#mention of emotional abuse

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#612

"I think TOS was really progressive when it came to racism, which is cool, but really conservative when it came to sexism. When it comes to sexism, it is really conservative and it makes me sad, because these writers were able to break out of of the culture that was surrounding them regarding almost every other question, EXCEPT sexism. And to this day fans don't see it, they discuss Metamorphosis or Friday's Child, and they're like "relax, it's just very old, so what if the doctor touches the patient against her will or hits her when she doesn't let him, or a gas cloud kills a career woman, then takes over her body so that it can be used for sex (something neither the feminine gas cloud, nor the original woman wanted, btw)". Also, I think leaving Mudd with his emotionally abusive wife-clones was cruel (although yeah, the idea that men can also be abused and don't deserve it is probably progressive even by today's standards). When it comes to sexism, shows like Bewitched and I Love Lucy were more progressive than Star Trek, so I don't buy the "silly Americans were very very sexist back in the day, whatcha gonna do" excuse. It wasn't just "the times"."

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<;< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || Next > Latest >>

Chapter 21: June 1999

Gerard doesn’t know if the man droning on and on in front of the crowd should properly be called a priest or a minister or a preacher or what, but he’s not wearing a clerical collar and he’s incredibly dull. The only thing keeping him from making faces to try and make the flower girl and ring bearer laugh is the fact that he knows the bride will kill all three of them if they do. If the Matron of Honor doesn’t beat her to it.

Uncle Roger looks happy, at least. Aunt Lily doesn’t exactly look happy, but at least she doesn’t look completely miserable. Martin and Melanie are hard to read from the outside. Gerard knows they’re both excited about what this means, and they’re taking this very seriously, but he also knows neither one of them is particularly comfortable.

Mostly it’s the clothes. Martin’s suit, while in theory made to fit, is just a bit too tight around the middle and shoulders, and his shiny black dress shoes are narrow and pointed and probably pinching his feet, which are short for his size but wide. Melanie, on the other hand, is stuffed into a monstrosity of taffeta and tulle and metallic-threaded lace that would emphasize her curves if she had any and wearing a pair of white patent-leather heels that bring her up to Martin’s shoulder. Neither one of them can fold their arms all the way, leaving Melanie clutching both handles of her now-empty basket and elbows akimbo like a marching band member at attention and Martin biting his lips in concentration as he fights to keep his hands at the perfect distance to not drop the pillow resting on them.

It’s also hot and stuffy in the venue; Gerard is having enough of a problem, but at least there are people around him fanning themselves to keep him cool. It’s practically airless where the bridal party stands. Melanie’s hair, pressed into ringlets for the occasion, has gone limp in the heat, whereas Martin’s by contrast has curled more tightly than usual. The flames on the candles on the altar aren’t even flickering.

Still. It’s the first wedding Gerard has ever been to; not much of a surprise, as he’s a thirteen-year-old boy with no relatives aside from his mother and no connections other than the people involved in this wedding. It means he has nothing to compare it to, but it is rather nice, and a bit exciting.

If only the officiant would shut up already.

He does, finally, and then there’s a lot of talk about bonds and sanctity, and both Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily are making promises and reciting oaths. Martin steps forward carefully and presents the pillow—there’s a small tearing sound as the seam up the back of his suit jacket splits but doesn’t completely separate, thank goodness—and the couple slip rings on one another’s fingers, rings Gerard knows are made not of gold or silver but of polished bone. The officiant declares them man and wife, and they kiss, not particularly romantically or tenderly but sincerely enough.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officiant says at last, “I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Roger King.”

Polite applause, the wedding march strikes up and the party processes out, and Gerard is free. Or at least as free as he can be under the circumstances.

He ditches his seat and goes looking for Martin and Melanie.

He finds them in a vestibule, tucked safely out of the way. Martin has shucked his suit jacket and stands behind Melanie, unzipping the back of her dress. Anyone else would think they were up to something inappropriate, for all they’re only ten years old, but even if they hadn’t just become stepsiblings, Martin’s known he likes boys even longer than Gerard has and Melanie swore both of them to secrecy over the fact that she got Rose Lovejoy to kiss her right before break. Still and all, it’s probably a good thing they’re somewhere hidden.

“There,” Martin says, draping his discarded jacket over Melanie’s shoulders. The split is far less noticeable, considering she’s half his size and it hangs loosely on her. “Should be enough to pass muster, anyway.”

“Thank God we did the pictures ahead of time.” Melanie turns around and grins when she sees Gerard. “Hey!”

Martin turns, too. Gerard beams and holds out his arms. “Congratulations!”

They both hug him tightly. It’s cooler out here, at least, but they’re all still a bit sticky and they probably hug for too long under those circumstances. Still, Gerard is probably almost as excited for them as they are. Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily being married means Martin and Melanie won’t ever have to risk being separated—they’ll have at least one friend they can always count on, no matter where they go. Gerard will always hunt them down, too, but it’s not the same thing.

They’re family now, real family, and nobody deserves to have a loving family more than they do.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Melanie says into his shoulder. “It feels like I’m going to wake up any minute and it’s just going to be another dream.”

“I can’t believe it’s real, either,” Martin admits.

“I can believe it’s real, because if this was just a nice dream it wouldn’t be so bloody hot,” Gerard says, making both of them laugh. He pulls back and grins at them. Melanie’s got a life in her eyes he’s rarely seen, and Martin looks happier than he has since they laid his grandfather in the ground fifteen months ago. “I’ve never been to a wedding before. Do they usually go like that?”

“More or less,” Melanie says. “They didn’t have the ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ part, though.”

“Probably so no one could object,” Martin mumbles. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “I was kind of worried Mum wouldn’t do it at the last minute, though. O-or that—that my dad would suddenly come back and say it was all a mistake.”

Gerard snorts. “Dead men rarely walk into the middle of highly emotional situations with nothing more than a hi, everyone, did you miss me, so I don’t think there’s any worry of that.”

Martin’s brow creases in evident confusion. “He’s not dead. He just left us. With Mum being sick, and me—he said we weren’t worth it and walked out on us a couple months before I met you.”

Oh. Okay, Gerard is, as usual, an idiot, and he definitely walked right into that. It’s going to be hard dancing at the reception with his foot in his mouth, but he’ll give it a go. “Shit. Uh, Martin, I don’t—I’m pretty sure he’s dead.” He drops his voice as low as he can. “I think he’s in Mum’s Book.”

Martin’s face turns paper white. They all know what the Book is—Gerard’s mother showed it to them last year just after Martin’s birthday, telling them to watch closely and then reading aloud in a language Gerard now knows was Sanskrit from one of the pages until somehow, none of them saw the moment it happened, the ghost of a woman appeared in front of them sobbing and begging to be freed. She meant it to demonstrate what wonderful things could be done with a powerful book in the “right hands,” or so she said, but all of them had been terrified. More so when she explained to them in detail exactly how all the people had become trapped in its pages, and what she would do to them if they ever displeased her.

“What makes you think that?” Melanie demands in a hissing whisper. “Did you see him?”

“No, but I heard Mum and Aunt Lily talking once, and it sounded like Mum was teaching her to read in some other language, and when she read that page to us I recognized some of the words. And after a while, she told Aunt Lily that ‘in a few more days, you’ll be ready to pull him up whenever you want, you’d be amazed how cathartic it is’. Something like that.”

Martin swallows hard, twisting his hands together. “That—that doesn’t mean it’s my dad. I-I mean…it could be anyone who’s done something bad to Mum.”

“Like who?” Melanie demands.

“I dunno. Anybody. Everybody. To hear Mum tell it, the whole world’s been against her since the day she was born, except Roger and Aunt Mary.” For the first time Gerard has ever heard in all the time he’s known him, a little bit of bitterness slips into Martin’s tone when he speaks about his mother. “Depending on how long ago it was, it might even be Granddad.”

“It was longer ago than that,” Gerard assures him quickly, before Melanie can get spun up. He only met Martin’s grandfather once or twice, but the old man was amazingly kind to both him and Melanie, treating them both like they were as much his grandchildren as Martin. The thought of him being bound in the Book is even more painful than the thought of Martin’s father—or Gerard’s—being bound to it, but Gerard is sure he isn’t. “It was even before Aunt Lily and Uncle Roger were dating. Why’d they wait so long to start, anyway?”

“Dad had to wait for the mourning period for Mama to be up,” Melanie answers, still looking tense but not pushing things. “He can be kind of old-fashioned sometimes. It might have been Grandmama and Grandfather pushing it, too, but I dunno. Anyway, he didn’t just wait a year after she died, he waited a year after he met Lily.” She pauses and looks up at Martin uncertainly. “Am…am I going to be calling her Mum too?”

Martin looks uncertain. “I dunno. That’s kind of up to her, I guess. Just like it’ll be up to your dad if I can call him that, too.” He thinks for a moment. “Actually, it might be Mum’s call on that, too.”

Gerard decides to try and change the subject. “We can worry about that later, I think. C’mon, let’s get out there for the reception.”

“Yeah, they’ll both be upset if we miss the cake-cutting,” Melanie agrees.

Martin gives an exaggerated bow and offers her his arm dramatically. “May I escort you, milady?”

“You may, good sir,” Melanie drawls, resting her fingertips delicately on his arm. She extends her other hand towards Gerard. “Will you accompany us, my liege?”

Gerard bows so low his hair—which he’s managed to avoid letting his mother cut for long enough that it’s down to his shoulders—brushes the floor, then sticks out his arm. “It would be my honor, mademoiselle.”

All three of them dissolve into a fit of giggles as they proceed towards the courtyard, where the reception has been set up. Gerard knows it’s going to be rough—that Martin’s mum will find something to pick at or belittle him over, that Gerard’s mum will be poisonously sweet and do something hurtful to them, that Melanie’s dad will be too wrapped up in his little cloud of bliss to notice and none of them will tell him for fear of upsetting him—but for the moment, he’s happy to be a teenager, reveling in his friends’ joy.

He can save the little bit of hurt over the fact that they get to really be brother and sister, while he’s just going to be called that, for later. There will be time enough for sadness, for knowing that he’ll never matter as much to them as they do to each other, some other time. For now, he’s going to put it out of his mind and enjoy the moment.

[aintnopartylikeaprideparty]

as someone who has experienced abuse from someone with a personality disorder, it's actually incredibly easy to not dehumanize everyone with a personality disorder. i've seen people do borderline eugenic rhetoric surrounding people who have npd, aspd, bpd or other personality disorders, and then be like "I'M allowed to say these things because i'm a survivor, and if you disagree you are hurting abuse victims."

and frankly? i'm tired of it. as an abuse survivor i'm here to say that you're NOT allowed to turn into a fucking eugenicist the moment you're hurt by someone with a personality disorder.

does hurting and belittling other people who happen to have the same disorder as your abuser, people that are already suffering and that are already looked down on by society, bring you any healing? does it bring you peace?

Being hurt by someone isn't an excuse to hurt others that you feel justified in lashing out on. you're literally in control of your own actions,

you may claim to be making a safe space for abuse survivors, but i will never feel any solidarity with you, and i ESPECIALLY don't feel safe with you considering i might have a personality disorder.

you are excluding a large amount of abuse survivors in the name of "advocacy". a lot of people with personality disorders developed one or multiple due to heavy abuse. in the aim of creating a safe space, you are excluding the ones who need a safe space the most.

[infinite-beginnings]

The line when Charles said, "Edwin's told me loads of stories about Hell," and him seeming to know he'd find a map in Edwin's book always hits me hard.

Now I acknowledge Charles might’ve been posturing to reassure the Night Nurse he could navigate Hell, but let's assume this fact was real.

Because that means that Edwin felt comfortable enough to talk about all of his trauma to Charles. He mentions Hell a lot in passing in front of the girls, but he never goes into specifics. However, it seems as if he actively told Charles quite a few details about Hell. I also noticed that Charles is very calm when he's going to find Edwin. Yes, he's studying the book a lot, but he is also navigating the space with a certain amount of confidence. I'm sure it's partially due to Charles' tendency to do things without thinking and project confidence. But also, it seems as if he might have at least a very basic level of knowledge or familiarity with the levels of Hell based on the stories Edwin told.

I think this is probably another reason why Edwin struggled to believe the fact that Charles had faced abuse in his past and never shared it with Edwin. Because Edwin was always up front and honest with Charles. He told him the very first time they'd met that he had just escaped Hell. I'm sure Edwin did not want to relive his memories of Hell, and maybe it took him decades to feel like he could share. But I bet when he started talking about it with Charles, he felt relief. Because sharing your trauma with someone who accepts you and loves you no matter what is always a relief after holding it in and pushing it down.

So I just imagine Edwin feeling that relief after sharing his stories from Hell and feeling closer and more bonded with Charles because of it...and then he finds out that Charles has this huge amount of trauma from his past that he has been keeping inside. It probably breaks Edwin's heart that he hadn't been able to offer Charles the same relief he'd felt.

And yes, Crystal mentioned that Charles was probably denying the trauma even to himself. We all know that Edwin knew something was off with Charles and that he was probably frustrated in himself because he hadn't been able to figure it out, but Crystal apparently had.

But I also think there might be another level to it. The boys have been solving cases for 30 years. I find it hard to believe that they never had another case involving abuse or at least someone with a controlling personality that would've reminded Charles of his father. Maybe Edwin thinks back to a couple of those cases and how Charles was acting strange and withdrawn during them and realized he'd missed a huge clue about how his friend was feeling.

All those years of sharing his stories from Hell and being comforted by Charles and Edwin hadn't been able to do the same. Edwin is definitely hurt that Charles didn't feel like he could confide in him and heartbroken to think about how much pain his friend was going through alone.

[disheveled-opossum]

Alright, this has probably been done before, and I'm not SUPER into the whole, "humans are space orcs," community, so this feels like breaching containment for me, but I had a thought. Yanno how a lot of people who have been in toxic and abusive relationships, (familial, platonic, romantic etc.) often talk about their experiences with how hard it is to leave the people who are hurting them, because of various different reasons from codependency, to emotional manipulation, trauma bonds, and so on and so forth? Well, what if some ill-intentioned aliens catch wind of humans' ability to pack bond, even with those who've hurt them, but what they don't realize, is how fucking capital 'A' ANGERY, we get when someone we know, is being abused. And I don't mean this in a white knight, someone swooping in to save the other human from the relationship, with little to no input from the victim, these situations are very delicate and complex. But like, especially the side of this community, that likes imagining humans as notorious deathworlders, imagine that you, as an ill-intentioned alien, have, for whatever reason, decided to use a human's pack bonding instinct against them, you think this is their weakness, that you now have immense control over them, you're enjoying the power high, but now, this human's family/friends/whatever, fucking hate you, you go to a party, or gathering, hell, if you live close enough, you just step foot out of your dwelling, and you're met with one of space's most infamous predatory species, glaring at you, they don't strike, they don't yell, they're generally civil, all things considered, but you feel watched, hunted, as you feel their gaze on you wherever you go. Idk, I'm just rambling.

[faramirsonofgondor]

“Gabe isn’t abusive in the show” ARE WE WATCHING THE SAME SHOW???

Gabe is literally introduced by yelling at someone who, when Percy apologizes for Gabe’s behavior, says “I’m walking out, you’re walking in. I should be apologizing to you.” And then Percy reluctantly and slowly walks inside. And Gabe immediately starts in on him (calling him “Genius” in a mocking tone) as Percy repeatedly expresses that he just wants to talk to his mom ( and Gabe’s subsequent “Is that all you have to say to me?”) The fact that he answered Sally’s phone and acted like he had every right to do so?? The way he shows begrudging respect when thinks Percy was violent towards another kid at school?? The “you would think that because you’re a child, you don’t understand things…” The way he gets annoyed that Percy wants to know where his mother is. The “what are we doing Percy? every time! wow…wow!” in such a condescending tone??? Percy’s immediate alarm when Sally calls Gabe’s name. Gabe immediately yelling at Sally, not knowing anything about Percy’s life (he didn’t even know his school’s name despite literally just talking to them), the way he makes Sally negotiate to use the car (“Why am I okay with this?” “Make sure they put the hot peppers on my sandwich please!”) the way he acts like his tone of voice shouldn’t matter to Sally because he said “please” the aggressive behavior even after he concedes to letting them use the car (getting in Percy’s face, pointing his finger at him, etc.), like???

Just because he isn’t depicted as smacking the shit out of them doesn’t mean he isn’t abusive. He is constantly yelling, even when it’s not necessary, and is overall condescending and rude towards both Percy and Sally. He has a positive reaction towards the idea of Percy being violent, which means that he probably has no problems getting violent himself, even if it isn’t show on screen. The fact that he is constantly trying to redirect Percy and Sally’s decision to make himself the center of it (he is trying to goad Percy into an argument when he gets kicked out of school and overall keeps trying to redirect the conversation back to himself, he acts like he is allowed to breach Sally and Percy’s privacy but then makes Sally get his permission to drive somewhere, and even then she has to give him something in return). Like he is very clearly controlling and emotionally/financially abusive (he acts like Sally’s things are his despite not having a job and likely blowing through their money). It also seems like he tries to diminish Percy’s self esteem, possibly to keep him and Sally under his thumb (it’s a common tactic used by abusers to make the victims feel like the need to depend on the abuser). Overall, just because he might not be physically abusing them, doesn’t mean he isn’t abusing them and doesn’t mean his actions aren’t harmful. Furthermore, just because he isn’t violent on screen doesn’t mean he isn’t violent.

[dykedvonte]

Curly not immediately punishing Jimmy for assaulting Anya is something I don’t think a lot of people are viewing in the complex context for Curly as the superior to both of them and closest confidante they had.

Like I am in no way saying he didn’t under react or fail Anya by not being harsh or direct with Jimmy but it really is the case that he really couldn’t. Imagine being stuck in such a confined space with very little areas to genuinely hold someone if they commit a crime. It’s not like this was an event that occurred before they departed or that they have easy communication with The Pony Express to ask for how to proceed when something like this arises. Not to mention, Jimmy’s relative power in relation to Anya as the co-pilot and second in command, he has the knowledge and access to do something to her had Curly directly punished him in this setting.

They were also Curly’s friends. It’s not just the case of him mediating something between his subordinates but people he is personally invested in don’t want to see spiral further in Anya’s case while also not wanting believe his friend go that bad in Jimmy’s actions. They were both suicidal and Curly putting Jimmy’s stability first is both out of bias but also the fact he’s aware at some level Jimmy is a danger to himself and others if not constantly placated. Combined with the fact he was in denial or just not piecing together what Anya said it’s hard to say what he buying time for and what he had treat as urgent. This isn’t even saying he doesn’t care about Anya but he’s not going jump to the worst conclusions about his friends even if part of him acknowledges the evidence saying so. It’s a complicated thing but he’s still human and needed to process it on top of trying to keep a ship that already took on a lot of water from further sinking, metaphorically.

I just personally think that while Curly failed Anya, it was a scenario where there wasn’t much he could do to the best thing by her safely and like Jimmy, we are underestimating what a good leader would do in a very fragile and tense situation like he was in. By the time he may have been ready and had a plan, things were much too late.

[championofdayalola]

saying real quick as a bit of a callout to both Aurorus and Anon that people can be controlling [or just, outright abusive] towards their children and still love them. Is the parent still in the wrong, absolutely, but the two are unfortunatly not mutually exclusive.

That being said, this is very much not how you should be raising Tropius/Auroava because it will just lead to her fearing you and you are being very emotionally abusive. Take some time to reflect on yourself and your culture, and, other cultures too.

No, you don't love her. If you really loved her you wouldn't be treating her like this.

You don't love her, you love the power you have over her. The thing that you love is controlling her.

I love her, I love her and Amaura both. I simply want the best for them.

[phyrestartr]

Sacrosanct | Adrian Tepes x M!Reader | (PT.1)

Part 1 | Part 2

W/C: 3.8k C/W: mentions of emotional abuse, blood and gore, canon-typical violence, religion, religious abuse, religious themes, death, mentions of death, depression, alcohol abuse Tags: PLOT!, SFW, eventual NSFW/sexual themes, drama, repressed romantic feelings, slow-ish burn, childhood friends, starts s4 (eventually moving into nocturne), mutual pining, angst and drama, hurt/comfort, reader is kind of an ass lol

Note: soz if there are any spelling/grammar errors---I have been tweaking this so much and I'm so tired of it so I'm just posting the first part to get over it lol o(--( hope it's fun to read!!

1. A Man Amongst the Ghosts

Isolation was an unkind thing. Whispered secrets, foul howls and the like plagued the afflicted's everyday, wrenching away all hope of peace. The dolls, ones made in fits of lonely mania, kept Alucard some sort of company until those humans wandered through, filling in the emptiness that Trevor and Sypha once filled themselves; Taka and Sumi never could replace a Speaker and a Belmont, but the attempt was appreciated. 

Until their humanity showed. Their hatred of vampires, their distrust of anyone beyond themselves, their desperation—all reflected in dark, stone eyes as they loomed above him like the grim reaper, ready to take their pound of flesh from the bloodline that'd evaded Hell for so long. Yet what the two did not know, and what Death had always known, was that Alucard decided to live. 

But what's the point? That disease of a question never was to be answered. His mother would no doubt remind him of how precious and sacred life was, how he simply needed to seek out a spark of inspiration to once again find meaning, but how was one supposed to see meaning in the meaningless? Alucard didn't have an answer. Adrian didn't, either. 

Maybe I just need to wait for a surprise, he lamented. Another world-ending threat, or something. Maybe I could start one myself. I've nothing better to do, anyway. 

The dhampir sighed as he walked up the steps. Then, in the mouth of the great building, he paused; before him stood a figure, cloaked and still, facing the castle stairs. 

“Oh, God,” he breathed, rubbing his eyes, “not another one.” Surely, there was a way to cleanse the castle. Surely, there was a way to remove the spirits of his past, the ones who came and went as they pleased while Alucard watched on and suffocated. Surely, everyday life didn't need to be so—

His trance snapped at a sound. The castle made noises, but it didn’t scuff leather soles against stone, nor did it kick rubble out of its way to make room for hollow, echoing footsteps. Any noise the place made was slow and languid, like it was straining with each and every attempt to haunt its inhabitant; however, those footfalls were brisk and quick and so much like his mother's when she was in a rush. 

But that wasn't Lisa Tepes. It was an intruder—a real one. A man amongst ghosts.

A distant door closed, and Alucard exploded into movement.

Magic fuelled his steps, hurtling him forth in smears of vibrant crimson as he pursued the whisper of a heart beating. Whoever had tried their luck sounded calm, unbothered. Alucard was eager to change that.

The dhampir burst into the lab. A sharp yelp harmonized with the slamming of the door. Another shout was cut short the moment Alucard grabbed the stranger by the throat and pinned them to the wall with a resounding thud.

“Do you have a death wish?” He growled over whatever the stranger tried to say. 

A pause. Then, the threat was answered with a laugh, something sardonic and bitter. 

“A death wish?” They—he—scoffed, clawing at the gloved hand keeping him pinned. “Is that meant to intimidate me, you stupid, blood-sucking beast?” 

Alucard squeezed harder, earning a sharp whimper from the intruder. “It should scare you very much, yes.” 

“Wait,” he squawked. 

“Why should I?” Alucard snapped. “If I don't, you'll take from this place, won't you?” 

The stranger’s pawing turned into thrashing. 

Alucard continued, “If I don't, you’ll return and attempt to kill me. Worse, you could kill me the second I—”

“Adrian.” 

His grip weakened. 

The stranger gasped in lungfuls of air before hastily pulling back his hood. His face—your face—illuminated in the gentle morning light. 

Your gazes held for a long, long moment, one that might have gone on forever, one that might have only been a delusional second, but it was…familiar. Secretive and special, like when you lifted sweets from town and shared them underneath a table in the library.

“Don’t tell Miss Lisa,” you whispered, eyes glimmering with mirth despite your serious disposition. 

Adrian huffed and took a sweet roll from the basket. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She’ll be completely cross if she finds out.”

You nodded, and the pact was formed. “We must make sure we wash our hands afterwards,” you added as you ripped a roll in half and nibbled on the frayed edge. “I, too, will be cross if we get sugar on the books.” 

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

You turned your nose away like a pompous brat, and Adrian laughed.

His grip loosened more, and your pulse started to slow against his gloved fingertips. 

“You,” Alucard said slowly, sluggishly. “Why?”

“I’ve come to do the work your worthless self has refused to do, you brute,” you sneered.

Alucard released you and watched you collapse. You rubbed your throat, hand shaking.

“I forgot how much of an asshole you were, alchemist.”

You glared up at him through tear-coated lashes. 

“I've never forgotten how much of a spoiled brat you were, Adrian.” 

“Alucard,” the dhampir corrected. 

“What?”

The blonde turned away and wandered to where he'd seen you puttering. “They call me ‘Alucard,’ now.”

You scoffed. “The opposite of Dracula, yes, of course, how very dramatic of you.” He heard you drag yourself back up to your feet. “It's a stupid name.”

“So is ‘(Name)’.” 

“Oh, fuck off. If you're going to insult me, at least make it worthwhile.” 

You stepped up beside him, straightening out your clothes and fixing your disheveled hair. Alucard glimpsed flashes of light-coloured markings against your skin before they vanished beneath your clothes. He had no mind to wonder what they meant, but he did find them pretty.

“What are you doing here?” He sighed, suddenly so, so defeated. “This isn't your home.”

You sucked your teeth. “It was, once.”

“Not anymore.”

“Your mother said I'd always be welcome.” You picked books off the floor and set them on the cracked desk. “‘Always’ hasn't ended just because she's passed.” 

Alucard's face twisted. “Don't speak of her. You have no right.”

“She was my mentor,” you said offhandedly. You threw a few more books onto the table. “I mourn her, too.”

“Yet you weren’t there when—”

“Neither were you.” 

The cold left Alucard's veins, exposing his raw nerves to the needling truths he had shunned in favour of shutting down, disappearing into the numbness of winter. What right did you have to remind him? What right did you have to reappear and give him grief? 

Thorns punctured the backs of his eyes. Alucard held his head and staggered back. He needed wine, and badly. 

“Just—don't touch anything,” he grumbled as he turned away, ignoring whatever it was you hissed back at him. The man didn't have the energy to start a losing war with you.

—

Time passed. Alucard ignored you. He even forgot you resided under the same roof as him unless he stumbled upon you in the kitchen or engine room. You kept to yourself for the most part, and he kept to himself. It wasn't horrible. 

You were horrible, however. You were nothing short of an entitled menace to society and, more personally, to Alucard himself. Still, somehow, Lisa had liked you enough to give you a room, and Dracula had found you promising enough to let you stay in that room, much to their only child's chagrin.

“‘He has nowhere else to go,’” Alucard muttered aloud, echoing the words his mother spoke back then. “‘He's alone.’” He stared up at the cellar's ceiling before taking a long drink of wine. “‘I'm sure he'll be your friend.’”

He thought of Sumi and Taka. He thought of Trevor and Sypha. He thought of empty shadows. And when he couldn't stand the thoughts any longer, he drank, and decided the castle was too small for all those ghosts and two living men, that it wasn’t allowed to be anything but cold and painful and lonely. Bonds, people, just made life agony. 

Alucard rubbed his eyes. His shoulders trembled from a heavy inhale. 

He needs to leave.

Resolve sobered him. Alucard stormed out of the cellar like he was about to face his father again, like his life was on the line along with humanity’s fate. In a way, it was; if he didn't deal with the nightmarish imp sullying his home, he'd be no use to humanity, he'd be in no position to be sober enough to ever do anything besides mourn and cry, and that couldn't last forever. 

The lab doors came into view with the quiet shuffling of odds and ends before he threw the doors open, and stepped inside with purpose. 

“You,” Alucard commanded. “You're to get out of my castle immediately lest I—”

He slowed to a halt and took the space in; the lab was warmly lit, and it no longer reeked of blood, sweat and magic, but instead of herbs and wood; a majority of the room was cleaned, or at least straightened out, and many of the books and equipment had been returned to their rightful places; what was left of the floors, walls and furniture were free of most filth, too. It almost seemed to masquerade as a home again.

You were even on the second floor, staring out the largest window with a cup of tea in your hand—a calming sight Alucard had taken in plenty of times in the past.

“You're cleaning,” Alucard said as he approached you. 

“Astute observation, vampire.” You sipped your tea as you stared out at the vast sea of green cedar. “I'm surprised you live.” 

“Tch. Not even Dracula could kill me,” Alucard huffed. “Wine doesn't stand a chance.” 

“I'm not so sure. That horrible stench coming off of you suggests you're already a walking corpse.” 

“So you came back to play the part of maid?” Alucard asked instead of biting back. 

Your nose twitched with the threat of a snarl. “Someone has to clean up this fucking mess and it's surely not going to be you.” 

“Well, I—”

“No, shut up.” You collapsed into a nearby armchair with a sigh. “You don't get to defend yourself.”

Alucard scoffed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I was going to sort things out.” 

“Before or after you drank yourself to near-death?” 

“You're still as miserable as I remember.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I think I'm much more miserable now.” Your gaze dropped. “This house is a mess.” 

Alucard scoffed, hackles rising. “Of course, it's the house you worry about.” 

You frowned. “Someone has to.” 

“Are you ever going to learn how to be pleasant?”

“I wasn't made to be pleasant; I was made to be exceptional.”

The dhampir laughed, earning a hot glare. “You mean by those mad heretics that attempted to open the gates of Hell over and over? Is that meant to be ‘exceptional’?” 

The muscles of your jaw tensed, and Alucard thought he heard the grind of teeth. Your family, whoever they were, were a weak spot for you. He knew that well.

“Fuck you,” you uttered like a pagan curse. “You've no idea what I've endured, what my makers were like.”

“My father is Dracula,” Alucard said, “he tried to kill me, killed thousands of humans, tried to end the world—”

“Yet you still live, and the world is still in-fucking-tact, isn't it? Maybe not your world, but the one that matters most.” You glowered out the window as you stood. “As far as I see it, you're rather lucky.” 

“Lucky?” He repeated, an edge of hysteria lifting his voice. “Really, you'd call this lucky?”

“It could have been a lot fucking worse.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“You wish.” 

You turned sharply and abandoned him. Alucard listened to your brisk footfalls disappear behind a collage of distant bookcases, some broken, some intact. The rifling and shuffling of wood and paper took over not too long after he lost sight of you. You'd so easily gone back to work. 

He's always been that way, Alucard remembered. Would rather putter about instead of dealing with people. His mother had never been anti-social. His father was, however. Maybe your shared distaste and skepticism about humans was what bonded you. Maybe humans made you so jaded, too. Maybe, in another world, they'd have made Alucard the same. 

He wandered after you, following phantom footsteps until the dull clapping of book covers became clear. You were mumbling under your breath, exasperated and annoyed as always with the one-sided argument you engaged in. It was another common sight; Alucard recalled finding you bickering with the air far too often in your shared younger days. Lisa never had an explanation for her son, but she had words of comfort to explain your quirk. 

I thought you didn’t remember your parents, Alucard wanted to say, but that look on your face, the one that stirred something in his chest and ate everything in his veins, snuffed out whatever flame of confidence he thought to face you with. 

–

Alucard let you be for a long while. He didn't know how long, per se, but at least…a while. Some time. Maybe a week or two. A month? Hard to tell.

When did I kill those two? He wondered dryly as he wandered back from yet another trip to the river. Feels like centuries ago…maybe longer. Is this what Father felt in that long, miserable life of his, until he met Mother? He didn't want to dwell on it long.

Instead, he dwelled on the man standing before the skewered warnings at the castle's front door. 

He could see your foot tapping and shifting to and fro—toe, heel, toe, heel—the same way you had as a younger teen. Alucard hated it, especially when your hard leather soles clacked against the hardwood like a woodpecker knocking on a tree. 

Alucard snorted. Woodpecker. That summed you up nicely.

“What are you smiling about, vampire?” You snapped. Alucard thought venom might shoot from your eyes or flame might spew from your mouth.

“Why are you staring at…those?” He asked instead. 

Your expression weakened into something a bit more innoxious. “I'm wondering why you needed them,” you said, turning to the gruesome display. “And if I should summon them again to kill them myself for whatever they've done.” 

Alucard couldn't look away from you. “‘For what they’ve done,’” he echoed, voice weak. “What makes you think they’ve done anything at all?”

“Adrian Tepes would not skewer someone if they weren't as damnable as the fucking night beasts staked in their company,” you decided, pointed words acrid with something intense.

A weak warmth spread across Alucard’s skin. The feeling tried to go deeper, back to somewhere long forgotten, but he didn’t allow it. How could he, after so many had taken that sacred place for granted?

“Oh.” The dhampir cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I see.”

Your eyes flicked to him and pinned him in place. Yet, a moment later, your brows lost their creased tension while your stare abandoned its edge in favour of something kinder—or perhaps less lethal—as you gave him a quick once-over before your stare ultimately landed on the bare skin peeking out from beneath his jacket. 

Your eyebrows raised a little, smoothing out your chronic resting bitch face, and your eyes lidded so slightly. Alucard fought the urge to pull his jacket closed while at the same time resisting the impulse to throw his jacket off. You still did strange things to him.

“Where is your shirt?” You asked. 

Alucard cleared his throat. “I, ah. It's…complicated.” 

One of your brows quirked as you turned to face him, arms crossed. “I highly doubt that.”

Alucard could not find it in himself to admit his melancholy stopped him from doing anything—merely speaking such a thing into the world would be too much to bear.

“Fine,” you scoffed. “Then what's that scar?” 

“My father,” he said. “He—well. We had a disagreement, you could say.” 

You winced. “Dracula must have been far gone to hurt you.”

Alucard flickered a smile. “He was.”

Your lips parted, then sealed again, but you didn't look away. Alucard saw sparks of the you he used to find comfort in with the way you beheld him; you wore that thoughtful, gentle look whenever Adrian found himself in trouble or in pain. It warmed him to know you might not have changed much in that way.

Before your old friend could admire you much more, you turned and straightened out your cuffs with a neat, crisp flourish. “Well, that’s a shame. I quite liked your father.”

“I know.” 

Alucard couldn't find anything more to say. Yet you still stayed put as though you held out hope for him to say something more. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t, and you were not known for having the patience of a saint.

Helpless, Alucard watched you disappear into the gaping mouth of the castle doorway. It was strange, he thought, how your silhouette seemed to meld with the shadows as soon as you stepped out of the sun. Then again, he was slightly out of his mind. 

Instead of following after you, he braved a glance at the rotting faces of Taka and Sumi. “He’s been here much longer than you two,” he murmured, eyes casting back to the ground. “And he hasn’t tried to trick me, kill me, or fuck me. Maybe this is how bonds are meant to forge.” A long, heavy sigh left him. “I don’t know.” 

Eventually, he found himself wandering the halls, his sad, half-filled pail sloshing beside him and occasionally spilling onto the hardwood. You'd yell at him for it, probably spew something about ruining the already battle-ruined floors, but the punishment didn’t seem too harrowing; at least he'd have company.

Then, he heard a noise, and followed it like a fool following a premonition. However, his quest actually had a prize at the end: you, messing about with pipes in the boiler room set beside the engine room. Your hands were speckled and smeared with grease and other shiny residue, yet your clothes were as clean as they could be with your shirt tucked properly and sleeves rolled up to reveal a stretch of skin marked with faint, blue sigils.

He stepped forward when you tried to twist a piece of pipe free with just your fingertips. Gently, he brushed your hand aside before gripping the measure of pipe and yanking it free with a single, easy motion. 

“You could have asked,” Alucard said, holding the pipe out for you. “Instead of ominously vanishing into the castle, I mean.”

Your nose scrunched as you took the piece with a dirtied rag and set it aside. “You seemed too busy wandering around, looking like a dejected donkey holding a bucket, and, last I checked, mules don't make for great conversation.”

Alucard set the bucket to the side. “Well, I'd rather champion the removal of pipes so you may keep your delicate, frail hands clean. Seems better than being a sad donkey, at the very least.” 

“Hm. You already need a dozen baths, I suppose, so this can't be too uncouth for you,” you said, leaning away from him and looking over some schematics. 

“Oh, well perhaps I should go bathe rather than help you, then.” 

“Ah-ah,” you scolded. “Your fate is sealed. Remove the next two pieces, vampire.” 

Alucard rolled his eyes but did as he was told, much to his chagrin; he'd rather have running, hot water again than constantly wandering to the river day by day, of course, but he'd have to survive a short stint of servitude under your cruel, critical rule for that to happen. It wouldn't have been worth it if he hadn’t been hoping for petty banter and a chance to ask questions. 

“Those markings,” he said, “I've been wondering about them.” 

“Hm.” 

“Care to explain?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Will you?”

You turned away, and Alucard stifled a sigh. Wonderful first attempt at an actual conversation. Almost as tactful as Belmont. He grimaced. God, please make me into anything but Belmont.

“Alchemical sigils,” you said, striking through Alucard’s thoughts. 

The dhampir's mind whirled for a snap. “Really,” he said. “I suppose I should have recognized them.” 

You hummed in maybe annoyance or agreement before turning back to the machine. “They're lesser-known. Most present-day alchemists are forgemasters, besides. They've little need for incantations when they've their chosen tools.”

Alucard leaned down to peer over your shoulder at whatever you were scrutinizing in the boiler. “Hm. Then your markings are a tool of sorts?” He wondered.

You frowned. “A curse may be more accurate.” 

Alucard glanced at you again, then to the back of your neck when another symbol—a familiar thing, one that looked like a star of sorts—caught his attention, and sparked a machination of curiosity and alarms in his mind. “A curse.”

Your hand clapped over the mark, and you turned to him, sharp and quick like you were expecting to parry.

Alucard raised a hand to surrender. “I didn't mean to—”

“Quiet,” you snapped. The word twisted strangely, like a distortion rippling in water before calming again. “Do not expect more from me than that which I give you. Do you understand?” Alucard nodded, and you seemed to calm. “Good. Now, just shut up and do as I say, yes? No more questions.” 

No more questions. Your demand only piqued his curiosity.

After helping you with what would become a lengthy, gruelling project, Alucard found his way to the rickety Belmont vault and wandered through aisles upon aisles of books. A worried sickness curled in his stomach and chest; last time he'd been down there, he'd brought two others with him.

He shook his head. Focus. You need a book about alchemy. Old alchemy, no less. 

There were plenty of books to choose from, but Alucard was quick to realize alchemy was not the core of your mystery, but the root; it was something related to it, something that used alchemical symbols and other sigils born from similar knowledge. 

And finding a hexagram etched into the crumbling spine of an old, leather book gave him a solid start. 

“Hm. Ars Goetia,” Alucard said aloud, tongue thoughtful with every syllable.

As though something answered him, the air hummed. It buzzed with life, reverberating with something kinetic and physical, like the bone-rattling depth of a choir. Books shuddered, earth shifted, debris fluttered from the roof—then, it all receded, drifting away like a midnight yawn and leaving nothing but a dissonant, distant ring in its wake. 

“Well,” Alucard exhaled, “that was interesting.” He sat himself in a mostly-intact chair, and opened the book. “I wonder if that was meant to ward me away. I suppose time will tell.”

---

Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts or if you'd like to be tagged for the next part :'D

[mayadoesfandomstuff]

Now with reading summaries of the podcast episode and watching some of the clips, it genuinely triggers my anxiety hearing about how Dream treated his friends and especially those who are more vulnerable than him (like Tommy being a teenager), especially since I experienced the same kind of thing with one of my ex toxic friend from about last year this time and it's so unnerving.

Tommy saying that he tried settling things privately, keeps getting empty apologies, and then for Dream to just keep doing what he was doing without changing anything really brought me back to my own conversations where I would basically almost beg her to reflect on how she's hurt me and her apologizing with a "I'm sorry you felt that way." and then continuing on to act the same way.

Tommy and Jack talking about how it was almost like he didn't understood what he did was wrong and it taking so much to explain things to him and in the end the whole thing not clicking, reminded me of long conversations I had with her trying to make her understand why she was being hurtful and still, at the end of it, still not agreeing with me on why her words were hurtful to a mutual friend.

Tommy questioning whether or not he's accurate on how badly dream treats him and only having very few people to vent to really hit hard and it brought me back to when I could only talk about how bad my ex friend was to me to only one person who wasn't trying to play devil's advocate for her. Someone who was also hurt and has also publicly expressed her disdain for her to the rest of the friend group and we honestly felt like conspiracy theorists half the time who couldn't speak about this publicly or outside our most inner circles (i.e. just us and maybe my family members).

There's so much of this that they talked about that I'm seeing disturbing parallels to me and that relationship and it does make me wonder if it was just a toxic friendship or outright emotional abuse or both or am I crazy or whatever because it's not like we had a large age gap and the only thing she may have over me was that she was physically abled while I was housebound and nearly isolated except with my family and online conversations with our same mutual friends and maybe she was lighter skinned and was actively colorist against me and my other friend that she also hurt but man, this is really making me think.

My heart goes out for Tommy and I do hope that he closes this chapter of his life and finds success in his new ventures and hoping that he never has to interact with Dream or his associates again.

[enden-agolor]

my bf and i made a jesskas stardew valley au and we have been playing like crazy nonstop like it’s all i think about right now so here’s a bunch of doodles for it 😍

in the au jesse is the farmer who moves into town from the city and lukas replaces a character named penny, basically living her life (they both share interests in a few things and both have such kind, caring personalities so it fits trust me bro). for those who don’t know… penny’s life in game is kind of horrible. if you are familiar with the game, i’m sure you know what penny’s deal is and the dark reality she is living with her mother who happens to be an emotionally abusive alcoholic. so lukas deals with that, along side a few other things that kind of make his home life way worse (i’m so sorry lukas) but finds solace in the new farmer that he hadn’t met until about a whole year into jesse already living in beacon (pelican)town.

more art under cut

‼️warnings for implied emotional abuse involving a parental figure‼️⬇️

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website Soundtrack for this chapter can be found here

Chapter 61: January 2011

Gerard is still of the opinion that, if it’s going to be wet in January, it should at least have the decency to be snow and not rain.

At least it’s only a drizzle, not a hard, pounding rain. Not that it matters, he’d be out here regardless, but he worries about Martin when the weather gets sloppy and wet. Ever since he got so sick last year, both Gerard and Melanie have tried to keep on top of him to make him take better care of himself. And to his credit, he’s been fairly good about it. But when it’s like this, when the weather can’t seem to decide what season it wants to be and the dampness sinks in, he sometimes gets caught not properly dressed for the weather.

He hurries along the path, dodging puddles and the occasional passerby, until he reaches his destination. There are a decent number of pubs around here, but his aim is not one of the big, flashy ones drawing on the area’s history or tourists. It’s a grimy little hole in the wall, not exactly one you have to know someone who knows someone to find but the kind of place you just skip over on a casual look. Gerard, as he always does, pauses briefly on the sidewalk to look at it. The windows are the old-fashioned kind, beveled glass that don’t really let you see in or out and don’t actually let in that much light either, but the lights behind them are golden, cheery and welcoming on a night like this.

He shoulders his way through the dark green door and into the pub.

It’s not particularly crowded, but then, it is a Thursday evening. Still, there are a few regulars gathered. Technically, Gerard—and Martin and Melanie—qualify, even if they aren’t here every week, or even every month. But it’s where they always go when they get the chance to gather for a pint, and it’s small and quiet enough that nobody knows to find them here, and they’re never bothered. Gerard scans the room as he pulls down his hood. The man behind the bar catches his eye and gives him a smile and a nod, then jerks his head in the direction of the part of the pub overlooking the Thames. Gerard returns the nod and heads in that direction.

Sure enough, Gerard finds Melanie at their usual table, a mug in front of her and a pensive look on her face as she gazes out over the rain-spattered river just outside. The shutters are always open at nights, and on the darker days. She looks up when Gerard pulls out a chair and smiles. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Gerard smiles back and sits down. “Got my message, then?”

“No, I’m out drinking on a Thursday evening instead of working on the next episode of Ghost Hunt UK completely independent of you,” Melanie deadpans.

“Touché.” Gerard glances up as a pint suddenly appears in front of him. “Ta, Nancy. How’s the family?”

“Same as always, growing like weeds.” Nancy Kelly, great-great-granddaughter of the First Watch’s original owner, who currently runs it along with her husband, laughs and wipes her hands on her apron. “We’re all waiting on our Sean to come back from his latest run. Business all right at the store?”

“Yeah, I’m doing all right, thanks.”

Nancy pats him on the shoulder before walking off. Melanie watches her go, then turns back to Gerard. “She’s well and truly gone, then?”

Gerard knows she isn’t talking about Nancy. “She’s faded enough that I can get away for a bit, anyway. There’s a book she got a line on down Dover way, but she went out before she could get hold of it, so I’m hoping I can get it and get rid of it before she comes back.”

“Do you know which one it is?”

“It’s called The Cobwebbed Duchess, so if it isn’t the Mother of Puppets, I’ll eat my hat.”

“The topper, or the woolen one?”

“Why would I eat something Martin worked that hard on?” Gerard takes a swig of his drink. “Speaking of, do you know if he’s coming?”

Melanie consults her watch. “Yeah, he should be along any minute. Remember, he’s coming from Chelsea. But he sent me a text when he left.”

Gerard frowns. “If he left on time, he’d be here by now. Did Diana make him stay late again?”

“He didn’t say, but I assume so.”

A couple minutes later, the door opens; Gerard turns around and is relieved to see Martin. He’s even more relieved to see that he’s wearing his mackintosh and a brown tweed trilby (not a fedora, Gerard’s been thoroughly schooled on that front) to keep off the rain. What surprises him, though, is that he’s not alone. There’s a young man with him Gerard doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, shaking out a sleek black umbrella before putting it in the stand by the door. Nancy greets Martin with a smile and turns her cheek towards him; as he always does, Martin kisses it, then seems to introduce her to the young man, who bows and kisses her hand in a very formal gesture that makes her laugh and swat at Martin playfully.

“Is he seeing someone?” Gerard asks Melanie in an undertone.

“First I’ve heard of it.” Melanie frowns. Suddenly, her expression clears, and she stands up as they get closer. “Evan!”

Gerard gets up, too, surprised but not altogether displeased. “Good grief, I didn’t even recognize you there. Ditched the glasses, did you?”

Evan Lukas, whom Gerard hasn’t seen since he still had braces on his teeth, grins broadly and comes in for a hug. He’s a bit shorter than Gerard, but his hug is firm and warm, and he claps Gerard on the back before letting go. “Contacts, my friend. I still have the glasses for when I do the lab work, but on a day like this, who wants to deal with spectacles?”

“Shut up,” Martin grumbles, but he’s smiling too.

Melanie gives Evan a hug, too, and he laughs and tugs her hair playfully. “How’s it going, Miss Celebrity?”

“Shut it, I’m no celebrity.” Melanie rolls her eyes.

Martin takes a seat and glances over at Gerard. “Hope you don’t mind, but…”

“No, not at all,” Gerard assures him. He likes Evan, always has. Probably the only person Martin’s ever dated that he did. It’s a bit of a shame they didn’t work out in a long-term relationship, but they decided they made better friends than boyfriends. “There’s nothing serious going on. I’m just free again.”

Martin nods. Nancy comes over with two more drinks, checks on Gerard and Melanie, and then bustles off. Once she’s gone, Evan leans forward, his smile fading slightly. “You doing all right? I haven’t seen you since…” He gestures vaguely.

“Since the trial,” Gerard completes. “Yeah, I’m all right. And by the way, thank you for offering to appear as a character witness for me. It probably would’ve helped if things had gone that far. But the bookstore is still keeping on and so am I.”

Evan hesitates. Finally, he says cautiously, “I…don’t want to pry. But when I was home for Christmas—I know, Melanie, don’t even say it—I heard some talk. Your…is she…?” He doesn’t seem to know how to continue.

Gerard gets it. Evan was never going to be the head of his family, has been trying to distance himself for years, but he knows the truth even though he’s supposed to have proved himself worthy before he can learn, or something like that; he crept into the basement of his parents’ home and found the secret out shortly before leaving for college, which is probably one of the reasons he and Martin were drawn to each other initially. They’ve filled him in on the basics, but since he’s trying to keep out of that life too, it’s only the basics. Still, it’s a relief to have someone outside the three of them they can discuss this with, and Gerard knows Evan feels the same.

“She tried a ritual,” he says quietly. “Something about her Book. To bind herself to it…I think she was trying to cheat death, or master it or something. But because I didn’t help her, it didn’t…exactly work right.”

“She came back wrong, then?”

“Frankly, I don’t know that she ever really left right to begin with.”

“Blood on the steps.” Evan isn’t really one for swearing per se, not that Melanie and Gerard haven’t tried to teach him. Most of the ones he does use are ones from a fantasy novel he intended to write when he was twelve or so but never got further than the extensive worldbuilding, including the various oaths and profanities and why they’re used. Blood on the steps is probably the strongest oath he uses. He explained it to them once—something about a war and a treaty and how it’s technically a shortened version of the full oath, which is by the blood of the king spilled on the steps of the Palace of the Light—but Gerard honestly zoned out. He wouldn’t even remember the full oath if Martin hadn’t written a poem around it once. “So she’s…what, hanging about? Haunting the shop?”

Gerard hesitates. “Something like that. I don’t…really know how to explain it. But right now, she’s faded, which is why I’ve gathered you all here tonight. When she’s fully…manifested, I guess…I have to keep running errands for her, stay close to the shop as much as possible. She’s still powerful enough to affect things and I can’t risk what might happen to people if I’m not there to run interference. But when she sort of uses her power up—I guess—she sort of fades away into nothing and I’m free.”

Evan blows out a slow exhalation that becomes a whistle at the end and takes a sip of his drink. “For how long?”

Gerard doesn’t give the obvious answer: Not long enough. “Could be a day or two, could be longer. So far the longest it’s been is a week.”

“And she’s worse than she was when she was alive,” Martin puts in.

Evan looks surprised—and maybe a tad guilty. “You’ve seen her?”

“Few times. She about took my head off when I went to pack up a few of Gerry’s clothes so he didn’t have to suffer the ignominy of wearing bright colors because he wore out the two shirts he took with him backpacking Europe.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says without any real force behind it. Martin just laughs at him.

Melanie cocks an eyebrow at Evan. “You thought he was imagining it, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

“I…maybe a little,” Evan admits. “You’ve got to admit, even for us, it’s weird.”

“You’re not wrong,” Gerard agrees. “And it’s fair enough. She made so much of my life a living horror that it’s probably natural I’d hallucinate her after her death. Unfortunately, not a hallucination.”

“And equally unfortunately, still a horror,” Melanie adds.

Martin raps the table once lightly with his knuckles. “And yet fortunately, not here. Can we please talk about something else?”

Gerard can’t help but laugh. Hopefully Martin knows he’s not laughing at him. “Yeah, all right, sorry. Evan, how are things going with you these days?”

They drift into happier topics—Evan’s studies, Melanie’s show, Martin’s knitting. Nancy refills their glasses and drops off four steaming portions of fish and chips, and Gerard finds himself relaxing further. This is exactly what he’s been missing.

A few tables away, one of the old men who’s been a fixture here as long as Gerard can remember bangs his mug against the table, rises to his feet, and begins singing. “Well, here we are, we’re back again safe upon the shore…”

Evan lifts an eyebrow, obviously trying not to laugh. He gives in, though, when the old man hits the chorus of the song and Gerard, Melanie, and Martin all join in immediately. “So pass the flowing bowl while there’s whiskey in the jar…”

This is one of the reasons they keep coming back, that and the fact that Nancy and Charlie were also willing to be character witnesses for Gerard during his murder trial. They don’t always manage to stay long enough for the beer to hit enough that the singing starts, but Gerard genuinely enjoys it more when they do. It’s nice to get to sing with Melanie and Martin when it’s for some reason other than burning a Leitner. Sometimes, if they stay long enough, the group can manage to convince Martin to sing something on his own, but even if they don’t, it’s fun to join in the choruses.

Martin elbows Evan, who reluctantly joins in the next chorus—his voice isn’t great, but this isn’t the kind of place where that matters much—and Gerard gives him a thumbs-up. For a few moments, he is blissfully, totally happy.

He only hopes it lasts.

[exhelluvafan]

Can someone tell me why people still think that Stolas doesn't understand social cues or lacks self-awareness, despite the fact that Stolas did all this shit against Blitz deliberately?

Why are people still defending him with those flimsy arguments?

Like, dude, if Apology Tour wasn't enough... Then how the fuck are you supposed to see Stolas' glare (not "love gaze", because it's not that, it's an actual glare, a hateful, silent scowling glare towards Blitz, which mind you, is Stolas' victim supposed "love interest") during Mastermind in any better light?

And no, this isn't Stolas actually giving the message to Blitz that he still loves him, this is actually a glare that screams "See what you've done, imp? This is what happens when you keep denying me, I'll make you regret it, regret for ever crossing me."

Like... You guys realize that Stolas IS going to gaslight Blitz even further and hold this against him to keep abusing him without any repercussions nor objections from Blitz because Stolas "saved" his life? What kind of "wholesome" relationship is that?!

And don't come at me with the "he doesn't know any social cues" or "lacking self-awareness" bullshit, Stolas is doing all this DELIBERATELY, YOU CANNOT RAPE AND ABUSE SOMEONE UNINTENTIONALLY.

...I'll just say, whoever keeps parroting those stupid arguments, please, please for the love of everything that's living, read about abusive tactics down here, because all of this shit is just a massive advantage towards Stolas to keep abusing Blitz, and it's not "cute" in the slightest.

And if you keep defending Stolas and still giving him the benefit of the doubt after reading all that... Then you're a lost cause, sorry mate.

If people genuinely think that you can abuse and rape someone unintentionally... then you really must be either naive, or don't know how any of this shit works, because these actions CANNOT be unintentional in the slightest, they're deliberate by nature.

[inkblot22]

Give You Something To Cry About

Yay, my time management skills continue to be straight ass. Sorry to the anon who has waited so patiently for this, and thank you so much for giving me an excuse to write this depraved ball of snot. Headers by @/cafekitsune. Also don't believe everything you see on the internet, there's no scientific proof that certain things work for your skin. I think Vil would know that, considering.

This Fic Is For: Anyone who can handle it! Once again, I tried to make it as gn as possible, considering Rook's use of Franglais, but I'm delusional and will say I did exactly that. Reader is referred to with they/them pronouns, and no real allusions to specific body parts are made for them.

TW for DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, forced dieting, non/dubcon, mentions of death, questionable use of magic, captivity, someone has a case of dacryphilia and a strong sadist streak, won't say who, Rook Hunt because he freaks me out, unhealthy relationship dynamics, abuse, forced BDSM if you squint, I feel so bad for the reader in this one, toxic relationships, possibly OOC characters.

“I am not going to tell you again, my love.” Vil bends down to get in your face, already wearing his ceremonial robe and heels. He points a finger in your face, like you’re a small child or a dog, “If you continue to pick at your skin, I am going to let Rook punish you this time.”

You swallow and look away, and Vil pinches your cheeks between his thumb and fingers, pulling your head so you’re looking at him again. His violet eyes bore into you, and you swallow again.

He looks offended, almost, “Well? Have you forgotten basic manners? Speak.”

Your voice sounds dry and weak, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

He seems satisfied enough with that, moving around as he continues to prepare for whatever school-wide assembly is happening today. He elegantly tucks his hair behind his ear and sighs, scrolling through some page on his phone.

You remain standing where you are, turning your head to look out the window. It’s so pretty outside, but you only get to leave this room whenever Rook is watching you or Vil sends you on an errand. It’s always spring, never too hot, never too cold, but you’re sweating anyway.

Vil approaches you again and tilts your face back so you’re looking at him with a hand on your cheek. His eyes narrow a fraction.

“Your skin doesn’t seem to like this foundation. Make sure you discard it today; I’ll get you a new one.” He bends down again, this time to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He rubs his own together after pulling away and smudges his thumb over your bottom lip, “Hmm. What lipgloss is this?”

Your voice doesn’t sound so dry, but it still doesn’t sound like you, “Uh… The dark red one with the metallic purple? ‘Electric Berry’?

He’s silent for a second, just staring down at your lips as he cups your chin, and then he sighs and turns away, “It’s sticky. I’d tell you to wash your face and reapply your makeup, but that’d be a waste. Make sure you put on lip balm next time.”

You swallow, “Yes, Vil. I understand.”

“I have to get going now. You’d better be at least halfway done with that list by the time I return.” He breezes towards the door and gives you a last, long look. He’s completely silent before he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Your palms ache. You stiltedly wander towards the list pinned in the closet, glad to see it’s not insane today. All you need to do is tidy the bathroom and skim through Vil’s mail to see if it’s anything but hate mail or advertisements. Tack on getting rid of that foundation and that’s it, at least until he returns at lunch.

You relished this time to yourself, even if it was just cleaning or whatever else. Vil always said that motion is good for you, a structure does the mind good. You didn’t care much anymore. As you sat down to search through his mail, finding nothing but the usual hate mail and what appears to be a poem from Rook (why did he even mail that? He’s not even down the hall from this room,) you catch yourself craving something sweet.

The diet Vil has you on sucks. He has assured you that your body is lovely, and he is having you eat like this to help clear your skin, but really you just want something. Anything, you’d even take a breath mint over this lack of junk food. You’re young, what young person doesn’t enjoy gratuitously unhealthy food? A basket of french fries? Ice cream? 

You frown to yourself and toss the last of the mail into the recycle bin. You know he’s just going to check it over again anyway, but at least you’re moving around. That’s what he would say.

By the time you’re almost done scrubbing the tub, you hear the door open. You don’t want to go greet him, so you pretend you didn’t hear anything and keep cleaning, making sure to disinfect the non-slip mat that resembles a bunch of ugly gems glued together. 

You hear him clicking towards you, and his hand rests on your shoulder, “Going above and beyond today? I have lunch, come eat.”

You school your expression and stand up, pulling off your cleaning gloves and hanging them on the rim of the tub before you follow Vil. He ensconces himself in his desk chair, leaving you to awkwardly lift the stool near his vanity. He hates it when you push the furniture.

He clucks his tongue, not even looking at you, “Lift with your knees, darling. As much as I’d love to massage your back if you pull something, I simply don’t have the time.”

You can’t help it. You shoot him the nastiest glare you can muster as you lift with your knees, right as his eyes flick up to meet yours. You nearly drop the chair as his lips curl into a cold smirk.

“Do you have something to say?”

You hastily shake your head, “No, Vil-”

“Then don’t allow me to see that expression on your face again.” He bites, “Come sit down.”

You put the stool down a little harder than you mean to and take a seat beside Vil at his desk. He passes you your nice little container containing one of several things he gets you- a pile of leafy greens and chopped veggies on a bed of quinoa, fresh fruit, and a murky green smoothie topped with chia seeds.

 You don’t like chia seeds. They remind you of frog eggs- a bunch of slimy lumps, sliding down your throat. You accept the straw Vil passes to you and stir the smoothie before eating in silence.

Vil doesn’t mind if you don’t thank him for feeding you. Since he’s keeping you here, it’s pretty much the least he could do. Still, it doesn’t make up for hearing about his boring day.

“This morning’s assembly was complete and utter chaos, as usual.” He muses, sipping his own smoothie. It’s a soft purple. “It’s ridiculous. Those brutes never wear their robes correctly.”

You don’t respond. There’s two reasons: first of all, you don’t care, and secondly, there’s a knock at the door. Vil hums, as though he’s been waiting for someone, and turns to face the door.

“Who is it?”

That boisterous voice you are so used to hearing echoes past the door, “‘Tis I, Roi du Poison. I have come to join you for lunch.”

You can hear the smile in Vil’s voice, “Oh, of course. Come in.”

As Rook walks in, you feel a stab of jealousy in your chest. He takes a breezy seat on the loveseat in front of Vil’s bed and glances at you. You break eye contact and dully pick at your salad.

Vil treats Rook so nicely. He considers his feelings and opinions, although he doesn’t always listen. He speaks to him as though he’s a person. You suppose Vil’s obvious care for Rook trickles down to you in some capacity, but it hurts. Vil claims that the two of you are lovers, but really you’re more like a doll.

“Do you mind meeting me in the lab later on, Rook?”

Rook chuckles from where he is and you cast another glance at him. His eyes meet yours, again, and you look away, again.

“I can always make time for you, beautiful Vil.”

You lamely pick at the fruit, having finished the salad, before you decide to save it for last. You take a sip of your smoothie after stirring it again and openly recoil, trying not to cough. You didn’t smell it, but there must be ginger in there, because there’s a mellow burn alongside the bitterness from the kale. It makes your eyes water and settles in behind your nose.

“Mmm. Something wrong?” Vil smiles at you.

You shake your head, blinking rapidly so you don’t start crying. There’s not enough tears to fall, but taking your chances is stupid, “No, Vil. The ginger just caught me off guard.”

“Oh. My apologies, I should have warned you. I don’t want you catching a cold, and you’ve been a little irregular. The smoothie also has spinach, kale, avocado, chia seeds, and, of course, a little mango.”

You nod and force yourself to smile, taking another sip and soldiering past the rush of that aromatic pain in your sinuses. “Oh, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, darling.” Vil turns away from you to speak to Rook again, “What else did you have planned?”

“I thought I might take a walk. It is a wonderful day, non?” There’s a slight mocking tone to Rook’s voice, “Hardly the type of day to be cooped up all day, hmm?”

Vil furrows his eyebrows as you choke down the last of the smoothie. His voice is curt, “You can say what you mean.”

“Est-ce que je peux? You are not very open to suggestion.”

Vil narrows his eyes at Rook, taking a deep sip of his smoothie before he places it on the coaster sitting upon his desk. He uncrosses his long legs and stands, walking over to sit with Rook on the loveseat. Rook watches him approach with a smile, the same pleasant one he usually wears before he shoots you a beaming grin and turns to look at Vil.

Their conversation is hushed, and you can’t really make out all of what they say. You can hear someone say your name, Vil’s tone swiftly turns vitriolic, then sweetens once more, and Rook chuckles under his breath. When their little meeting is over, Vil walks back over and finishes his smoothie before petting your head like you’re some kind of cat.

His hand strokes the crown of your head, then smooths over your cheek, he cups your jaw and thumbs over the swell of your lip, all while staring at you with a look you cannot read. And then he tilts his head, and smiles.

“Make sure you thank Rook. And you mistook a letter from my father as garbage.”

“Yes, Vil.” You reply obediently, “Sorry, Vil.”

He smiles. Your palms ache, and you have to bite back the urge to move, to peel at your cuticles or scratch the sides of your fingers.

“I’ll see you in class, Rook.” Vil says politely before he tilts your face up and pecks you on the lips.

You’re left alone with Rook. He doesn’t get up, not yet. You remain where you are, looking at your slippers. You hear Rook stand up and discard his garbage. You can feel him come up to stand behind you. 

“Has today been particulièrement difficile? My poor dear… You seem so sad today.” His arms wrap around you, looping them around your shoulders so they warm your collarbones like a scarf and he can rest his cheek against the back of your head. You hear him take a deep breath in.

With Vil, you don’t even try to speak anymore. You know he won’t really listen to you, because he knows better than you… But with Rook, as long as you wait a moment to make sure he is done speaking, he welcomes and even encourages you to speak your mind.

Your breath hitches and you swallow, “Uh, I mean… I guess I’m just having a bad day. It’s really been the same as usual.”

“Hmm.” Rook hums, completely devoid of emotion. You feel him turn his face so his nose is buried in your hair. He presses a kiss against your hair and sighs, “Ah, yes, the monotony of life is très épuisant, mmm?”

You wait for a second, then deliberately don’t answer the question in favor of asking your own, “Um, he said I should thank you?”

“Perhaps you should ask why more clearly. I have convinced our very own Vil to allow me to arrange a surprise for you.” Rook removes himself from your back and turns you around to face him, “And thus, I believe I have earned a kiss from you.”

“Wait, what?” You don’t get time to really back away or tell him to explain, as Rook squishes your cheeks with one of his gloved hands until your lips part.

His grip isn’t as harsh as Vil’s, but this is still something that only happens when you’re in more trouble than usual, so you involuntarily wince and close your eyes, cowering away from Rook as he dips his tongue into your mouth and slithers it between your teeth.

It is very easy to like Rook. He is passionate, and he’s far more kind to you than your supposed lover is. He’s intelligent and has an adonis-like form, and if not for the taste of blood on his tongue from whatever he ate for lunch or the grip he has on your face, maybe you would enjoy this kiss. But the big issue is that Rook honestly frightens you a little.

It’s absolutely not his fault, not entirely. Upon first meeting him, it was hard to tell if he was being genuine. He’s difficult to read, as he is often wearing the same set of expressions and his tone is always a bit melodramatic.

His hand releases your face to clamp around the base of your head, his tongue twisting in your mouth, pressing against the crevices in your teeth.

Not only is Rook hard to read, he is also uncannily observant and will not hesitate to ask somewhat invasive questions about his observations. The fact that he dresses in a way that conceals his mass is also disconcerting, as you were unaware that he had such a build until you saw him roll up his sleeve one time. You were aware Vil could do a lot of damage, but that was the day you realized that Rook was capable of doing about as much as Vil, if not more.

He purrs into your mouth, the vibrations feeling oh-so-wrong, and his other hand clamps down on your shoulder. He sucks your tongue into his mouth. It’s not a good feeling, as he is literally stealing what little air is in your mouth. When you feel something feather light flutter against your lashes and cheek, you feel a bit confused for just a moment, not even a second, before you realize that Rook just blinked. His eyes are open. 

He pulls away and sighs, almost dreamily. You suppress your distressed sputtering, holding your breath as Rook stares at you.

“Ah, enough time has passed. I will need to leave you, mon lapin. Thank you for indulging me; your kiss was divine and tasted sweeter than the finest fruits!” He presses something into your palm and adjusts his hat before he casts you a wave and shuts the door.

You stand there, your lips drying out from the saliva left on them and your cheeks feeling a little odd from the way he was holding your face. You’re processing, because, ever as always, Rook is simulated spontaneity. So many things just happened, and you don’t… 

You blink a few times and look down at your aching palm stupidly. The crimson cellophane crinkles as you unclench your fist. He gave you a piece of candy.

Just looking at it makes you start crying. One second you’re staring wide-eyed at the little lump of sugar, and the next your vision is blurring and you’re crying off your makeup, plump tears cascading down your face. Your nose begins to run and you sniffle. You can’t find it in yourself to sob, because you’re mostly certain that these are happy tears. 

Unfortunately, you can’t eat the candy now. If you threw the wrapper away, Vil would notice it in the garbage and you’d get in trouble for “breaking your diet plan.” So you hide it in the very back corner of the drawer of Vil’s armoire. You’ll be tidying it on your own anyway, and Vil never reaches all the way into the back of it.

Once your tears have stopped, you stand up and go back to cleaning the bathroom. It’s spotless and smells like lavender and lemons about an hour before Vil gets back, so you decide to skim one of the books on the shelves. 

It’s not long before you’re bored with that as well. You carefully put the book back and wander over to the lattice window, staring out of it. The window, paired with your usual low mood, made you sort of feel like a bird in a very ornate cage. 

From where you are, about three stories up, you notice a familiar figure notching an arrow before he unnotches it and takes a knee. You blandly spectate as he fiddles with the bow.

Partway through him notching the arrow again, you see his hat tilt. He’s far away enough that you can’t see his eyes, but you can feel his stare. His gloved hand bends his brim and you jerk away from the window, only to bump into someone.

You don’t get to shriek, as a hand clamps over your mouth. It’s just Vil, but you don’t relax yet as he drags you towards the bed and deposits you there.

“How many times must I tell you to stay away from the window?”

He’s never once told you to stay away from the window. Not as far as you can recall, at least. Your lips tremble and you decide it’d be more wise to keep silent.

Vil glares down at you and you feel the rest of your body start to tremble. His lips curl into a displeased sneer, “You didn’t wash your face after crying?”

“N-no, Vil-”

“We do not stutter.” Vil hisses, bending to get in your face. He stares at you for a moment before standing straight again, “Speak up.”

You swallow and clench your hands into fists, “No… Vil. I… got rid of the foundation like you, um… asked me to. I wouldn’t have been able to redo-”

“Alright. Go wash your face.” Vil interrupts you again.

You jump up and rush into the bathroom, going through your skincare routine. You can feel Vil staring at you, your skin crawling under his gaze. As you rub moisturizer into your skin, Vil finally says something.

“Did Rook do something to you, darling?” His tone is soft, tentative.

You glance at him, blinking a few times. What does he mean by ‘something’? He did do something, but it wasn’t bad, or particularly different.

“Um… Not exactly.” You say, massaging your forehead.

“I see. What did he do?” 

You look down at the sink. You’re not saying anything about the candy. “Rook kissed me?”

“That should not be a question.” Vil says. You see him shake his head through your peripheral, “Would you like to change your clothes before I redo your makeup?”

You’d like to ask what he’s talking about, but instead, you look down at your clothing. You don’t have a proper Pomefiore uniform because you’re not a part of this dorm. You’re an interloper- or a caged bird.

You don’t know what to do here. You don’t want to say something wrong and unintentionally offend Vil. Your palms ache. You give him a confused look from where you are.

He doesn’t look impressed, but before he can say anything about you gaping at him, you speak up, “What… am I supposed to do?”

You’ve only seen Vil surprised a few times. He raises his eyebrows and looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads, then sighs, “Well, I suppose I’d like to see you in something else. I’ll choose your outfit.”

That’s nothing new, he always does that. You wait in the bathroom for him to return. He strolls back in with a mockery of the Pomefiore uniform. There’s a deep purple cloak and capelet, which Vil drapes on the bed before handing you the actual clothes. It’s a very ruffled dress shirt, the long, puffy sleeves cinched into more ruffles at the wrist paired with a pair of black bloomer-style shorts. The buttons are all white and gold, marbled together. 

Vil leaves the bathroom and you change, neatly tucking your previous clothing away in the hamper. When you leave, as usual, Vil picks at your clothing, making sure it looks as good on you as he pleases, and then he steers you to sit down.

For however vicious he can be, Vil can be oddly gentle. For every time he grabs you roughly, his touch is feather-light ten more times. He hums a soft tune as he puts light makeup on you, just your eyes and lips, and then he drapes the cloak around your shoulders and places his hands on his hips.

“You look lovely. Go put on the pair of gold boots with the black decals.”

You do as told. He very likely wants to just take pictures of you or something so he can ask that Mira app about it.

Except when you stop in front of him, he doesn’t tell you to go sit in the loveseat or on the table near his window, no, he scoops you up and presses his forehead against your jaw.

“Oh, when did you put on this cologne? What a ravishing smell on you.” He presses a kiss on the column of your throat and breezes out of his dorm room's door.

Almost immediately, you go limp in his arms, like a doll. He never gave you explicit verbal permission to leave this room, so the curse he placed on you when he decided you should be his smashes into you like a giant wave at the beach.

Vil carries you all the way outside and looks at your face, then happily struts along the path behind the dorm. Since you can’t turn your head, you can only go off of the view of Vil’s neck and chin, the sky, and whatever you can hear.

“Ah, I am glad to see you did not change your mind, Roi du Poison. J'aurais été très déçue et triste pour notre chéri.” You hear Rook say. 

You can almost feel Vil get a mite warmer, “Yes, well. Hand me the basket. Since you want to make out with them and make them cry, you get to carry them as an apology.”

Rook happily scoops you out of Vil’s arms, giving you a cloying look as he strolls along. He and Vil chat as they walk, something not really worth listening in on, just boring musings about class and “this teacher did x” or “that student did y”. An insect lands on your cheek and you are incapable of batting it away or expressing your discomfort. Its legs tickle the peach fuzz on your face and you remain still, like a corpse.

Rook slides you into a seated position, posing you like a toy before shooing the bug off of your face. Now you can see that you’re in a clearing in the woods, seated on a picnic blanket. There’s a few lanterns staked into the ground, and Rook and Vil are busy with whatever is on the floor. You can’t look down, so your best guess is that it’s a picnic.

Vil leans over and snaps in your face, smiling kindly at you, “Now. If I release you, you are not going to run. You are not going to so much as consider running. We are going to have a nice picnic with no shenanigans from you.”

You can’t nod, so you just stare at him, trying to telepathically communicate.

He looks pleased enough, “Wonderful. I give you permission to leave our room.”

Your muscles relax and you look back, finding that you’re leaned against a log. The picnic spread is very nice, as well. It looks like finger sandwiches. You’re not expecting to get to eat one, as you haven’t had bread since Vil switched up your diet. Vil passes something to you.

“Oh.” You mumble, staring at the plate Vil hands you. 

It’s a sandwich. A very wonderful looking sandwich, cut into triangles and with the crusts still on. You blink at it a few times and look back up at Vil.

“Don’t expect this to be a pattern. This is a treat for good behavior.”

You look back down, “Yes, Vil.”

“There’s no need to remind them. They’re being obedient.” Rook’s voice is more firm than you expected to hear him ever speak. Usually his tone is buoyant, and you’ve never seen him outright pick a fight with Vil like this.

“Please. You give anyone an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Vil cuts back, then turns to you and pets your head like a dog or a cat again, “Eat your food, beautiful.”

You take a bite. Bread is just as good as you remember it. The air feels thick, like you’re in a bubble as Vil and Rook communicate through eye contact alone. Before you know it, your sandwich is gone and your hands are covered in crumbs. Rook, still staring at Vil with that happy little smile, wipes your hands and places a glass in your hands. Whatever is in it smells sweet. You take a tentative sip.

Were it Vil, you would have never drank whatever this is. It kind of tastes like a mellow mixed berry juice. It’s very pleasant, actually. Better than the potion Vil used to lace your food and drinks with. You smile into the cup and Vil snatches it from you.

He takes a sip and frowns, handing it back, “Mmm. I have an even better surprise.”

Rook pulls your legs into his lap and gently kneads your calves as you watch Vil rifle through the picnic basket. What is happening? You sip your juice and Vil produces a triangular container. He places a fork on top and hands it to you.

You finish the last of your juice and accept the box, looking conspiratorially at Rook. Something you can’t put your finger on dances in his eyes and he digs his thumb into your shin a little strongly. You flinch and cautiously open the box. It’s a piece of fluffy white cake, with even fluffier meringue and an uncannily perfect cherry wedged into it.

You look at Vil, expecting some kind of trick. Not that he’s ever done that before, usually he’d just take it from you or make some snide comment, things like that, but he and Rook are acting really strange today, 

“I know how much you long for junk food, so I spent some time after club activities today whipping up some angel food cake. It’s got agave instead of sugar so it won’t completely break your diet and your skin won’t suffer as much.”

Yeah, this is weird. The cake is good, though, it’s fluffy and sweet. You pace your bites so that Vil won’t make a comment and you can savor this. You can feel both of their eyes on you and it makes your skin crawl.

You lower the cake box and look at Vil, who looks a bit offended for just a second. The fleeting expression is replaced by a pleased little grin, the mauve lipstick making the curve of his lips all the more sinister in the dimming light.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, Vil.” You glance at the cake and then back at him, “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m a little confused.”

“Why?” Rook asks.

Your shoulders jerk as you turn your head to look at him. You weren’t expecting him to say anything. His chest swells in what appears to be a suppressed chuckle as he squeezes your knee. It seems his hands have climbed.

“Uh…” You swallow, “This is just… not what I’m used to.”

“The cake?” Vil looks hurt. Why does he look hurt?

You shake your head rapidly, “No! Oh- No, Vil. I… It’s just been so long since I’ve been out here…”

“Do you want to go inside, chéri?” Rook murmurs.

You do, but you also don’t really want to risk sounding ungrateful. Being outside has stressed you out more than you’d like to admit. You’re not really sure what to do because Vil has you trained like a dog, and none of what he’s hammered into you involves picnics. You’re scared.

Rooks eyes narrow as you just stare at him. Your chest hurts from how hard your heart is throbbing, and on the other side of you, Vil sighs.

“Well, I’ll start cleaning up, then. When we get back, I expect you to take a seat on the bed.”

That sounds like what happens every time you get in trouble. A terror shudders through you and your eyes water a bit as you gnaw on your lip. Your palms ache as you fight to keep from picking at your cuticles. Vil packs up everything and Rook offers you a princely hand to help you up.

You can feel the calluses on his hands through his gloves as he essentially lifts you to your feet. You keep between Rook and Vil as you walk back to the dorm.

It’s quiet, since everyone else is winding down for bed. For a moment, you think you spot Epel, but you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. None of your old friends talk to you anymore. Not since Vil started having eyes for you.

Just as you were told, after taking off your boots you take a seat on the bed and retrieve the silver ruler from the side-table’s drawer. You place it beside you as you look down at your feet. You look down at the streaky bruises on the lighter skin on your palms and try not to start crying. It’s always worse when you cry.

He adds smacks by twos. Depending on what you did, you start with four or six, and then any time you flinch or pull away or make a loud noise, he adds two more. Last time, you spilled one of his nail polishes, and after watching you clean it up, you ended up getting ten lashes.

At least Rook didn’t do it then. He tries to make it quick but that just makes it hurt more. A tear slips down your cheek.

You don’t even know what you did. You tap the tear track dry with one fingertip and Vil and Rook fully enter the room.

“Why is the ruler out?” Vil asks, and then his voice goes sharp, “Are you crying?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Vil.” You sob.

“I don’t know why.” He grabs the ruler and shoves it away before you can raise your hands, “Go wash your face.”

You stand up and shakily do as told, returning to sit on the bed. Vil goes into the bathroom after you and Rook takes a seat next to you, his hand on your shoulder.

He smiles at you, rubbing your shoulder, “You are très précieux, chéri.”

You look at him in a state of hollow bewilderment as he brushes his cheek against yours and presses a soft kiss to the shell of your ear.

You hear the bathroom door close and a tired sigh from Vil, “Do you have no patience?”

Your head jerks to look at VIl, “Rook is…?”

“Yes, he’s joining us tonight.” Vil plucks the loop of his sleeve from his middle finger and loosens his belt. You get the feeling that the next words he says aren’t for you, “Well, go ahead.”

You feel Rook’s chuckle more than you hear it. With his lips against your neck, his hands begin to slide. The hand on your shoulder rests on the nape of your neck and his other hand slides down to your thigh, then up to your waist. You try not to cringe against his touch, but it’s difficult.

His hand slides down again as he trails his teeth against the back of your ear. His thumb hooks in your pants and starts yanking them down. You outright flinch.

“Wait-”

“Relax, darling.” Vil mumbles, hanging his clothing in the armoire.

You try. You absolutely try. Rook throws your bloomers aside and rests his hand on your lower belly for a moment. He sighs into your ear and reaches up to unclasp your buttons.

You feel stiff. You want to push him away but you can’t move. It’s as though your body is frozen. It’s not due to a curse, so the only possible solution is that you’re quite literally scared stiff. 

He pulls away your shirt and glances at Vil, “Are you prepared?”

“Please.” You can hear the smile on Vil’s lips as Rook turns back and kisses you again, his hand smoothing along your collarbone and shoulders.

Your underwear is the next to go. Of course it is. You fight to keep from breathing oddly, because you’re aware that if you pass out, Vil will get annoyed.

“Mmm.” The devil’s hand glides up your back and you fight back a shudder as Rook leans you backwards into his arms. “How are you feeling, darling?”

You’re honest, “I’m scared.”

“I thought you would say that.” Vil freely manhandles you, shifting you so you’re leaned chest to chest. He slides something off of the side table and passes it behind you, then cups your cheek, “You would save a lot of time and stress if you’d just learn to trust me.”

“I…” You hate him. You hate him so much. He keeps you here like a pet, and you don’t know how he’s supposed to expect you to treat him like a lover when he treats you the way he does. 

Before you can articulate an answer that pleases Vil, a wicked burn besets your sphincter and you clench your jaw. 

Vil’s voice is sharp, “Rook, please.”

You hear Rook make a noise underneath the harsh sound of blood rushing in your ears and your own heavy panting. Something cool oozes around the ring of your ass and you press your face against Vil’s chest. His robe is lazily tied, which is not particularly like him, and you can see his cock poking out where the fabric separates. You let out a strangled noise and Vil shushes you, rubbing your back soothingly.

“Relax. I know, you weren’t prepared. Relax.” Vil soothes.

“I don’t mind if you remain tense, chéri. Mon plaisir n'en est que plus grand. And your little cries and whimpers sont terriblement mignons.” Rook mumbles behind you.

Rook is better than Vil in most areas, but once he gets his dick inside of you, it’s as though he forgets to be caring and kind. The tables flip, with Vil acting the part of a caring lover and Rook becoming a sadistic bully. You let out a ragged sob as Rook rolls his hips and Vil hisses something that you don’t quite catch.

It almost sounded like he was telling Rook to slow down. That very well could have been the case, as Rook eases back a bit and only shallowly thrusts.

Vil continues petting you, coaxing you so your cheek is pressed against his thigh. He is always a perfect warm. He is always perfect, so it sort of makes sense, but his skin is a pleasant temperature. He feels alive, a perfectly human temperature that tells you he’s breathing and his heart is beating. As he fingers through your hair, Rook gives a harsher than usual thrust and you cry out.

“Rook, if you’re impatient then you’re going to hurt them, and neither of us have the time to take care of them all day.” Vil chides, and then his tone softens as he rubs the space between your shoulders, “Are you ready for me as well, darling?” “What…?” You ask, blearily. Somewhere in the back of your awareness, you know what he wants, but you can feel Rook’s thrusts growing impatient and seeing as you weren’t given any prep, you’re in a bit too much shock to think straight.

“Mmm… You’re awfully cute but I need you to be a bit more lucid.” Vil snaps in your ear and resumes his petting, “This isn’t the first time, sweetheart. I’m not going to hold your hand.”

The soft tip of his member spreads his pre like lipgloss against your lips. As you shakily open your mouth, you figure you’re lucky that Vil doesn’t have a chaotic, unhealthy diet like Leona or Ace, that he doesn’t drink coffee for fun or often like Deuce does. The taste of his skin is lightly floral and dominantly human, likely thanks to the body lotion he applies daily. 

He hisses and presses against your forehead, “Ah-ah. You’re taking enough from Rook. Just the tip for me is fine.”

From behind, you hear Rook grumble under his breath, “Je n'en peux plus de cette merde…”

“Watch your- unf- watch your language, Rook.” Vil snarls, massaging the nape of your neck as you carefully lave your tongue over his glans.

Rook’s patience breaks, his hands clamping down on your waist, just above your hips. You have the sense to pull Vil’s cock out of your mouth as Rook begins battering into you.

As much as you feel okay about Rook, he is not a doting lover by nature. He’s mean and brutal, chasing his climax, and only after he cums does he bother to think about you or your needs. Your palms ache as you grab Vil’s member and gently tug on it. Vil flinches and snaps at you to get your attention.

You look to the side and for a second, as the pain ebbs, you assume you’re having an out of body experience, and then you realize that you’re staring into his vanity mirror. Rook’s hair exaggeratedly sways with his motion. He removed his hat but just haphazardly displaced the rest of his clothing. He’s not smiling, he’s making some sort of smug expression.

It’s funny. As Vil is satisfied with you weakly jerking him off, his touch gentle, Rook is wild on your other end. Every time you just barely begin to relax, he thrusts harder, which makes you tense and a spike of pain batters through you. 

You endure as best you can. You endure every day, enduring through eating the same unfulfilling food, enduring through walking on eggshells around Vil, enduring getting your palms beaten to hell for the most human of errors, so what’s getting sodomized in the face of everything else you can handle?

You bite back a shriek as a harsh pinch on your bottom, followed by a smack administered by Rook. He leans down and blows in your ear, snickering as he leans back, “I thought you had given up the ghost for a second there.”

Vil sucks in a breath and you quietly mumble against his thigh.

“Hmm? I didn’t hear you, mon chou.” Rook’s voice is almost mocking, like before.

“P-please… Rook, I can’t-”

“You can. You’ll live.” He grunts, the steady clap of your ass against his body punctuating his statement.

“It hurts.” You sniffle. You’re not particularly prone to crying, but, then again, Rook and Vil usually prepare you before deciding to fuck your ass.

You sob and Rook’s grasp tightens on your waist, a ragged moan punching out of his chest. He pulls your body flush to his and jerks his hips into you, drilling a bit harder for all of four or five thrusts. And then he’s no longer on you, and you feel your body getting shifted so your head is still in Vil’s lap but you’re lying prone.

You tilt Vil’s dick down to massage the head with your tongue and something warm drips on your back. You hear a noise of disgust from Vil, capped by a quiet moan.

“Absolutely not. All three of us are getting in the tub if you don’t clean that up right now.”

Rook chuckles and coos, “Hmm, but it looks so lovely. My alabaster essence creates a wonderful contrast with their soft and supple skin.”

A flush of humiliation crawls up the back of your neck and you hide your face against Vil’s belly, using your own arm to hide the other half. Vil shudders as he pushes your head down a bit, but his voice sounds incredulous.

“That’s vile. It doesn’t have any proven health benefits, you know that.”

You felt Rook’s hands spreading his semen into the skin on your back and your palms ache as Vil cums in your mouth. He doesn’t do that often, so it hits you like a shock.

You gag but force it down and Vil shoots up, fretting over you.

“Did you just swallow that?” He bends down to look into your eyes.

“Yes, Vil.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” Vil snips, sounding much harsher than he might intend, “I’m going to run us a bath, alright, darling? I’ll make sure you can brush that icky stuff out of your mouth.”

It didn’t taste bad. Vil usually cums on your face as an incentive for you to wash your face very well after a day of wearing makeup, or he has you jerk him off until he cums, but the few other times you did taste it, it was the same as this time. It was mostly salty, not too bitter, likely from his good diet. Regardless, he breezes away and Rook gives your bottom a light tap. You stand up and glance at Rook, who is looking a bit disheveled but pretty pleased with himself.

“How are you feeling, cheri?”

“That hurt.” Your voice is quiet, and your throat is still lined with tears.

“Does it still hurt?” He smiles and tilts his head.

The sound of the tub running is thunderous even where you are. Vil would never tolerate you complaining, but Rook is amicable, “A little.”

“The bath will do you good, then. Come.”

You let Rook guide you into the bathroom, his hand on your elbow. As he undresses and joins Vil on the edge of the tub, you look down at your bruised hands and glance at the slowly closing bathroom door, then at Rook and Vil where they stand near the tub.

You can’t say you prefer either of them, really, but you don't get an opinion. Do dolls at tea parties get to ask for a different kind of tea?

[meeb-motes]

Can you do aac emojis abt gr00ming? We go nonverbal sometimes when talking abt out gr00mer.

Non /sx grooming and /sx grooming emojis .

We are a victim of grooming so these are based on our experience , hopefully it’s ok ! also sorry if it isn’t as high quality art as usual , we are very burnt out ^.^

requests are open

-F2/🍁

[angelyuji]

yandere wonder woman headcanons

diana prince x reader

tw // people pleasing, manipulation, usual yandere stuff, lasso of truth being used to interrogate/misused

big buff girls pls hmu ;) jk.... unless

missss diana prince i love you sooo much

wonder woman is known as a compassionate hero that values the truth (ive been reading the comics guys im so smart 😊) (ngl finding good comics for my girl was hard so rec me some pls)

shes kind, caring, so incredibly empathetic

she’s stubborn, reckless, and a hardcore people pleaser (shes just like me fr!!)

the first time diana prince meets you was a complete accident. she was running after a getaway car when she spots you. headphones in, attention completely on your phone. with another burst of energy, she launches herself in front of the car, one arm out to protect you and another arm to stop it completely. you can’t move frozen in fear as the car smashed into her arm, almost . you were pulled into her arms without a second thought.

“are you alright?” her face was overcome with worry.

you break down into sobs, “thank you. thank you. thank you” you bury your face into her shoulder

in that moment, all diana wanted to do was take you away from all of it. your touch on her skin felt like holy fire. you were angelic.

from then on, you saw her every day. first at a coffee shop, then at the grocery story, then at your work, then in front of your house. she wouldn’t pretend like she didn’t see you. no secret stalking. she would come up to you, ask you how you are and ask you about your day. to you diana became one of your closest friends. to diana , you were the one.

one day, she’ll tell you that she’s in love with you

“(y/n), i must confess something to you.” she turns to you on the couch.

you look over at her and she almost melts, “what’s up, di?”

she takes a deep breath, “i like you.”

“oh.” she stares at you, waiting for more. “diana, i’m not sure how i… feel about you.” you try to let her down easy, but she grabs your hands.

“(y/n), everything about you makes my heart stop. i wait with bated breath for any word from you. i would give you my soul if you asked. i love you.” diana got closer to you as she spoke. you try to inch away, but her grip on your hands were too strong. guilt swims as your mind processed her words. “please don’t say no. i love you, (y/n). i would do anything to prove it.”

you let out a breath, “maybe let’s go on a date first?” you see her eyes light up and you smile, happy to make her happy.

you keep going on dates with her becuz u didn’t want to upset her and she seems so sincere with her feelings

dates to dating to engaged to married

at the end of the day…. ur a people pleaser just like her

she would do anything for u babes like… anything

the emotional manipulation, the gaslighting, diana takes it to the MAX

she knows you would fold if she pressures u enough

shes so mother, mommy, wife, mother of my children

she babies you

like a lot

yk that post i made earlier about genius yanderes or wtv? its like that

she doesn’t trust u to do anything

treats u like a grown child

but its cuz she loves you!!!!

if you decide enough is enough and that u don’t want to get involved romantically…

“you’re lying to me.” diana’s eyes were fierce as she glares at you. it hadn’t gone too far but as she led you to the bedroom, pressing sweet kisses to your neck, you knew you had to tell her.

“i’m sorry, diana. i don’t like you like that. you’re my best friend. i just… didn’t want to lose you.” you were sobbing as you sat on the edge of the bed, head in your hands.

“all these months… you had been LYING TO ME?” with one push to your shoulders, you land flat on the bed. she straddles your hips, hands pushing your shoulders into the bed. you feel her hands tighten.

“please, diana, i’m sorry.” you choke out a sob. she lets go of your shoulders before leaning back to sit on your hips. you take in deep breathes as she shakes her head.

“no no no. you’re lying.” her eyes looked crazed and you don’t respond, fearing her strength. she starts to laugh. “you love me, i know it. the truth will prevail.” she states, she gets off of you. you sit up, afraid to move. you see her grab her lasso.

“diana, don’t you dare.” you try to move, but with one quick whip, her lasso had looped itself around you. you were trapped. “diana, don’t do this please.” you beg.

“what is your name.” diana’s eyes were cold, as she interrogated you.

“(y/n).” you can feel the words tumble out of your mouth.

“where are you.”

“in your bedroom.”

“do you love me, diana of themyscira.” you try to keep your words in, fighting the lasso. you know she would twist your words. “DO YOU LOVE ME, (Y/N). YES OR NO.”

“yes.” you sob as the word gets ripped out of you. the lasso loosens.

she wraps you into a hug. “i knew it. i knew it. i know you love me. i don’t understand why you’re fighting, (y/n), but we will figure this out. together.” she smiles at you, tears streaming down her face. you don’t respond and she presses a kiss to your lips.

i need her so bad guys i want a big buff gf soo bad i want u diana prince

not movie diana. FUCK movie diana. this is only comics diana. fuck ww 1 & 2 and FUCK gal-can't-act gadot.