling on her side with an annoyed huff, resting her cheek on her fist. “He talked a lot, right? And he had this weird habit of moving his mouth while saying or reacting to something? Did he ever kinda shut down while he was here?” 

Jim blinks, brows knitted as their eyes shift over Alma’s guarded gaze. Something unspoken passes through the silence and Jim’s resolve crumbles ever so slightly within their expression. They rub their eyes and grunt out a string of spanish mutters, sheathing their dagger before laying down on their bed, a leg freely swinging back and forth at the side of the bed in uncertainty. “Okay, Señorita bocaza, you can only talk about your father in this room and I’ll answer what I’ll answer and that is going to be it unless said otherwise, got it?” 

Alma grins triumphantly, “Okay!” She shifts closer, staring up at Jim expectantly. “Okay, so how was he as a Captain? Were all his stories true about the islands? The ships he’s been on? Did he really get into a sword fight with Blackbeard’s right hand man?” 

Jim shakes their head, almost seemily regretting their decision already, “He was a terrible Captain. I don’t know which ones he’s told you about but we’ve been to a handful of places and ships, most of the time he was getting himself killed on them in one way or another. And yeah he did, probably the only time his idiocy was somewhat impressive.” 

“He was still annoying, right? The talking, the weird mouth habit?” 

“Dios Mio, yes.” 

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Alma states in a contemplative tone, staring at the floor, drawing imaginary shapes into the wood with a frown. Jim glances at her expression before turning to look at the wall. 

“He wasn’t always an idiot, though.” 

Alma swiftly looks back up at Jim, raising a brow with a tilt of her head, opening her mouth to nudge Jim to continue as a harsh knock on the door stops her. Jim and Alma turn their gaze to the door, the pirate instantly standing, smoothly coming to stand in front of Alma and Louis, a hand resting on their freshly sharpened dagger. Alma’s eyes are glued to the door as her breathing picks up, a feeling in her tummy causing her to feel like there was suddenly something to be afraid of. 

That something was wrong. 

The white bearded man that had ushered her onto the ship comes bursting in, eyes wide, glancing around the room before landing on the two kids with a kind of half-hearted relief. “The boss wants to talk to the kids.”

“What about?” Jim prods, narrowing their eyes, hand resting at their hip instead of directly over their dagger. 

“He’s found out they’re Stede’s,��� The guy explains. Jim and Alma share a glance with a shared thought, did he hear about it from us? “I don’t know what  happened but I think Izzy must have figured it out and told him because he’s no longer first mate.” 

Jim’s expression flashes through different kinds of shock, hand falling to their side. “Dick face demoted him?”

“Yeah, and it’s not pretty, Izzy’s scary quiet and Blackbeard’s locked himself up again for a few hours now. He’s only recently ordered me to send the kids into his quarters.” 

“Drunk?” 

“Not black out but a little tipsy.” 

“On a blind rage?” 

“Nothing was broken when I was called in.” 

Jim doesn’t look at Alma but she knows exactly what Jim’s worrying about. They have this subtle tell when something’s bothering them, they’ll clench their jaw and lean to the side while going from direct eye contact to a repeated ‘glance and look away’ or indirect eye contact. They did it everytime Alma tried to ask Jim questions about themself. 

[vortship]

🌵, 🍀?

TIME FOR SOME POSITIVITY!

send ���� and i'll recommend a canon rp blog

@piinetrees I haven't been following long but they have a really good handle on Dipper and I love the plots we've been discussing. Making me wanna rewatch GF tbh.

@divile's Roman from Hemlockle McGroove. You will not meet a person more passionate about a character than May is about Roman. She really writes him with a lot of heart, I'm pretty sure she secretly wrote the books. ALSO my oldest friend on the hellsite, maker of my graphics, and person who sends me tiktoks of pugs in scenarios at 2 am.

AND

@manaborn I have never seen Ben 10 a day in my life but their blog and dedication to Gwen is fantastic. Gwen is so dynamic, I wanna be her when I grow up.

send 🍀 and i'll recommend an oc rp blog

@moonspower Vi is love. Vi is life. More importantly Vi is so fucking real. I have a soft spot for characters who go through a lot and come out on the other side wanting to help others, people who are tough but with gentle hearts. Also a GTA AND King of the Hill AND Shrek verse? I'm screaming and crying (in a good way).

@the-blackened-dove I love seeing Roxxy on my dash. Sometimes we all just need a really tall, fancy lady. Roxxy's got a lot going on, but maintains a lot of dignity throughout. Also it's so clear how much her mun loves the crap out of her, even VOICE ACTING her, like that's so fucking cool to me. I've tried to do that before and it has nooot gone well lmao.

[tobiasdrake]

So. Yeah. 2-2's ending leaves me with a lot to grumble and be frustrated about. And we'll probably come back to that down the road, as it plays into something bigger that I'm noticing.

...

But the actual execution is great.

Peko goes out thinking she killed Fuyuhiko. It's heart-wrenching. A solid 10 on the Despair charts, to be sure.

Obviously Fuyuhiko wasn't actually going to die. Monokuma has to abide by his own rules, after all. I mean, he doesn't. Junko breaks the rules all the time when she thinks she can get away with it, even going so far as to hold a kangaroo court trial to convict the wrong person as the Blackened. End of the day, she's only allegedly beholden to the rules.

Like all authoritarians, Junko is bound by the rules except whenever she doesn't wanna be. This is her game and at the end of the day, she's the one who decides whether her actions were fair. A big part of what makes Monokuma an interesting and dangerous foe despite also being the franchise's "impartial" judge is this dynamic.

Chaotic Evil wearing a t-shirt that reads "Lawful Evil".

But she does try to behave in public as if she's beholden to the rules, and letting Fuyuhiko be executed when he's not the Blackened would be too brazen of a violation. When she breaks rules, she does it behind closed doors. So, Monokuma Emergency Response Team is here to save Fuyuhiko!

This is fun and it's delivered in such a goofy manner. I love it.

[littleeyesofpallas]

Honestly surprised there was no reveal of Nick Scratch as MCU's Black Heart as like a cliffhanger/sequel/tie-in stinger at the end.

It would've made sense since Nick Scratch's gimmick as Harkness' son was always that he was kind of implicitly either The Devil or the devil's son. But also Marvel's capital-D Devil is generally accepted to just be Mephisto, and Mephisto's son is Blackheart. Plus Mephisto was part of the original Wiccan and Speed (re)origin so it would make sense to work him back in somehow.(although can they do that? or is he tied up in the rights to the Ghost Rider movies? I don't even know if Disney managed to reabsorb that shit, but like surly they must have by now, right? they own everything else...)

If there was some kind of implicit child sacrifice to the devil involved, even if it was just a misunderstanding of something that could otherwise be explained away, it would make sense that Agatha giving her son to Mephisto makes him Mephisto's son now, and thus he can fill both character's criteria. It'd play into the typical bride of the devil witch shtick. Plus it'd give a little extra character depth to Black Heart, who's kind of always been nothing of a character, and give a nice boost to Nick who was always a consummately C-list no-power villain.

Plus it would have made sense that if she was so obsessed with cheating death, that her solution to keeping Nick alive would've been to make him immortal but at the cost of his humanity. Not just his mortality but his empathy, his love, his memory: his heart blackened.

But making him a kind of teen nemesis to Wiccan would also just be a great little dynamic to add to his repertoire. honestly its baffling that he's never really crossed paths with either Mehpisto or Blackheart more often over the years.

[likelycatherinemay]

Diary 10/?

I painted my nails recently. If you reader, existent or nonexistent, are reading this, you are likely not privy to the fact my name is not actually Catherine May. There is a previous entry concerning this entire dynamic, if you are so inclined to read it. In any case, my sex is male, and at least for the moment, that is also how I identify. There it is up front. I am a 'man' (hehe) that painted his nails. It isn't the first time I have done this, and I braced myself for the response.

I have some precedent for this kind of reaction. The first time I painted my nails, my father clearly did not know what to make of it.

"Why did you paint your nails?" he struggled out that night.

"I like how it looks," I said defensively. You would have been able to hear the things unsaid between us. The echoes of screams and apathy and the death of love. The proxies and fronts waged over the heir to his name before he finally looked over and saw nothing. A idol built for the God of masculinity stolen one day in the night. I was the late afternoon in November. The mesmerizing horizon snatched away in 15 minutes, leaving the blackened waste and darkness. Hills keeping all the little people trapped under the unforgiving sky. We stood in what he had built and despaired. I because he would never understand or care to, and he because his sculpture had been ransacked, shattered, and defiled.

"Okay," he said. My mother's side of the family responded with more understanding. After all, there was nothing to expected from me. I might as well have been an enigma. Every story I tell seems more and more implausible than the last.

"Do you have a girlfriend? Or boyfriend, it's okay either way," they ask me. I have never known what to say to that question. How do you tell someone, No, I am deeply worried about human connection, and I fear I will die alone. I am worried I do not fit the desirable traits for any human alive. But thank you for your concern.

When I returned from my mom's home, the nail polish was gone. Not the remover, of course, but the nail polish was gone. I knew where I had left it. It did not return. For my father, it was not enough that I felt nervous to paint my nails in college. He could not bear to see how far I had gone. The sculpture rebukes it creator, it flaunts around, proclaiming its independence even though it relies on the sculptor for more clay. It needs the artist to reinforce its sides. He could not the stand the sight. He could not bear witness. As my nails chipped and decayed, there was nothing in my heart. A bitterness echoed along the walls of the cavernous expanses. There was no resentment, only acceptance. It was foolish to expect my father to feel any other way. It was foolish to act any other way.

I wonder what he's going to think now. Not only have I painted my nails, I have shaved my legs and arms. I think I'm going to get my ears pierced. Maybe I'll get a tattoo. Fuck it, right? When everything rings hollow, start banging on the walls. Make the cave wail from your very presence. There is no more hiding, no more substitutes for a half-way existence. And if he cannot accept it, let it be torn apart. Let the farce end with flourish. I cannot take the seasons of perpetual agony. The snow falls, the leaves fall and return, and the sun scorches the Earth. I suffer under gravity's inexorable will. I will not suffer under the will of another superficial force if something can be done about it. When my world groans from cataclysm, it will know that it is justly razed.

Future writing. Hehe. The last time I did this I jumped the gun out of uhhh, circumstances? So, no book update. If you are so inclined to know why, retrace until you find the content warning post (the second one, yikes). There will be a discrepancy (definitely spelled that right the first time) forever in the record. Egad! I watched I Saw the TV Glow. It's never too late. Please, please, please, do not forget who you are. Please start your life tomorrow. Please start it right now.

I have a lot to figure out. More than likely, so do you. Start figuring it out. For me :)

"I know that I can't make good

How I wish I could

Go back and put

Me where you stood

Nothing's really something, now the whole thing's soot."

I also kinda wrote this bc I love my Nana (previous entry), but I don't want y'all to get the idea that I think your family is forever and unconditional. There is often attachments to 'love.' Attachments of rust, rot, and ruin.