#nameless!mother figure

[meathounding]

my beautiful wife who is a distant mother

[writerunnamed]

note: This is something I've wanted to write for a while but I am well aware that not everyone will be into it. There are a few stories I want to tell that aren't the norm so I decided to start this nameless blog to tell them. I am not tagging anyone, if you find it then you find it. xo Joel(stepdad), significant age gap, female reader. 18+ legal, reader is 20 (warnings: pov sex, Joel spits on the 😸, boobie play, really inappropriate dirty talk, an unused sex toy [will make an appearance in another chapter], female masturbation, daddy kink, unfit parent) 5.6k word count masterlist • series masterlist • part 2

He takes up so much space, and it wasn’t just physically. He took up space emotionally, mentally. Mentally most of all. Your thoughts always drifted back to him. Cyclical. An elliptical pattern making him the top of every list you’d go through in your head. He seemed to know it too, in a stoic, quiet, largely unsettling way. Older, attractive men tended to do that. 

It started during that in-between time, when summer, losing your job, and having to move back home pushed you to figure out what the fuck you actually wanted to do with your life seemed to come together like the planets aligning. The precipice of a turning point, a ticking clock counting down the days until your childhood bedroom would be turned into a gym, or an office, or a guest bedroom. The lukewarm welcome from your mother would ice over and you’d really have to get your shit together. 

Your mother was what people who didn’t know her would call ‘a free spirit’, what you called her, was a fucking mess. 

Your earliest memories consist of having to remind her to buy milk or to pay the bill because the electricity had turned off while watching cartoons in front of the tiny, living room tv. You’d had to remind her, in not so many words, that she was the mother, and you were the child. 

To your friends, she was the cool mom. The party mom. Your house was the place to be because she didn’t ask questions, she left her cigarettes unattended and didn’t mind if a few went missing. She kept the bar cart stocked, even if there was nothing but flies in the cupboard and nothing but half-empty condiment bottles in the fridge. Your friends loved it. 

She flirted with the boys your age, she gave sex tips to the girls. 

You smiled when they congratulated you on having the cool mom, and when they all went home, you retreated and pretended to be happy. 

Joel settled her down. Met her in a bar and moved in quick. He came into the picture when you were fifteen and you were almost sure he’d be just like the rest of the lovers she’d taken over the years. You’d given the whole thing six months. Half a year for him to see what a fucking disaster she was. Six months to be a fucking creep, to cheat or get cheated on. 

The only differences you could clock at first were that he was self-employed, and marginally better looking than his predecessors.

He was firmer though, less malleable than the others she’d brought around, he seemed immune to her charms and that only inflamed her. It made her desperate for his approval and his attention. She would throw a tantrum, or play one of her mind games but he’d never rise to her bait. He was patient for the most part, until he hit his breaking point and his temper reared its head. A temper only she seemed to bring out in him. 

To you, it was pathetic. 

He didn’t try with you though, there was no flattery or strong hand, only a silent respect. In a sense, he treated you as the adult, and her as the child. It worked for you, if he’d expected you to call him dad he would have been laughed at mercilessly and he seemed to know this. 

The disturbing part was his respect and his healthy avoidance of you worked its own kind of magic. It made him an enigma, made you curious as to what he got out of the whole thing. A home, sure. A woman who was obsessed with him, yes. Sex–yes. You heard it enough for it to turn your stomach. By the sounds of it, he knew what he was doing.

The thought sickened the healthy part of your brain. The other part though, the part flooding your body with hormones, making it come to life with curiously intense sexual feelings, that part wanted to know what it was he was so good at. How could he pull those sounds out of anyone? It was easier to imagine him with some faceless woman. 

It was shameful to imagine yourself. 

The thought–although enough to fuel a desperate journey of self-exploration–always filled you with an insurmountable guilt. 

For those first few years you could barely look at him. Your mother took it as a healthy dose of teenage rebellion. That only aggravated you more. She never asked questions, never dug to see what the cause of your obvious distaste for her partner was about and so again, you retreated. He, however, kept to the outs of your path. He followed your lead, he let you control any and every part of all of your interactions. He didn’t ask questions. He kept the lights on. He kept the fridge full. 

He burrowed his way in, whether you liked it or not. 

When you turned eighteen, you moved out. He helped, did his ‘fatherly’ duties and moved you into the apartment, he urged your mother to take you on an extensive grocery trip, spoke to your landlord about the safety of the building. You supposed you should have been grateful, you should have said thank you, given him some sort of acknowledgement that you appreciated his help but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Instead you said your mumbling goodbyes, and promptly closed the door on them. Neither of them complained. 

The euphoria of venturing out on your own had lost its shine depressingly quick. A string of chronically unserious boyfriends came and went, the rent climbed higher than you could keep up with, and while already living paycheck to paycheck, you lost your job. Your cellphone had taken the brunt of your frustration at having to call your mother, begging her to let you come back home while you got back on your feet a little more than two years after you’d left. 

Your teeth gnawed at your lips, your fingernails dug into the skin around your cuticles in the attempt to keep your voice sweet and pleading, in the end it was his voice that you’d heard in the background, telling–no, commanding her to say yes. That he would be your champion twisted at your insides. Maybe a small, healthy part of you hoped he’d put up a fight, tell you that you were too old to be coming back home and that you had to figure it out on your own like an adult. 

A healthy part of you hoped that he’d save you again, only from yourself. Hanging up with a heavy, resigned sigh, you set about starting the trek home, ignoring the swirling mess of annoyance, confusion, and perverse glee in your stomach. 

-

The first few days were spent in a depressive episode, a seemingly inescapable loop of sleeping in late, leaving your room only when the house was empty to raid the kitchen for something to eat, scrolling mindlessly–blindly–on your phone and then staying up way too late only to do it all over again. 

They didn’t bother you, but if the annoyed sighs and narrowed eyes from your mother were anything to go by, the talk was coming soon. After the third day of the cycle, you circumvent it and wake up early-ish to shower and dress in something other than ratty old sweats long forgotten by an ex you couldn’t quite remember. 

You came down to find Joel sitting at the kitchen table. His eyes tracked the lines of you, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. 

Your heart leapt. He should have been at work by now. 

“Good morning.” It came out croaky, your voice almost reluctant to come out. 

“Mornin’.” His hair was slicked back, the gray almost sparkling in the golden light. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. His eyes were so intense, you found yourself stuck in place, like a deer in headlights and that ever present, deep-seeded anger reared its head. It was irrational that he should frustrate you so much with his calm presence. 

“Coffee’s fresh, if you want some.” He jut his chin out to the pot, lowering his eyes to his paper once more. Once his gaze had shifted, you found you could breathe again. You mumbled a thanks and moved to pour yourself a cup, thankful, if unsure why, to focus on something concrete instead of abstract self-reflection.

“Your mama’s gon’ be late tonight. I thought I could pick up a pizza on the way home.” He says it offhand and again, your heart races. 

“Whatever.” You scrunch your face up in annoyance, it sounded like such a bullshit, teen response. He doesn’t comment on it, and that somehow makes it worse. You beat yourself about it as you root around in the fridge for the milk. The cereal you liked was in the top cupboard, and you’re not quite tall enough to reach it. 

You heard his chair scoot back and then suddenly he’s there, beside you, pressed up tight. You follow the long line of his throat as he stares up, reaching the box with ease while one big, warm hand lands on your lower back. He smells like the laundry detergent your mother insists on buying mixed with something else. Manly, smoky, with coffee laced through. Your cunt clenches nonconsensually as he stands there and stares down at you, his whole front pressed against your side, his hand still holding your lower back. Your mouth hangs open, stupidly, and he raises an eyebrow again forcing something to kickstart deep in your gut. 

“You okay there babygirl?” The endearment feels unwholesome.

It triggers something strange, strengthening the underlying conflict for him. There’s a lilt in his tone you don’t like, maybe because deep down you like it too much. Maybe you don’t want to admit that, or analyze anything about what the fuck is happening in your body. In your psyche. 

“Yeah.” You step out of his bubble, barely managing not to trip over yourself in your haste to get away and put a healthy distance between you. 

“Yes. Thank you.” You take a deep breath, pressing your lips together tight in what you hope to God is a neutral expression. 

He lets out a bemused huff through his nose, a mischief in his eyes shining out at you that you’ve never seen directed at you. You’ve seen it used on your mom. You’ve seen her go giggly and flirty whenever he looked at her like that. A half-formed escape plan starts to form but he saves you from the need, he puts his things in the dishwasher, and nods his head in goodbye. 

You practically hold your breath until you hear his truck rumble out of the driveway, and down the street. 

-

You manage to avoid him for a few days, staying out late catching up with friends, or feigning a need for rest. You’ve convinced your mother that your days are now spent job hunting, and for the most part they are. You leave in the morning, avoiding any and all contact and you get home late, creeping up the stairs much like you did in your teens even though you’d really never needed to. Your mother never enforced a curfew, and when Joel joined the picture, he didn’t pry. 

The luck didn’t last though, you got over-confident. He was sprawled out on the sofa, up uncharacteristically late one night when you padded through the house. 

“You’re up late.” You quickly check the accusatory tone, “Don’t you have to get up early?” Better, it comes out more concerned than annoyed and he nods. He wore a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric of it having been through the wash too many times to keep its shape. Light, gray sweats were stretched almost obscenely tight over his spread thighs, pooling at his crotch from being shoved up by the couch. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Come sit, we can watch some tv.” He pats the seat next to him and despite the deep desire to retreat into the Joel-free haven of your bedroom, you cannot seem to disobey him. 

You settle beside him on the couch, a little further away than was necessary. He chuckles softly. 

“I ain’t gonna bite you, girl. Not unless you ask nicely.” 

You pretend you don’t hear it, choosing instead to compartmentalize whatever game he’s playing and stare at the screen. He flips through the channels, settling on one thing for a few minutes before moving to something else until he finds a movie that’s already close to midway. There’s an electricity in the air, something about him galvanizing the space between you, charging it enough to make the hairs on your arms stand on end. You frown to yourself, barely paying attention while fighting an increasingly confusing mental battle. Why is it so hard to be around him? Why does he inspire such scorn? Is it scorn at all?

You rub at your eyes, scrubbing your hands down your face in a feeble attempt to wipe the slate clean. 

He’s just a man, a man your mother had chosen and for better or worse they seem to work. She is happy with him and he is seemingly happy with her, why then is it so hard to accept him for what he is? Something slithers around in your brain, something that laughs darkly, something pulsing through the network of thoughts and ideas that threatens to crack open your subconscious and throw it right in your face. 

“Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” You pull your hands away from your face to see a very explicit scene playing out on the screen. Heat floods every inch of your body. 

“Almost looks like she’s enjoyin’ herself.” He leaves it on, and you feel stuck, your body betraying you yet again to see the way the woman on screen moans wantonly while under a very handsome man. You let out a non-committal sound, teetering on the edge of madness. You scold yourself, you are an adult, an adult that has had sex before and this isn’t even real. 

“Looks like fake bullshit to me.” The strength in your voice lends credence to the illusion that you aren’t affected. He laughs, calm and completely at ease and that only pulls the anger to the forefront again. 

“They can’t show the real stuff on these channels. If it were real, he’d be doin’ what she needs.” 

“And what’s that?” It comes out before you can stop it. 

“Well,” He smiles to himself, winning a duel you hadn’t even known you were fighting. 

“If it were real, he’d be pressin’ on her clit, he’d be makin’ sure she felt every inch of him and make her take his cock like a good girl.” You let out a heavy breath, half shocked, half grateful it wasn’t a whimper. 

Warning bells go off in your head, just as a heartbeat starts in your cunt because you can see it. You can see him. His face twisted up in pleasure but cocky, his hips moving, his thumb dipped into your mouth and then swirling around your clit. He smiles at catching you looking at his hands and you want to yell at him. You want to smack him across the face and kick him in the balls for saying something like that to you, his partner's daughter, but you don’t. 

Your body almost catapults you out of your seat. Barely unintelligible words come out, something about needing sleep, about being tired and then you hightailed it out of there like a bat out of hell. 

The shower was cold enough to make your teeth chatter, but it did nothing to cool the heat blooming in your core and it was with a terrifying desperation that you ground against your fingers. The slick pooling at the mouth of your pussy was enough to feel even with the water washing everything away except your shame. 

You bit your tongue to keep from moaning out the taboo and entirely inappropriate name you were dying to say out loud. His firm thighs spread on that couch filled your mind, the calloused, work-roughened hands you could practically feel on your hips, on your thighs. You could feel them holding and spreading your legs open so he could make you make those same noises you’d heard over the years. Make you take it like a good girl, his good girl. 

You came with a shudder, sagging against the chilly tile. You warmed the water with a sigh, disappointed and ashamed with yourself, trying, and failing, to put the whole thing out of your mind. 

-

You doubled down on avoiding him after that. 

Your mother worked most of the time but when she was home, things were easier. He reverted to the healthy avoidance, the proverbial disinterest that she didn’t seem to have a problem with. You still heard them some nights, the bed creaking, throaty cries, deep grunts but now they haunted you in a different way. Now you heard his words on that couch and couldn’t help but picture all manner of unsavory things that both disgusted and thrilled you. 

Being unemployed didn’t help. There was nothing to keep you out of the house most of the day, and there were only so many places that would accept you looking for a job in person. 

There was only so much time you could spend with friends too, they had their own lives and jobs and relationships. Too busy to save you from unwanted free time. 

Old habits resurface, and you retreat within yourself while pushing yourself harder. A job would fix things enough to help, you could save up enough money to leave for good and take yourself out of the equation. 

-

The powers that be momentarily take pity on you, and after what seems like a lifetime's worth of job hunting you blessedly get a call back. It’s a part time job, but at this point beggars can’t exactly be choosers. It’s a steady, if insufficient source of income that hadn’t been available to you before. Determined, you buckle down, you channel every guidance counselor you’ve ever had and ace the fuck out of that interview.

It’s not taxing work, but you put your head down and focus with the hope that if you worked hard enough, if you made a good enough impression, made yourself indispensable they’d throw you enough shifts to make up a full time job. 

It helps. Time spent away from the house, from your mothers dried up welcome, from Joel altogether genuinely helps. You feel a bit lighter, less guilty, less prone to imagine the unimaginable. You find comfort in the absence of self-imposed temptation. There is peace in the mindless work, in the life outside of the house that no longer feels like a home. 

It's a double edged sword though, because at the end of every shift, the luck–the peace–runs out. If being at work and out of the house is a respite, returning home only thickens the tension. Time spent outside the house only sharpens the discomfort, clarifies the glaring wrongness of it all when you enter it at the end of the day. What it all is, you won’t name. That way madness lies. Issue is, with every interaction, with every chance encounter in the hallway, or living room, every second spent with him in the kitchen watching his lips touch the rim of his mug the thing inside grows. Parts of him fill the corners of your mind. The curve of his shoulders filling out the flannel shirts he favors. The fullness of his bottom lip when he purses them, something he does while squinting at the paper that you’re almost sure he isn’t aware of. His neck, his hands, the dimple in his cheek when he laughs at something really funny. 

These things jump out, innocent as they may be, but other not so innocent things start to creep in. The bulge in his jeans is a mental mine, it lies in wait and every so often when you think you’ve avoided it, it detonates and you catch yourself staring, both ashamed and so inappropriately curious it eats away at you like acid. 

What you needed was something to fill the emptiness, both emotionally and physically. So you did what any modern, adult woman would do; you bought a sex toy. 

Nothing too crazy, or expensive. After perusing the site for a while you finally settled on a plain, non-threatening dildo. Nothing too big, nothing noisy, just something to be able to focus on, something to use while imagining someone giving you what you need. You ignored that dark thing inside that hissed his name, shooed it away and ordered the package for express delivery. With your mom constantly working, and Joel keeping to himself you figured it wouldn’t be an issue. Neither of them would question a package addressed to you. 

You still aren’t sure whether or not you’d do it all over again had you known the Pandora’s box that little package would open. 

You all but rushed home after work. All day, you’d imagined the relief that toy would bring. You imagined yourself using it in the shower, steam swirling as you took your pleasure. You imagined yourself laying in bed in the safety of the dark, setting a towel down on your chair and riding it to your heart's content. 

Joel’s truck is in the driveway when you pull in, but it’s secondary to the excitement at the chance to sequester yourself with your new best friend and so when you walk into the house, you don’t give him much attention. Until he opens his mouth. 

“You got a package today babygirl. I put it on your bed.” He sits on his spot on the sofa, a funny little smile on his face. A bad feeling swells in your chest, and you look up the stairs before meeting his eyes again. 

“Thanks.” You drop your bag on the little bench near the front door, trying, and failing to keep the nervous feeling out of your voice. He nods, and you make your way up, stopping yourself from taking the stairs two at a time. 

Ice flows through your veins when you see the package is open. 

He’d opened your package, he knew what you’d bought. 

Blood pounds in your ears as you stand there, limbs cold and numb at the realization that he saw it. He saw it. He opened it, and he placed it here, on the very place you fantasized about using it. Sweat beaded on your brow, the bottom of your stomach fell out of your ass as you stood there, barely feeling the soft, worn carpet under your feet. 

“Little small, f’you ask me.” His voice at the mouth of your room made your head twist fast enough to hurt your neck. You hadn’t heard him follow you up the stairs, hadn’t heard him open your door and lean against the frame, arms crossed in haughty amusement. 

“Why would you open my package?” You clutched at it, as though he could forget what he’d seen if you held it tightly enough. 

“I didn’t open it on purpose, I’m expectin’ somethin’ and I didn’t read the name.” He pushes away from the door frame, making his way closer and it’s like the air thins as the space between you shrinks.

“I mean, I could tell you been frustrated, but this doesn’t seem like it’s gon’ help much.” He reaches out, and takes the package from you. You watch him do it, watch him, frozen as he plucks it from your hands and takes the toy out. 

“This all you can take?” He holds it, contemptuously–pityingly. 

You wanted to snatch it out of his hands, the dimming voice of reason urges you to push him out of your room and remind him that he needs to keep a healthy distance but you say nothing, you stand there, and watch him. He puts it all down on your dresser, before stepping a little closer, close enough for you to have to crane your neck up to look into his eyes. 

“No boyfriends around to give you what you want?” His hand comes up, the tips of his fingers sliding across the apple of your cheek, slipping down until his thumb pressed against the cushion of your bottom lip. 

“No one around to give you what you obviously need?” He steps a little closer, until your bodies meet. This is wrong, your mind screams it but your body is frozen under his eyes, under his touch. That part, the frozen part is cheering, it’s running victory laps as it floods your cunt with slick in preparation for something unholy. 

That same, writhing, traitorous thing whispers that this is your chance, the house is empty and your body obeys. You look your fill, you take in the curve of his nose and the furrow in his brow. His eyes are black as a crow's wing, lust-blown and completely focused on your parted lips and your shallow panting. 

Adrenaline spikes and you do something you cannot take back. You rise on your tip-toes and press your mouth to his. 

He hums into it, smiling and once again you get that feeling that you’d made the exact move he’d expected you to. A vague, but fleeting inkling that you were just a pawn on his chessboard. 

At any other time you would have stepped away and repented, ate yourself alive with guilt but his hands pulled you closer, his tongue swiped at the seam of your mouth and you opened up for him. That only made it all the more real, the taste of his tongue in your mouth, feeling his hands lower to hold onto your ass. 

The rational part of you shrinks down to nothing, and that other part, the wrong part–it swells and preens under his hands. He pulls away, and embarrassingly, you chase his mouth in a daze. 

“Oh honey, you’re just dyin’ for it aren’t you?” He herds you towards your tiny bed, the twin mattress that has been the stage for every taboo fantasy about this man, your stepfather. You shoo the word away with a shiver. 

“It’s wrong-” You almost whisper, but you don’t push him away, you let him lay you down in that bed and he laughs. 

“It is, isn't it?” He pulls at the hem of your shirt, you raise your arms for him and the picture of it is wrong, daddy taking off your clothes. The thought, the word,  should disgust you but it only pulls your hands to him. You join in, and pull his shirt up and off, biting your lip at the broadness of him. You take in each freckle, the sprinkling of hair on his chest, the dip of his throat calling out for your tongue like a siren. 

He presses his lips to yours again, licking into your mouth obscenely. Unseemly. 

“You been wantin’ this for a long time, haven’t you babygirl?” He pulls your bra off, and the shock of cold air hardens your nipples. He bites his lip to see it, unable to stop himself from flattening his tongue against a hardened bud. A sound you’ve never let yourself make out loud in this room fills the space between you and that slithering thing luxuriates. 

He moves, languidly, unhurried to the other breast and holds the plump of it in his big hand and sucks at the second bud, sucks as much of the peak as he can into his mouth, breathing through his nose while you slowly spiral into madness.

When he lets go, he presses a kiss to your nipple and his facial hair tickles your skin. 

He pulls your leggings off along with your underwear in one go and the reality of it all hits you when the air hits your soaked core. That’s when the urge to put a stop to it is the clearest, when he kneels between your legs and spreads them wide, stares at the place where he’s already filled a million times in your mind. The place that’s drenched at the mere thought of him. 

“Joel-” You start, but he pushes your legs up, folding you and then he lets a glob of spit fall from his mouth slowly, aiming it, a bullseye right on the lips of your cunt. It’s too much, too filthy and you let out a whimper. 

“I think you wanna call me somethin’ else right now.” He undoes his belt and his jeans, keeping his eyes on where his saliva slides down over the open mouth of your cunt, down towards your asshole. He pulls his cock out and part of you shatters. Your eyes flit to the toy sitting on your dresser, your eyes flit to the open door of your bedroom. 

“Don’t worry, your mama ain’t gonna be home for a while.” He smiles, conspiratorially. It's too real, it’s too hypnotic, seeing him there with his cock in his hand while your legs already ache from holding them up and open. He slides the blunt end of it through the mess he’s caused, through his spit and he groans at the sight of it. 

Your heart races so hard to feel him there, that you see the pulse of it in your vision. 

“Deep breath baby.” he warns before slipping inside the tight fist of your pussy, the size of him making you gasp. This is it, there’s no coming back from this and right now, with him seated deep, his groin pressed up tight and the tip of his cock kissing your womb you cannot even think of why you’d ever care.

This is where he's meant to be. This is where you need him. 

“Oh baby, that’s so good huh?” He thrusts shallowly, pulling out a little more than halfway before shoving his hips forward again. You don’t really know how to form words, you don’t know how to take in what’s happening. This is Joel, your step-dad, fucking you in the bed you grew up in. One hand sits heavy on your shin, holding it, the other slides up and holds onto your breast. 

“Look how fuckin’ wet this little pussy is for me,” he moans the words, “you like daddy fuckin’ you?” He thrusts harder and you moan despite the word hitting you in the stomach like a big drop on a rollercoaster. He shouldn’t say that, shouldn’t call himself that, not now. 

“No-” it doesn’t come out like you mean it to, it sounds wrong, like a caress. 

“No? But I think you do-” He leans forward, keeping his pace while pressing his chest to yours, his mouth all but lining up and despite your bullshit protest, you hitch your knees high on his ribs to make room because if he stopped you’d probably die. 

“I think you want me to be your daddy, don’t you baby, it’s okay, I want to be.” He speeds up and the sounds between your legs are so wet, so filthy. 

“You can say it, I want you to say it.” He holds himself up, his elbows caging in your skull and before you can complain or moan or cry he sticks his tongue down your throat again. Your hands finally join the fray and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him tight to you. 

“Come on baby, say it for me, tell me how good daddy fucks you.” You moan, closing your eyes while your cunt floods him with wave after wave of slick, enough to drip down your ass and onto your bed, down his balls. Enough for it to soak the curls at the base of him. 

“Look at me when I’m fuckin’ you honey.” His hips speed up and it's hard now, his thrusts making your bounce, hitting a part of you that toy would never touch in a million years. 

You open your eyes, and look at him above you, sweat beading on his hairline. Never has he looked more fucking appealing than he does right then. The word is there, in your mouth and you know it’ll taste sweeter than anything in this world. 

The wrong thing wins.  

“Yes daddy.” You moan it, and the shameful thing sets off fireworks in your being, he smiles, and tucks his head into the damp crook of your neck, feeding his lovely filth right into your ear. 

“That’s my babygirl, that’s it, fuck baby you take it better than your mama.” Something inside recoils at that, but something else, another facet of that fucked up thing inside rejoices.

“Let me hear you say it again, say it when you come.” He licks a hot stripe up your neck. His words are a filthy groan, something to tuck away for later.

He reaches down, pressing his thumb to your clit just like he said on that couch and you keen, the slip and the pressure enough to toss you over the edge with an almost painfully intense orgasm. 

“I’m coming, daddy.” It’s a shuddering whisper as your cunt clenches around him. 

He moves quickly, kneeling between your legs to pull out and then he’s stroking himself over your cunt. It’s still pulsing when he paints it in his come. You catch your breath as he tugs at himself a few more times, milking himself against you with a disturbingly familiar groan. 

The fog clears altogether too quickly. The lights are too bright, you’re naked, and he’s still got his jeans around his thighs while the guilt creeps into your veins, replacing the euphoria. 

What have I done? What have you made me do?

[rainydayathogwarts]

Protective Aaron Hotchner with wife reader during their son, Jack soccer game. Fluff and maybe suggestive 👀 Thanks!! :))

0.7k words

The two chairs you laid out for you and Aaron stay empty as you make sure Jack is hydrated enough before running onto the field, pressing one last 'good luck' kiss to his temple. When he's on and the coach instructs the beginning of their warmup, you settle into the chair, stretching your legs in the sun, enjoying the warmth on your skin. The weather has just begun warming up with the seasonal change into spring, yet you still wear a stolen knit sweater from your husband's wardrobe. The whistle blows, signalling the start of the game. Leaning to the side, you reached for the iced drink on the floor beside you, but when you straightened back up, you found that someone had invaded your space. "Oh! Hello." You laughed in shock, eyes flickering between the broad-shouldered man in front of you and your son's game.

"Hey! Figured since Jack's playing, this chair will be empty for a bit." His hair was greying, and he sported a salt and pepper beard, a false look of security and trust in his eyes. Furrowing your eyebrows at him, you sipped your drink silently. His failed attempt at a joke had his shoulders slumping subtly with insecurity, though he tried re-engaging you by sitting down in your husband's chair without hesitation. You blinked a couple of times, taken aback by the man's audacity. Sure, he'd taken your husband's seat - red flag number one - but why did he know Jack's name when you had no idea who he was? Aaron had cursed you with his wariness. "Which one's your kid?" You questioned cautiously, observing carefully as he took a swing of his beer at the bright hour of ten in the morning. "Oh, Bryce over there. Let's go Bryce, good job buddy!!" He yelled out towards the game before disinterestedly turning back to face you. "I'm guessing you don't recognise me?" The nameless man started, leaning back in Aaron's chair, "I always see you here. It's either you or your boyfriend right? Mostly you though. I'm guessing he's not around often." He glanced away, his beer at his lips, a cocky smirk gracing his feature. He definitely thought he got you with that one.

Glimpsing down at the ring on your left hand with an incredulous expression, you held in a mocking laugh. Opening your mouth to retort, you were interrupted by someone else's words. "Husband. I'd thought anyone would be able to tell by the ring on her finger. And I hate to be that person man, but you're in my seat." Your head snapped towards your husband's deep, authoritative voice, a smile making it's way onto your features. "Aaron! You're early!" You jumped up, throwing your arms over Aaron's shoulder and pulling him towards you for a chaste kiss. Aaron returned your smile, letting his hands linger at your waist before turning his gaze to the ill-mannered man. You pretended not to notice his intimidating glare towards the man until he left, busying your gaze with the match happening in front of you.

When Aaron's hands slipped away from your waist, you turned your attention back to him, grinning when you saw him take his rightful place on the garden chair, rolling his shoulders back. You crouched down to retrieve his drink, staring at him happily when he thanked you and took a sip from it, snaking his hand in yours. "Thought you'd take longer." You mumbled, cocking your head to the side. "I just had to drop off some papers. Couldn't spend my day off away from you two." You hummed, eyes quickly finding Jack on the field, his short legs carrying him across the floor. Aaron let go of your hand, placing his on your thigh, and you turned towards him to press a kiss on his cheek before averting your gaze again.

Curiously scanning the parents around the field, one thing caught your eye. The inappropriate father was now joined by his child's mother, clad in a matching sports set and bearing a giant diamond on her ring finger. You wonder if she saw your interaction or if she, perhaps, was busying herself with another woman's husband.

[whetstonefires]

Thinking about the parallels set up between Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu, and how actually most of them are oddly specious.

The sketch of the backstory lines up, but on close examination they're mirror images.

Wei Wuxian wasn't kicked out of his sect, he left it. Wei Wuxian didn't hate the house he grew up in, he loved it, and getting the people there killed was the absolute last purpose for which his dark powers were ever intended.

Jiang Cheng was no Mo Ziyuan--his jealousy was a complicated thing all twisted up with love, and while he would lash out at Wei Wuxian both as a casual means of shit communication and more damagingly in moments of high tension, he had neither the desire nor the ability to bully him, and in general respected his boundaries almost too well.

When Wei Wuxian destroyed himself about Jiang Cheng, it was to give him cultivation, and protect his life and happiness. He would never have killed him.

Madam Yu was a domineering aunt-like figure, who hated Wei Wuxian for reasons of reputation, and because she had resented his dead mother, but she crucially did not have the power to actually disrupt his lifestyle to any significant extent.

Mo Xuanyu was shut up in a small room to rot; Wei Wuxian didn't even attend classes unless he wanted to. Mo Xuanyu was weak and disliked; Wei Wuxian was brilliant and popular.

Mo Xuanyu's uncle is a cipher of a figure, without character or agency, a nonentity who is resented to death apparently mostly for what he didn't do; in theory he is the master of the house, but he certainly never protected his wife and son's punching bag from them.

And this is what got me thinking along this track: because people keep interpreting Jiang Fengmian as this, as exactly like Mo Xuanyu's nameless uncle, a nonentity who lets his wife make all the decisions, and is contemptible therefore.

He shows up in fic characterized this way all the time, handled narratively as a gap rather than a person, an absence where there should have been a parent, and it's...totally inaccurate? The man only has a few scenes but the things that are most firmly established about him are:

he regularly goes out of his way to protect Wei Wuxian

he's extremely fond of Wei Wuxian

he cares a lot about ethical behavior

he's conflict-avoidant and gentle

he can and will overrule Yu Ziyuan when he's made up his mind, and there's nothing she can do about it

his communication skills are mediocre at best

he doesn't understand jiang cheng

he has a dumb sense of humor

Now almost none of this made it into cql besides point 4 and maybe 6, 5 is technically there but buried by the cinematic framing, so I totally get why the fandom on the whole struggles to characterize him well, and it's easier to write him off.

But it keeps bugging me to see him and Yu Ziyuan squashed into the mold of the Mo, because not only is that boring and reductive and kind-of-missing-the-point, it's like. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng's characterization suffers a lot when you alter the environment and take away the influence exerted by their shared father figure.

Jiang Fengmian was Wei Wuxian's primary adult role model and it shows.

Jiang Cheng's relationship to his own sense of ethics is fraught because 'teaching him good ethics' was his dad's number one parenting goal, but they misunderstood each other so badly (partly because Yu Ziyuan kept loudly misinterpreting them to each other, which is so realistic I can't get over it, that's exactly how it works good lord) that Jiang Cheng has a direct association between the concept of 'doing the right thing even when it's hard' and a feeling of personal inadequacy.

The fact that Wei Wuxian got their dad-person's approval for being exactly himself and Jiang Cheng not only couldn't do that, he couldn't even get that same level of approval when he really pushed himself to rise to expectations, because Jiang Fengmian did not intend that warmth as a 'reward,' and so never realized he was withholding it, and therefore misunderstood Jiang Cheng's visible jealousy as a dangerous sense of personal entitlement that had to be carefully restrained, which reinforced his distrust of Jiang-Cheng-the-person and fed into a shitty loop where they were less and less able to relate to one another--that's fantastic. That's so human! I love it so much.

Both their failures are their own but at the same time it would never have gotten so bad if Yu Ziyuan hadn't been interjecting herself in there, in the middle of their relationship, fucking it up. That's family, baby.

I would ofc like if there was more fic engaging with the subtleties of all this because it's so good, mxtx did such elegant work here and it is not sufficiently appreciated. But it's the kind of thing that's hard to write good fic about; I am struggling with it myself.

So mostly I wish there was just more fic that didn't impose Mo Xuanyu's cliche angst backstory on Wei Wuxian, who has a whole different thing going on.

[sky-scribbles]

Something that, imo, Veilguard does incredibly well is building a sense of intimacy.

Inquisition felt big. You had a keep full of servants and soldiers. The maps were huge. As the Inquisitor, you had genuine political authority, to the point of regularly being entrusted with making binding judgements about people's fates.

And all of that was fun to explore! But there's something about this game's force against the Evanuris being... eight people (and a griffon and two spirits) on a broken little Fade island. No armies. No servants. You are the embodiments of 'unchosen ones', and you're all you've got.

Lucanis and Bellara cook for you. There's a book club. The companions are always in each other's rooms, talking, bonding, occasionally quarrelling. You cna decorate your room with little trinkets. Group strategy sessions don't take place around a war table, but happen when everyone pulls chairs together in the library. You have no advisors, very few political strings to pull or clout to wield. Just you.

The companions have multiple missions in which to get to know them. You have coffee with Lucanis; you place flowers on the graves of Emmrich's parents. You go to dinner with Taash's mother (however tense and disastrous those dinners are). In amongst all the world-saving, you stop to help Emmrich face his former best friend, Lucanis to confront his trauma and face his cousin.

Your forces in Inquisition were a group of nameless NPCs (plus Cullen and Harding, I guess); each of the allied factions in Veilguard has one or two 'faces' whom you work with repeatedly. You watch Antoine and Evka flirt gently among flowers. You see Viago hold Teia after Caterina's 'death'. If Minrathous is blighted, you can read Tarquin's pained letters to the Wardens asking if there's any way to save Ashur. Even the factions that didn't get fleshed out as much (and don't get me wrong, I'm sad about that) at least have emotional ties to one or more of your companions. You might not spend time with Strife or Irelin so much, but that's Emmrich's potential boyfriend, Bellara's ex-girlfriend.

It's just you and seven friends against the world, along with the tiny pockets of support you've found along the way. You've no authority to make others do what the world needs; you can barely make them listen to you. It's not much. You're not much.

But Harding and Emmrich go camping together. You stand by Taash's side as they figure out who they are. Davrin takes you out to touch grass and makes you terrible tea. Bellara gushes about crime serials to Neve. Lucanis remembers your favourite drink.

It's just you. Isn't that terrible? Isn't that wonderful?

[carl-tabora]

The Necron and the Baby

An-nakhrimun awkwardly stares at the tiny human in her hand, confused and unsure. The human stares back, extending tiny hands towards her while making incoherent noises, clearly unafraid of the soulless Necron.

What is she supposed to do, is she supposed to eat her? She quickly glances up, seeking instruction from the mature human couple, yet to her dismay only receiving their smiles.

Ever since awoke from the Great Sleep and subsequent exile by Illuminor Szeras, she has been drowning in despair and sadness, wallowing at the memory of her failing her entire species and the terrible fate upon herself and her mother. Landing her ship on this nameless planet, she sat upon the top of her ship's exterior and fell into unmoving catatonia, with only the maintenance of her mother, now a mindless warrior, drove her to act slightly.

Not even herself realized how long it had been, but before she realized, an alien race that called themselves “human” appeared. Time has been hard to grasp for An-nakhrimun, as the humans have been in a completely different state each time she paid attention to them. From colonizing the planet, building gleaming cities, fighting among themselves against their robotic servants, collapsing into primitivism, and rebuilding their society with even more inferior technology. She is the only unchanged constant on this planet.

Humans have long used to her presence, sometimes even scaling her ship to try to communicate with her. Now, with her ship buried under dirt, humans have built a park around her seat, these interactions only became more frequent. Sometimes when she pays attention, she could even see humans sketching her figure with primitive pen and papers.

Most of the interaction has been quiet and distanced, but only once, she was forced into physical confrontation.

On a heavy snowy night, two tiny humans, male and female, wearing tattered clothes, stumbled to her seat, cold and shaking. They have no home to return to, and in the winter’s chill, they will not see tomorrow’s sunrise. They embraced the metal alien lady, waiting to die, instead, they found a warm energy dome around her. An-nakhrimun, frozen in confusion and flustered at the tiny humans grabbing onto her, channeled a deflection shield to repel the coldness, in order to try scaring them away.

She sighed a silent relief when they finally left when the sun rise, and didn’t even realize just for that night, she paid so much attention to those two humans, she even forgot to wallow in her own sadness.

Since then, An-nakhrimun sometimes would find small trinkets and items on herself and her mother, scarf, small flower, sachet. She does not understand the purpose, yet keeps them as it might be of some significance she doesn’t get.

Now the two humans have matured, and they came to her with their own offspring, like a female feline eager to show its master what she produced, and asked her to join them on a “family dinner”.

The word sounds so foreign, yet so familiar. Though she lacks the flesh to consume food anymore, she remembers how her mother used to be smiling at the dinner table even with barely any food. She glances at her mindless mother, and allows both of them to be dragged out of the park.

The interaction with humans has distracted her from her own sadness, and she doesn’t hate it.

Yet, such a time would be short lived, as the current Terra time is 850.M30, and the 16th legion of power armoured genetic soldiers, serving the self-proclaimed Emperor of Mankind, will be arriving into the system in less than a year…

Scene art for my tabletop campaign, depicting the pre-campaign story of Lone Cryptek An-Nakhrimun, who sat on a planet being depressed for 10k+ years until Great Crusade came knocking. And the baby that would become the origin of her fake human face.

Reddit Source

[darknight3904]

Memory and Devotion

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʀᴀᴢɪɴᴇꜱꜱ.

ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇ��ᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ɪɴ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴀ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʏ ᴏʀ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴏᴄᴄᴜʀʀᴇᴅ. ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴀ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱ ᴀʟʟ.

The bruise on his neck aches as a nameless Avox blends skin-colored makeup into his neck to cover it up. Their touch is too forceful but it gets the job done and Coriolanus knows the importance of looking good for a camera.

He plays the part perfectly, he always does. He shakes hands and smiles politely at those in attendance. The soft click of a camera reaches his ears and Coriolanus hopes the Avox's work hasn't faded away.

The tang of the lemon drink being served burns at the back of his throat. It's your favorite, he remembers the many times he'd bring it to you at countless galas you had attended with him. Coriolanus found himself wishing that you were here, at his side sipping at your own lemon drink and laughing next to him.

No one is laughing tonight though. The mansion is filled with a strangling air of sadness as Coriolanus pretends to inspect the roses on the table.

Dinner passes slowly and Coriolanus fights to swallow the lump in his throat when dessert is served. The delicate cakes with powdered sugar on top are your favorites. The china plate underneath the sweet is staring at him in mockery with its light blue flowers and intricate gold trim.

His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton as he bids your parents goodnight. Your father thanks him, something about being a wonderful partner and friend to you and Coriolanus can't look him in the eye, instead, he focuses on your father's shiny black dress shoes. Your mother gives him a warm hug and she almost smells like you as Coriolanus keeps his face devoid of all emotion.

Time is a funny thing. Coriolanus figures this out on the night of his 30th birthday. The city lights of the Capitol shimmer as he stares at them when he realizes how long it's been since he's seen you. He wonders what you'd think of him now. Sometimes he swears he can hear you voicing your opinions through the empty halls of the mansion. Moments like that have left parts of the mansion frozen in time but the sunroom has the worst of it. Coriolanus never goes in there yet he has an army of maids tending to it daily, keeping it devoid of dust and disrepair. Everything is just as you left it, from your books with the dog-eared pages to the slightly askew desk chair and the squished pillow you liked to put behind your back for support.

Everything is just as you left it, ready for your return, just as he is now as he sits at his desk, mind replaying the last moments he shared with you.

His heart was pounding as you struggled against him. Both of you had been a wild blur of limbs and metal in the dark as he gained the upper hand in the fight you had started.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

His enraged voice filled up the room as he grabbed at your hand and ripped the chain away from his neck.

Your answer is swift and unyielding as something plunges into his side. He feels blood soak into his shirt and lets out laugh. What a clever girl you were, using the paring knife that had been at breakfast this morning.

Sure, you were clever sneaking up on him and then stabbing him. But, if you had actually been smart, you would've used a bigger knife. If only you had waited, steak was being served for dinner later, now that knife would've been perfect, with its longer blade and serrated edge.

Blood drips onto the floor as Coriolanus grabs at the chain, still attached to your ankle.

"We could've talked it out, you know. I'm a great listener."

Your time in this room has made you weak. He's able to easily staddle you and quickly use his weight against you.

The struggle you put up is admirable, futile, but admirable. The chain reminds him of a snake constricting its prey before its meal as your arms flail beneath him. Soft gasps of a dying girl reach his ears but his brain feels fuzzy as he wraps the chain around tighter.

He'd hold it for a few seconds and then let it go. That would teach you your lesson. Hopefully you'd never be brave enough to fight against him like this again. Then, he'd take you upstairs and show you the maroon curtains he picked out. Perhaps you'd like them even more than the blue ones. He wanted to have strawberries tonight, big ones, just like the one you offered him the day he first laid eyes on you.

"Coryo!"

Your voice, barely a whisper is fluttering in his ears.

"Coryo!"

There you are, saying it again. It sends a warm tingle down his spine.

He feels a smile stretch across his face.

"Coriolanus!"

His eyes flutter open and he feels the slight bit dizzy as he forces his eyes to focus. For a moment he swears its you, back from the dead, rousing him from his sleep.

"Sorry, you seemed like you were having a nightmare." Livia says, backing up from him when he sits up, neck stiff from falling asleep at his desk.

"Its fine." He replies "Its late. What're you still doing up?"

"You try sleeping with someone kicking at your bladder every five minutes." She laughs

Coriolanus' eyes follow her hand and he watches her hand gently rub over her swollen stomach. A glamorous yet tasteful ring glints on her left hand in the low light of his desk lamp.

"Right, I forgot about that." He says

Livia lets out a slight hum and he looks away, mind racing with thoughts of you.

"Are you alright, Coriolanus? You seem upset." She asks

What a doting wife he has ended up with. How thoughtful she is, asking if he is alright.

"I'm fine. Just thinking about the past."

53 years later

"Tonight's preparations for the conclusion of the Victory Tour have been finished, sir."

"Good. How far away is the train?" He asked

"About 4 hours sir. When the Victors arrive, their stylists will need about an hour to get them ready. Their escort contacted the Capitol about twenty minutes ago." The maid replies

He nods, ready to dismiss the maid and go back to his work. But, the way the sunlight streams through the curtains stops him. Maroon, a favored color of his looks back at him.

"Tell everyone who is finished with their jobs to go down to the basement. There's a separate bedroom down there with boxes of blue curtains. I want them washed and hung before the party begins." He orders

"Yes, sir."

He isn't sure of the reasons behind his actions. Hanging up those old blue curtains. Perhaps old age is making him sentimental. Sentimental for what, he wasn't entirely sure anymore.

Hours later, the mansion is still a buzz as workers rush around trying to fulfill his command of washing hundreds of curtains. They remind him of little worker ants scurrying around, keeping the nest clean.

His shoes click slightly as he wanders through his home, taking in the decor, making sure it is all as he desires. His wandering leads him through the maze of hallways, and before he knows it he's standing in front of the sunroom.

Coriolanus knows he ordered that the sunroom remain untouched, expect for its daily cleanings and basic upkeep of fresh paint every few years, nothing should disturb the room.

Everyone in the mansion knows that this room is off limits no matter what occasion it is.

So why was he staring at the room, its doors thrown open with three workers, inside moving furniture around, discussing about who was going to clean up the large stack of books that had fallen of the desk.

Your desk.

Your books.

Your room.

You.

He knows his rage frightens the workers but he can't bring himself to care as they scurry out, heads bent low, apologies on their lips. His mind races with ways to do away with them, Perhaps a swift poison, or maybe they'd become Avoxes. He'd decide on a punishment once his mind was clearer.

He feels his bones ache as his brain reminds him just how much he misses you. It had been years since he properly thought about you and your demise. You had been dead to him for so long, but now your name felt like a curse on his lips.

Unsteady feet carried him into the sunroom, He hadn't been in this room since your wake.

His eyes take in the room he had regarded as sacred for so many years.

Ruined. It was ruined.

So many years of memory and devotion, ripped from him by three incompetent workers he had brought into his home.

Your books and desk had been shoved into a corner. Some your favorite reads were scattered on the floor. His hands shake and his back aches as he reaches to scoop them back up, wishing he remembered exactly what order you had kept them in.

He fixes the room by himself, ignoring the offering of help from different maids, dismissing them rudely. It takes time but he has everything back in its place. Or at least he thinks its back in place. He can't remember exactly how everything was and he wishes he could.

He sits at your desk, inspecting the little doodles you had drawn on a few pieces of paper. A flower on one, a heart on the next. Your name written in exaggerated cursive. One paper at the bottom of the stack remains unfinished though. His name, written in the same cursive.

'Cory'

The beginnings of the 'o' are there but its as though you were called away from your work. Perhaps you would've finished this if he hadn't strangled you down in that basement room.

He traces his finger over the page that had yellowed over the many years it had been apart from you.

Tears threatened to spill from his blue eyes as he looked at your name on the paper. His hand ran over his face, it was so wrinkled and old. Perhaps it was good you were gone. Would you have even liked him if you knew what an ugly old man he had become?

Perhaps it was better that you were frozen in the past. At least you never had to witness what he had become to sit on the throne he had now.

The soft click of the door to your room opening interrupted his train of thought.

"Sir, the Victors have arrived with their escort and mentor."

Coriolanus decides you would've loved this party. From the decorations to your favorite drink being served to everyone. Most of all though, he knows you would've loved getting dressed up for it. You had always looked so breathtaking in your gowns.

Cheers and claps filled his ears as he waved at the crowds of Capitol citizens that had arrived at his home while he was picking up the pieces that remained of you.

His eyes scan the crowd and bright colors look back. Over the top makeup and wigs glitter in the night as he looks through the crowd.

Finally though, he sees her. The girl who whose fighting spirit reminds him of you and how hard you tried to get away from his grasp that day in your room. He smiles at her and she stares back, eyes as hard as steel as he takes a sip of his drink.

Katniss Everdeen is watching as he finally makes his decision about this years Quarter Quell. She won't go on to haunt him the way Lucy Gray does. The way you do. The Girl on Fire will be snuffed out, he'll see to it himself.

Bonus Part to this series

Series Masterlist

Thank you for reading this series. This is the final part of It Burns For You. If you'd like to read more of my work, check out my masterlist or follow for more. I do plan to write more for Coriolanus.

Taglist:

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@livvieboo719 @bxtchopolis @angrytriumphtree @zizouu23 @hanversace @hanversace @511isa @tatertooted @manoknapula123 @teamostevengrant @daddiejaehyun @daisiesfor-mylove @lovelypaigey @readingthingsonhere

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@livingdead-reilly

[charliemwrites]

Making this a separate post because the idea has evolved a bit:

(Was talking about this in the discord if it looks familiar)

I’m thinking less of a 1 to 1 Greek god au. I’m thinking it’s more of a theme to their dynamic and in parts of their story.

Johnny is a reincarnation of some ancient, nameless (or many-named) god, associated with dark forces. He’s not evil incarnate. But he is something of a representation of “darker” human nature. Anger, bloodlust, impatience, selfishness.

Persephone!reader, by comparison, is sort of a personification of gentler human nature. Patience, mercy, altruism, gentleness. She is less “awakened” so to speak because her mother has been a major limiting factor in her life. Like, helicopter parent to the extreme.

Persephone!reader goes to her aunt Laswell as a sort of compromise. See the world, the real world, in a controlled sort of way with her aunt watching carefully over her shoulder.

Problem is, no one is expecting the dreams to start as soon as she gets to base. Dreams of a man that scares her as much as tempts her, and encouraging the worst and most selfish of her impulses. She doesn’t tell anyone - why would she? They’re just dreams.

Captain MacTavish scares intimidates her, even though she insists that he doesn’t, looking him in the eye with her chin tilted up defiantly. When he’s on base he finds all sorts of ways to cross her path, sometimes teasing her into an indignant fluster, other times telling her off for “distracting recruits”. Always, always has an eye on her, even if it’s not his own.

Once things come to a head (I haven’t figured out how yet) Persephone!reader insists it isn’t fair. And just because they’ve been something in the past doesn’t mean they have to now.

Johnny, of course, is utterly amused. She’s barely got any idea what’s going on, but sure, she’s going to deny forces beyond life and death.

They strike a deal. When he’s away (for months at a time… a season’s length, even) she can run and hide and do whatever she wants to “escape” him. If he cant find her within a week of coming back, then he’ll leave her be and she’s “free”.

(She scoffs that he’s going to cheat, using her aunt and all of her connections but he just scoffs. As if Laswell would help him over her own niece. And as if he needs the help.)

He always finds her within a day of coming back from a mission. No matter where she is or what her name is. No matter how well she covers her tracks (even with Laswell’s help). He comes to her with gifts.

At first it would be sweet if not for the smirk on his face and the realization that she’s “lost” again. He brings flowers of all kinds, and green plants in little pots. Then it’s a new sweater, a nice coat, a piece of jewelry.

And then… and then they get worse. A bullet is the first sign. It’s just a whole bullet, her name engraved in its side. Then it’s a casing, the bullet clearly having been shot. He tells her it went right between someone’s eyes. The “gifts” become patches from enemy jackets, pretty stones splattered with dried blood, a human tooth.

It’s awful. She hates it. She can’t ever make herself say it (or believe it). And when he’s gone, she physically can’t make herself throw them away. Shes tried and tried, and the last time she put a real effort into it, she ended up on the floor having a panic attack, sobbing and calling Johnny.

(He purrs at her through the phone, gunfire background noise while he soothes her back inside. His voice keeps her company while she makes a tea, readies a bath. Tuts at her to call him again when she’s tucking into bed. She refuses to acknowledge that she does.)

Similarly, she finds herself getting or making things for him. For his inevitable return. Cigars and his favorite whiskey. Making patches for his uniform. A leather bracelet with her initials on a silver charm. A ring with an inlay the color of her eyes. Doesn’t even realize what she’s doing until she’s home or the thing is done. She’ll hide them away for months with no plans of giving them to Johnny. He inevitable finds them within his first week home anyway.

(There’s the one time she bakes for him, humming as she measures and mixes ingredients. Lets him steal tastes from the bowl and lick flour off her cheek. Only realizes what she’s done in a domestic haze when he’s eaten the sweet treat and thanked her for it.)

And when he’s home…

The deal is that when he’s home, he gets to treat her like his. Climbs into her bed, grumbling about pillows being a poor substitute for him. Steps into her shower midway through, ducking his head so she can shampoo and condition his hair with her gentle hands. Dresses her in his clothes, in his dog tags. Always has a hand on her, even in her (their) home.

And he delights in yanking her into his lap - especially in public. When his team comes to visit (and they always do) he lounges with her on his thigh. He’s also kind of a dick. Like he’s courteous to servers (mainly female ones because chances are they won’t flirt with his girl) but pretty much any stranger talking to him or his Persephone is met with smarmy asshole behavior.

It’s to the point that she just fusses at him to let her talk to people. And he’s happy to do so, amused by the way she charms people. He only intervenes when someone is rude or a little too friendly with her. She’s had to break up bar fights before because god knows his men won’t try to stop their captain.

She is literally the only being in all of history that can tell him no and stop and he’ll listen regardless of the situation. She has to actively remind herself that it’s not healthy and she should not be a little flattered about it. And she’s not. (She is.)

[maybeiwasjustjade]

My favorite running theory on Nesta’s endgame (plot-wise, not romantically; though if you asked me, she’ll forever deserve better than the bat dog) is that when she went into the Cauldron, she unwittingly came out as the High Lady of Dusk aka Theia’s true heir. Nesta’s stolen power made her immensely powerful, even more so than a High Lord. With it gone, and the Mother’s interference, I think whatever’s left is just the Dusk Lady’s magic.

Something I’ve seen often brought up is Nesta’s magic manifesting as cold silver flames. Which, anyone who has read ToG knows is very similar to Aelin’s description of Deanna’s moonfire. Coupled with Bryce’s own starborn powers manifesting as white/silver light, it’s not out of the realm of possibilities that Nesta’s magic is Dusk’s trueform.

“The age of the starborn is over on Midgard.” That’s what Bryce told Nesta when she handed over Gwydion to Nesta, and told her to figure out what her tattoo meant. Between the eight-pointed star tattoo and her connection to the Prison Island…all of it points towards the still-missing Dusk Court. And we know that Theia’s bloodline favored the females instead of the males (which is why I heavily doubt that Rhysand is the heir to dusk as many (IC stans) believe).

Then there’s also the theory that Nesta actually is a witch from her nameless mother’s bloodline. In ToG, the witches were a matrilineal kingdom so it actually fits alongside the theory about Dusk. And since it’s mostly been accepted that ToG existed long before Prythian, my theory is that the Prythian witches descended from the Crochan-Ironteeth some thousand years ago. But that may just be wishful thinking lmao.

My favorite theory though? That based on the location of each court on the map, and dusk coming before night in the solar cycle, so chances are Dusk and Night’s actual locations reflect Summer and Autumn aka split down the middle. The Prison Island sits on the western edge of Night. I don’t believe that Dusk was just that tiny island—if it was, they wouldn’t have made it a point to mention that Rhysand may be descended from Theia. No, I think Dusk was integrated into Night territory, and the island turned into a prison.

But if the location is right, and Dusk holds the entire western bank? Then it includes Velaris, too. The look on the Inner Circle’s faces (sans Azriel I think, who’s probably also Dusk-born) when they find out that Velaris by rights now belong to Nesta (as HL) would be absolutely hilarious. Rhysand might actually die from an aneurysm. Do I think she’ll take it from him? Probably not, but she sure as hell gonna be goddamn petty about it.

[diejager]

makarov hunting an/a (enemy? long assassin?) reader who doesn’t really want to work with him- reader knows their stuff, erasing tracks, setting up traps, etc- its a game

призрак Cw: canon-typical death, murder, assassination, mercenary, blood, tell me if I missed any.

You were a ghost —призрак in his mother-tongue. Appearing whenever you wanted and disappearing before anyone could find you, a phantom in the business of assassination, a killer without too high of a price. He’s watched the aftermath of your handiwork, the shows you played and the kills you made, they were a masterpiece he wanted to witness, to utilise for his goals. Even from the darkness of his solitary cell, locked away in the Gulag - the Zorgaya prison complex - he kept hearing about your endeavours.

You interest him, your brought out a certain excitement, made adrenaline pump in his blood, when you were first brought up. You were the a ghost - a wraith - that haunted the world, killing off men and women for the right number. You were a killer for hire, one of the best in the industry that even he - Vladimir Makarov - had attempted to recruit, to tie you down to his name and fame, to have you work for his purpose. Permanently.

But you were a slippery one, escaping whatever trap he carefully laid out for you, falling through his fingers, finding the smallest crack - mistake - in his plan that he once thought was full-proof. You were smart, feisty and skillful, able to see through his carefully crafted words for a hire, pushing past the firewall of his mind and planting a virus, corrupting his original purpose, rooting yourself into his sick mind. This feeling, the way his heart rammed against his rib when you sent a warning shot, or when you escaped from his grasp, this wasn’t love —no, he was a being detached from such frivolous affairs. He didn’t love. He couldn’t with his cold, dead heart. This was an obsession, Makarov obsessed over things, he knit picked, he stole and took apart.

Makarov was a being whose conscious transcended the likes of capitalist westerners who’ve corrupted his motherland, small-minded and parasitic politician who made the Soviet Union crumble to dust; whose forgone the primal needs that made humanity weak —vulnerable; Vladimir Makarov was better than any man.

That’s where stemmed his obsession with you, the need to hunt you down. You portrayed yourself as a being higher than him. A better strategist and killer than him. It went from word of mouth to ear, Makarov heard from the other guards and new inmate speak of you, you achievements, the spike in your demands and the people who were ready to give you an arm and leg to pay for your service. Powerful men and women routing you an undisclosed amount of money to kill of someone, to have them assassinated in their own bedroom, to be drowned in their own bathtub or to be poisoned by their own wine.

He had Konni keep a track on your work while he waited for the right time to be freed, jumping back to work once he landed in Russia. He took it on himself to follow your steps, he had a hand in every sector of the underworld, dabbing in everything to keep his hold over the world. He couldn’t find anything about you, neither your past nor your character, you were nameless and faceless, the hooded mask obscuring your face from the world. Makarov’s best couldn’t even track you through cameras and find your deposit account, it seemed as though you had a team of your own, working in the dark to keep your and their livelihood going.

You evaded his traps, able to figure out which deals were made by him as a ploy to catch you, to find the ghost that haunted his mind. You were a disease, a parasite that unknowingly clung to him. You knew him, the messages he received through the grapevines, taunting remarks and threats that made him see red. You were too skillful, erasing your steps, making it seem as if you were never there in the first place, uninvolved with it, but the world knew who committed the crime. This was a game - or so he liked to think - of cat and mouse, he preferred being the cat, the dangerous and cunning feline who stalked the small mouse, he had to swallow his pride and confess that he played the mouse as often as he played the cat, being hunted and narrowly escaping because you let him.

But this, this meeting was a surprise, to see his призрак stand before him, tempted by the proposition he had to offer you —without any underlying meaning or hidden thoughts.

“мы наконец встретились, Призрак.” (We finally meet, ghost.)

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday

[mutsubaki]

Muad’Dib who steals one glance from Feyd-Rautha.

Muad’Dib who comes into the chambers where the prisoners are kept in the middle of the night, disheveled and angry, and just drags Feyd-Rautha somewhere. Nobody stops him.

Muad’Dib who takes his mask off in the darkness of the Arrakis night and reveals himself as Paul Atreides. Paul, who reveals that in the morning they would fight to death, as pawns of Bene Gesserit, and that he is so tired. That he is forced to follow their path and he wants to make his own choices.

Paul, who begs Feyd-Rautha to run away with him and mess up everyone’s plan.

They run away; nobody follows. Chani takes place at the fremen Council, Irulan makes her move as a negotiator, Arrakis regains more independance, and the Corrinos keep the throne.

All while the boys get a couple of days to be boys. Run away with each other, spill all their secrets: Paul already knows everything, so Feyd-Rautha can finally tell someone. Dream about future where their past doesn’t matter. Make love.

Of course, their silly resistance doesn’t last. After one breath of freedom, Feyd longs to feel the power, and he obviously choses to get back to Giedi Prime as a Baron.

So Baron Harkonnen returns - with a nameless, faceless figure, veiled in a way resembling Bene Gesserit, but different. Feyd-Rautha says that they saved him in the desert. That he has his own Truthsayer now.

Reverend Mother Superior thinks that it’s meaningless show off. He can have his desert witch, this would’t make any impact on their mission.

This line of thought is acceptable to all parties involves.

[katyahina]

Gwyn's family tree members references and genetics (! slight updates on 12/30/2024 and 02/01/2025)

(An ask reply to an anon)

(A graph for convenience)

Alright, I will go with what we can certainly make out of the family tree! ...almost. There are definitely some missing links! You don't have to accept all of my suggestions here and only focus on 100% confirmed ones, but I will explain why I added them! Let's start in order!

Gwyn, his mother, his uncle Lloyd and... sister? cousin? fifth known child?

Unfortunately, yes, we can't be sure of Gwyn's eyes color since it appears to be just reflection of fire, nor of his hair color as he looks pretty aged!

UPDATE 01/12/2025: There is a datamined image of Gwyn without facial hair by kingborehaha on Bluesky ( x ):

So, he had a really strong and square jaw XD Might or might not get inherited by Nameless King?

However, Lloyd is his uncle, as well as certain locations connected with the Way of White stuff (Sunlit Altar, altar in Undead Paris that Reah prays at, and altar in Catacombs where you find Darkmoon Seanse ring) all feature a statue of a woman in a crown, that holds an infant with a sword:

I do not believe it is mother of Nameless King at all, since 1) statues of his were destroyed, so why keep the infant one? 2) his trademark weapon is spear, not sword, but Gwyn's IS sword and 3) this statue appears to be some 'common' object connected with Way of White!

UPDATE 01/11/2025: Found this concept art, that also confirms this statue IS of a Goddess, and also shows it in better detail!

Now, I am going to do something I normally dread to do. I am going to..... *swallows nervously* quote the text of the items descriptions in this post, instead of posting screenshots. :s Okay this will be VERY trying, but I have to do it to fit within images limit per post!

WHITE SEANCE RING

A divine ring entrusted to the head bishop of the Way of White and apostle to Allfather Lloyd, uncle to Lord Gwyn. It grants additional attunement slots. The head bishop of the Way of White is the guardian of law and caste, and one of the great royals of Thorolund.

LLOYD'S SWORD RING

Ring given to knights of the Way of White. Depicts Allfather Lloyd's Sword of Law. Boosts attack power when HP is full. Much time has passed since the worship of Lloyd was common in the Way of White. The clerics of Carim had always strongly asserted that Lloyd was a derivative fraud, and that the Allfather title was self-proclaimed. (Japanese script has 'collateral relative' (傍系) rather than 'derivative fraud')

GOLD COIN

Coin made of gold, with Allfather Lloyd and his white halo shown on its face. (...)

Lloyd have been a very relevant figure amongst clerics, taking Gwyn's role after his death until Gwyndolin grew some backbone, and 'white halo' is basically a symbol of the Way of White! However, as an uncle, he'd have to be a brother of either Gwyn's mother or father (I choose mother), and Gwyn's parents are never mentioned... I assume they died earlier. Maybe, like the statue with Gwyn in infancy suggests, too early and Gwyn was basically raised by Lloyd!

We will get to Seath and Shira properly in due time, but in Japanese, Seath's description uses 外戚, which means in-law, related by marriage to a (female) relative of Gwyn! I don't think it is Gwynevere; she is only ever stated to marry Flann, besides, Yorshka calling Gwynevere a sister while also being child of Seath feels like a dealbreaker to me! I don't think it is Fillianore either, since she was given away to keep Pygmy away! But, Shira is a "daughter of the Duke", and also can use lightning that can be a gene if both Gwyn and NK owning it is of any indication!

The thing is... I am not sure who this mysterious relative of Gwyn is, specifically. Sister? Cousin? Unmentioned child? (if Gwyndolin and Filianore were never "showcased" unlike NK and Gwynevere, maybe someone else was dodging the spotlight? heh) Lloyd's element appears to be simply sheer, clear white light, in it's purest form, whereas Gwyn's element is sunlight and lightning, so I feel like this relative at least has to be of the same generation as Gwyn himself or below (like NK)! But, yes..... this family tree is really weird, right?

Nameless King / Faraam and... Izalith?

(This ( x ) video by Crest)

He is another character with whom I am not sure! It appears that he not always had his wonderful mane, but I am not certain whether his hair always was white or not! Unlike other known children of Gwyn, that appear to combine Gwyn's traits with second parent's, NK is also kind of just "Gwyn at home", having nothing much to stand out by his own...? Gwyn's hair is most likely grey from aging, and this could apply to NK as well since he lived for a very long time. He also looks like a husk now!

On the other hand, white/grey hair might be an actual gene running in the family that doesn't depend on age! Just write NK down, this is something that will be useful later! Remember about the jaw shape tho

+ I played around with the idea that Velka could have been his mother since crows are following him too until I got a better idea, but this would be just a fun headcanon! Here ( x ) is a short post if you want to read, but in simple words; Caffrey Goddess of Fortune might have been his mother, to which he owns the chance to rebuld as God of War Faraam instead after having lost everything, who is also a sister of Velka as someone connected to birds too with the wings!

UPDATE 02/01/2025: I actually ended up loving the idea that Nameless King might be a child of affair between Gwyn and Izalith! Like I said, his siblings all have unique traits to stand out for (Gwynevere's healing and "bounty", Filianore's connection with Darkness and Gwyndolin's Moonlight), but he is simply like Gwyn and just has his lightning! So, perhaps his second parent did not have a unique affinity to stand out for, ie was not a God (or a dragon, for that matter)! I think Izalith might fit into this scheme as someone who would still be a figure important enough to be a mother of someone accepted as a legitimate heir of Gwyn, when Fire/Chaos was not always something she'd just pass onto her children:

IZALITH STAFF

Ancient catalyst of the Witch of Izalith and her daughters, used long before the dawn of chaos and of pyromancy.(...)

Him not having any flame or chaos corruption might be simply because he was born before flame became part of Izalith's body! At the same time, him being God of War is thematically appropriate for such parenting! Even putting aside the fact that Izalith and her daughters, indeed, waged war against Gods in the end, Fromsoft consistently has at least one region per game inspired by East Asian places on our planet be torn apart by war or idealising it or both! Izalith (the place) takes inspirations from both Japan and Cambogia, so with their track record it'd be entirely possible if culture of Izalith was pushing heavily on war, and Nameless King inherited the mindset for the lack of better term! After all, Gwyn's sunlight is not just a weapon, yet Nameless King had a focus on this specifically!

Additional point towards this idea is that Queen of Venn (Lost Sinner) and King of Alken (Old Iron King) both had an affair that went nowhere if ended in disaster and inherited souls of Izalith and Gwyn respectively! Souls of the Old Ones resonate with ones with most similar fates and essense, so would not it work even better had Izalith and Gwyn had an affair as well? + a sillier possible """evidence""": Lion people of Forossa are to Nameless King what crow mutants are to Velka, and they are all either brown or dark yellow! Whereas Quelaag and Quelana have brown hair, datamining revealed another daughter, Grana, has dark blond hair ( x )! Who knows, what if that's her genes x)

We only see the appearances of four of Izalith's daughters, and whereas three have normal humans appearance (ignore the lower body mutations!!!), Fair Lady is a little off! Izalith, on the other hand, appears to have a grey skin and blue lips! And it isn't necessarily a result of Chaos corruption or illness or anything of the sort (like look at Queelag having regular human skin tone)! Whereas intended game's lighting makes Fair Lady look as though she has grey skin and pale yellow-ish hair, her textures reveal grey hair and also a normal human skin-tone albeit sickly pale, as well as her stated to be a "deformed" member of the family:

WHITE HAIR TAILSMAN:

...This lock of hair belonged to a deformed member of the chaos witches,mothers of the art of pyromancy. (...)

That clearly refers to how she was born rather than her current mutation, because by this logic Quelaag would be "deformed" too, and yet she isn't singled out like this! Yet some gene that effected Fair Lady independent of Chaos is within the family. What remaining three sisters are like is up to interpretation, but for all we know, the mysterious cold colored skin of Izalith could be inherited.. With the idea of her being the mother of Nameless king, there is a non-zero chance that he'd have grey skin even in his healthy state, independently of what he ended like! Or dark red eyes like Quelaag and Queelana. That'd make an interesting design I guess x)

Gwynevere and her mother Fina / Nehma

Thankfully, Gwynevere HAS decent references, and could even shed a light (ba dum tss) on some genetics!

Her eyes look rather orange, just like the sunlight associated with her healing miracles (Bountiful Sunlight and Soothing Sunlight), yet there is a little grey circle at the pupil! x) It might become relevant later! Fun fact: she has distinct moles on her body ( x )! Though you can observe from her textures too:

As for Fina, I really think she is a SUPER likely candidate for her mother!

Notice how her symbol is Estus Flask, and Gwynevere is strongly associated with healing! As for why Nehma = Fina:

NAME-ENGRAVED RING

A special ring that can be engraved with the name of a god. Becomes easier to connect to worlds of players who chose the same god. There are countless vestiges of long-lost gods in the ruins of Drangleic. Or perhaps they are the very same gods as ours, only known by different names.

Another case right here is Pharis being named Evlana in Drangleic! Similarly, Fina got another name, since she IS Goddess of Love!

EMBRACED ARMOR OF FAVOR

Armor of Lautrec the Embraced, representing the goddess Fina's love. The goddess's arms wrap around it, as if to embrace the wearer.

^ This line makes me wonder whether Fina was not a regular humanoid God, but had literally golden body! There is a nameless and faceless Blacksmith Deity in the setting whose death gave birth to Titanite Demons, so why not another atypical God like this? I can imagine her being mostly non-physical save for some... obvious places

ESTUS FLASK

The Undead treasure these dull green flasks. Fill with Estus at bonfire. Fills HP. The Estus Flasks are linked to the Fire Keepers. The Dark Tales also make reference: An emerald flask, from the Keeper's soul She lives to protect the flame, And dies to protect it further.

^ Lautrec kills Anastacia and takes her soul, and his next destination past that point is Anor Londo, but specifically the hall that leads to "Gwynevere's" chamber! He made Fina's love his whole guidance, Estus Flask is a symbol of Fina in Dark Souls 2 menu, Estus Flask is made of a Soul of a Fire Keeper, Gwynevere seems to be very much connected with love and healing too, and he goes to where "she" is! I would not put it past him that "Gwynevere" messed up his radar, he seems to act irrational in his delusion about being "loved by Fina", but you can see everything about this questline is thematically connected! ...there is also the fact that if Lautrec's armor is of any indication, Fina was wearing a crown! Gwyn was the king, so another one crowned would be his wife, right?

I think whereas Gwynevere didn't inherit Fina's (presumed) golden body and turned out a regular humanoid deity, the orange glint of her eyes might be Fina's gene, a color of healing (the liquid in Estus Flask)! Gwyn's eye color might actually be grey and only show in her eyes vaguely! (This is a surprise tool that will help us later). Brown hair might belong to either Fina, or to Gwyn when he was way younger! Or.. to Gwyn's parent? Put a pin on this!

Rosaria, Anri and Horace

I think Rosaria's line is the furthest diluted from the divine ancestry, since having children with a human resulted in JUST humans, not sort of Demigods! Also, Irithyllian preset does say these humans have "features of old gods"!

(Video by Bonfire VN ( x ))

Unfortunately, Rosaria doesn't have eye texture! Grey skin looks cool, but oh well. I suppose it is more fair to take the look from the final version, which is just normal, if only slightly less saturated!

Her hair appears to be not black but actually just dark grey, like Filianore's, however, Anri, Horace and average Irithyllian appear to have black hair!

(From this ( x ) page, without Hollowing filter)

dggsdfsfd Yeah I know, most of Dark Souls 3 face data is just bald, and their hair color data is just black, but! I think it is kind of "legit" since you can see their eyebrows, that are black too! Sorry for a cursed joke about Artorias though, he does have black hair and I just thought it was a funny idea that he did sleep with Gwynevere at some point- look, Gods were wery proud of his accomplishments against the Abyss and even gave him that medal ok? fsjjfd xD

Why Anri's Hollowing is "regular" and Horace's is green-ish that was introduced in Drangleic is another topic tbh. But, I think that Anri takes more after Rosaria, whereas Horace takes more after Aldrich! Anri's grey eyes are from Rosaria, and I think Aldrich would have blue eyes like Horace's! look it is thematically appropriate right?

Also an idea: maybe Anri's gender thing should be taken at a face value? Although basically just a human at this rate, they are still a kid of a mother of rebirth, so maybe they legitimately can have either biological gender for the purpose of being able to have children with any person? Just an ability inherited from Rosaria, because this is what Rosaria's power is about! What do you think?

Flann and Dancer of the Boreal Valley

Flann was a God of Fire, and Dancer is stated to be a direct descendant in the royal line!

RING OF THE SUN PRINCESS (DS1)

This ring is granted to those who enter a Covenant with Gwynevere, daughter of Lord Gwyn and the Princess of Sunlight. This slightly warm ring boosts the synergy of miracles. The Princess of Sunlight Gwynevere left Anor Londo along many other deities, and later became wife to Flame God Flann.

SUN PRINCESS RING (DS3)

(...) Gwynevere left her home with a great many other deities, and became a wife and a mother, raising several heavenly children.

I think that the place the Gods of Anor Londo left to was Heide in Drangleic, and even there we arrive long past its ruin! Not certain where they are now and how many generations of these children appeared, but at least some direct children or even descendants returned into Lordran continent! Aldia, Creighton and Gilligan travelled from Drangleic to Lordran continent, so why not some of these relatives too? (Considering how oddly nobody in Drangleic knows shit about Lordran continent despite it being literally there oversees, I take it as it got concealed for undefined time, and maybe these descendants of Gwynevere, along with some other Gods, opened the path back to it?)

SOUL OF THE DANCER

Soul of the dancer. One of the twisted souls, steeped in strength. Use to acquire many souls, or transpose to extract its true strength. The Pontiff Sulyvahn bestowed a double-slashing sword upon a distant daughter of the formal royal family, ordering her to serve first as a dancer, and then as an outrider knight, the equivalent to exile.

(In Japanese, 旧王家の末裔 - 'descendant of the Old Royal Family')

DANCER'S CROWN

Crown worn by the Dancer of the Boreal Valley. The mirage-like aurora veil is said to be an article of the old gods, permitted only for direct descendants of the old royal family.

Dancer can conjure fire in her hands, which the Pontiff and Fire Witches who use the Profaned Flame can't do, which might imply hers is all natural, and does this smoke-like thing when using her dark magic sword (which is, again, unlike the Pontiff's actual arsenal with HIS dark magic sword). Considering Flann is God of Flame, her capacity for using fire and ash "naturally" convinced me that she descends from Gwynevere and him!

Unfortunately, nothing to latch onto considering her or Flann's appearance, really.. But I'd suggest that if she takes his abilities more than Gwynevere's, whatever you imagine Flann looking like, she'd look more like him as well!

Queen of Lothric, Lothric, Lorian, Oceiros and Ocelotte

Well, first things first: I do not think Queen of Lothric IS Gwynevere! There are no damning evidences for this!

For one, Gwynevere's name is not forgotten or obscured by the events of Dark Souls 3, it is mentioned in descriptions and by Yorshka, so why would it be omitted under just 'Queen of Lothric'! Second, Gwynevere is still referred to as a princess consistently, she never queened-up! The only exception from this is illusion of Gwynevere calling herself a queen, and... well, it was needed, to support the legend. :p Third, Rosaria is also linked to items associated with Gwynevere, same as Queen of Lothric, so this is just descent, really!

But what truly cemented my opinion is that in Japanese script, Queen of Lothric is said to be compared with 'the' Goddess of Bounty and Grace! (Taken from this ( x ) document by Last Protagonist, it is for Bloodborne but it has a Dark Souls WIP folder). Why would Gwynevere be compared with herself? :p

(Upper image of the ribbon in statue by Lokey's Lore ( x )) The ribbons seem to miss in the concept art, but I feel like they got added to further hint at descent rather than to... well, add a plot hole...? x) Miyazaki initially wanted Gwynevere to have motherly vibe and the design we have now only exists because the guy who drew that concept liked it too much, so maybe his initial idea for her got a second chance in another character?

Like I said, the grey in the eyes WAS important, because, look! The brothers' eyes ARE grey! :p Their hair is actually very grey as well; with a very slight hint of blond for Lothric and slight hint of brown for Lorian, but you can tell game's lighting makes their hair look way more saturated than they actually are! Lothric's eyes are also blind of course, you can more clearly see from the texture that the pupil is ruined..

Notice that Oceiros is also lacking scales, but is growing fungi-like things that are otherwise found in Vagrants!

UPDATE 02/01/2025: Ocelotte's model is a cut content, but apparently the model does persist in finished game still, even if we cannot see it!

(From this ( x ) video)

In Dark Souls 2, essence of Seath lives on same as Gwyn's, Izalith's and Nito's but in a form of nearly an "element", and corrupts the Duke of Tseldora into madness, driving him to indulge in mad experiments and create weird beings! It is possible that this happens again in Dark Souls 3 when now the vessel of "Seath" becomes Oceiros instead and similar descent into madness repeats! Very ironically, Seath DID reach immortality if you think of it, but he no longer realises that he did fhdfhds As for Vagrants, I wonder whether it was intentional too, since Seath did experiment with marine life forms quite a lot (Pisacas, Giant Clams)...?

I think the grey eyes and hair is linked to Queen of Lothric; the orange hues must have weakened over generations, and it is not the last of grey hair you'll see x) Really have no idea what Oceiros would've passed onto them, though...? I imagine brown-ish hair from the side of Queen of Lothric (passed in a much greyer form to Lorian), and blond hair from the side of Oceiros (passed in a much greyer form to Lothric)!

Gundyr, Gertrude and their parents

GUNDYR'S HELM

Ancient helm of a set of cast iron armor, belonging to Champion Gundyr. Modeled after a former king. Gundyr, or the Belated Champion, was bested by an unknown warrior. He then became sheath to a coiled sword in the hopes that someday, the first flame would be linked once more.

古い王 - king from long ago, king from the past, etc

Gundyr doesn't appear to be one of Oceiros' children, but I've been thinking about it for a while.. I figured out what made the most sense for his story is being a collateral relative to the twin princes, considering he was sent out to replace Lothric (well, this is what he was told..) It will be a tangent to explain, so here ( x ) are my conclusions on what exactly happened with Gundyr!

Granted, I might end up making him more of a distant relation than her direct son from previous marriage- it'd be even better, to be honest! But, this is a base draft of the family tree. His helmet resembles his ancestor, that, again, would work better as someone several generations apart from him!

UPD 12/30/2024: I did decide it made more sence if "ancient king" was... well, ancient fdgfdsd And appeared to be ancestry of Oceiros instead, with Gundyr being collaterally related to Oceiros! I am not strong with familial terms so I am not sure what this relation is called now if I move him further than being half-brothers with the twins and Ocelotte :o Just thought it worked better!

BOUNTIFUL LIGHT

Miracle taught to knights of Gertrude, holy maiden to the Queen. Gradually restores a large amount of HP. The Heavenly Daughter is said to be the Queen's child.

DIVINE PILLARS OF LIGHT

Miracle of Gertrude, the Heavenly Daughter. Brings down multiple pillars of light in the vicinity. The Queen's holy maiden Gertrude was visited by an angel, who revealed this tale to her.(...)

The fact that her own daughter is simultaneously described as her servant of sorts gave me an impression of being the bastard child! I guess one thing Gwynevere certainly passes down to her descendants is sleeping around, except this is ACTUALLY Fina's fault hdhfshfgsdh

Seath, Gwyndolin, Filianore and Priscilla. How Caitha could fit into a family?

I think this is apparent that Gwyndolin is a child between Gwyn and Seath, as serpents in this lore are "imperfect dragons", and Seath himself is inherently connected to Moonlight element (Moonlight Butterflies he created, Moonlight Greatword being literally made from a part of his body)!

COVETOUS GOLD SERPENT RING

The serpent is an imperfect dragon and symbol of the Undead. Its habit of devouring prey even larger than itself has led to an association with gluttony. This gold ring, engraved with the serpent, boosts its wearer's item discovery, so that more items can be amassed.

MOONLIGHT GREATSWORD

This sword, one of the rare dragon weapons, came from the tail of Seath the Scaleless, the pale white dragon who betrayed his own. Seath is the grandfather of sorcery, and this sword is imbued with his magic, which shall be unleashed as a wave of moonlight.

And, yes, needless to mention that Gwyndolin is a sorcerer. Sorcery is THE Seath's thing!

I would actually take Aldrich's render with a grain of salt; right, we don't know what Gwyndolin's eyes were like in Dark Souls 1, but also Gwyndolin has white/greyish skin, when Aldrich using this body has a pretty much human skin tone! The hair on Aldrich also appears to be way more white (a trait of being corrupted by Dark, check Four Kings or Abyss Watchers), not grey like Gwyndolin's 🤔 I guess his look is more of an approximation than literally just using Gwyndolin's body! Though, pale eye color can still be used as a headcanon! Just maybe less dead looking..?

UPDATE 02/01/2025: I've been thinking about inconsistency of Gwyndolin's design a bit more, and here ( x ) is a separate post compiling those! (don't worry it IS actually short!) The gist of it is that white skin and even the snakes might even be a result of prolonged exposure to estrogen Moonlight Aura, so his parenting is up to more intepretation than I initially assumed! My interpretation lingers on the idea that relation between Gwyndolin, Priscilla and Yorshka is a biological one, not spiritual or adopted! Yet even then, who can tell if white skin (and snakes, and boobies) is NOT a trait that will just "wear out" without contstant nourishment by Moonlight aura? Aldrich's version of Gwyndolin's body honestly opens more questions than it answers, but I say remarkably grey hair of Gwyndolin IS his natural hair color and Aldrich's body's white hair is an alteration! I am bouncing off of these pointers.

Filianore also has this grey hair with a very slight hint of brown that might as well be neglected! Her eyes also appear to be corrupted by sort of wooden texture, and after time runs wild, she honestly reminds me of what Elana looks like...? Turning into wood is a common sign of devolution in this setting as everything that isn't a Dragon evolved from the trees! But... furthermore, connected with darkness.

It is Humanity when it is not running wild! Four Kings becoming very tree-like is the quickest example! The void-face type of Giants also turn into trees upon devolving and, interestingly enough, their particular souls have a spot of darkness within! Further clue towards Filianore having some Dark in her by nature is the very fact that she was sent away with Pygmy lords! Would not a God that actually has some Dark/Humanity in them be THE best candidate to keep them in check.... and the one most likely to remain safe there in Gwyn's eyes, you know?

Priscilla has a little scales and eyes, unlike Seath, despite being most likely his child! Seath being white-colored is accentuated, and so is her being "stark-white" crossbreed!

SOUL OF PRISCILLA

(...) Use the soul of this crossbreed bastard child and antithesis to all life to acquire a huge amount of souls, or to create a unique weapon.

LIFEHUNT SCYTHE

Scythe born from the soul of Priscilla, the stark white crossbreed trapped inside the Painted World of Ariamis. Even the Gods feared Priscilla's lifehunt ability, and in the hands of a mortal, its power will turn upon its wielder.

I think Priscilla and Yorshka have to have a shared second parent, since you can get a miracle version of Priscilla's Lifehunt Scythe when Aldrich dreams of Yorshka! At the same time, Gwyndolin is the lastborn of Gwyn yet Yorshka is their younger sister, nor Priscilla or Yorshka are recognised as Gods by the narrative! Basically.. Gwyn got cucked dfggffd I keep telling you all and you don't believe me!!

Okay, but what connects Priscilla to Darkness is definitely not from Seath's ancestry, as Dragons are beyond Light or Dark! I absolutely agree with the idea that Priscilla and Velka were connected; Velka's crow people and some clerics are in the Painted World of Ariamis, Occult Ember is here, Priscilla's Dagger has Occult affinity, in Dark Souls 3 the Crows worship Priscilla, there is a statue of mother holding a child... But, I think Velka rather adopted her than was her biological mother! Another thing is that Velka is a "heretical" deity, implying she made Darkness her own weapon rather than was naturally aligned with it or corrupted by it to the core! What Priscilla inherited though, had to be inherited directly, biologically, naturally and not learned, since her "ability" manifested since infancy:

PECULIAR DOLL

A strange doll in strange dress. There once was an abomination who had no place in this world. She clutched this doll tightly, and eventually was drawn into a cold and lonely painted world.

The Daughters of the Dark in Dark Souls 2 are fragments of Manus' own darkness, and their elements naturally oppose everything about Gods and their world! Nashandra's element is Death and Alsanna's element is Ice/Cold, both opposing Life and Fire respectively! Elana is the devolution into a tree life form, whereas Nadalia is ash - both oppose the concept of time as Age of Fire created it! Elana by devolution, Nadalia by exhaustion as ash is final result of burning, when nothing IS left to burn! And in every game, death more blatantly goes hand in hand with the darkness, too.

Priscilla embodies two of these: Ice and Death! She is even connected with invisibility, too! At the same time, since Gwyndolin's hair is AKTYALY grey, Yorshka's hair is brown and Shira's hair is brown also and was white only in the concept, her white hair might also be result of the Dark settling within, not same as her white fur!

As for who IS that mysterious parent that passed the 'Darkness gene' to Filianore, Priscilla and Yorshka...? Okay, here I will slide a theory about how Caitha of all people fits the role well ( x ) compiled very well by @val-of-the-north, if you want to read! It is too hard to just put all that here and deserves a separate post, as there are many clues towards this theory but.. let's say this takes more than five minutes to explain. It is her connection with Death that is here for Priscilla and Yorshka (since in DS3, Priscilla is not really "young" nor "in hiding"), Aldrich literally using exact copy of Nito's Blade, Church of the Deep formerly being Caitha's chapel and taken from her, Caitha being connected with the Dark without a doubt, Filianore's egg being too much like Vagrant's shell to be ignored, Nito's wife being hinted as water goddess, Vagrants being marine creatures, Seath himself being interested in researching weird marine creatures (that might even work as reason to work with Caitha a lot even before his insanity arc), Caitha's tears crystallizing when it is otherwise an effect of draconic curses (wear protection when you fuck a dragon, kids fsfds)....

Look it's a lot and. It fits into a separate post better. I really liked it and honestly think it fits within lore! Besides, Gwyn sure likes to flirt with the danger, as scared as he is. 🙄 He was enemy of the dragons but let Seath close and kept Midir alive, he feared humans but still trusted Four Kings... would not put it past him to look at someone aligned with the Darkness and go "I should not put my dick in it, however," fhsdhff

Shira and Yorshka

(Shira's face data from this ( x ) page)

Her hair is dark blond, in the final version? Her eyes are also green though, even if not as radiant in color as Priscilla's! Her name literally means 'white' though, and she is 'daughter of the Duke and descendant of the Gods'! You can also see the original intention for her was white hair! or..... is it grey hair? AGAIN? x)

SHIRA'S CROWN

Crown of Shira, knight in service to Filianore. Finely crafted with silver and fashioned with a pearl from a Man Eater Shell. (...)

SHIRA'S ARMOR

(...) apropos to both a handmaiden of the Princess and one whose veins coarse with royal blood.

I am not sure why she turned out to be so humanoid, not showing draconian features whatsoever! Perhaps how many features manifest is a random chance, and her mom's genes just turned out to be much stronger than Seath's, especially if she was one of the Gods on Gwyn's family! Or maybe whereas Gwyndolin was raised through Moon aura, Shira, on the other hand, had exposure to Sunlight aura? Whereas former possibly enhanches dragonic features, latter would suppress them by an effect?

This also makes me wonder if Seath's "intended" eye color is green, and that would be the color if he had eyes?

(Images by Moonlight Ruin on Twitter ( x ))

I think Yorshka has her mother's eyes, as they do not have draconian narrow pupil! (Well, if it was Caitha, she very likely has blue eye and red eye, and this is just the blue!)

Seath is not only white, but also cyan/blue/purple/pink, and Yorshka displays these features! As well as taking after the mysterious parent with the 'Dark genetics', specifically with the ability manifesting as Death / Lifehunt shared with Priscilla:

LIFEHUNT SCYTHE (DS3)

Miracle of Aldrich, Devourer of Gods. Steals HP of foes using an illusory scythe. Aldrich dreamt as he slowly devoured the God of the Darkmoon. In this dream, he perceived the form of a young, pale girl in hiding.

All things considered, I feel like brown and dark blond hair gene comes from somewhere in Gwyn's family! However, the grey hair gene apparently suppresses it on every occasion! There is also a possibility that both Yorshka and Shira were born with white hair and either 1) this gene is weak and wears out on itself over time 2) this gene is connected with Seath's moonlight energy and wears out without nourishment or 3) white hair reacts on moonlight in general and is now darker color because moon is darker!

Dunnel and Painter

I just think Dunnel is a likely candidate for whoever was father of the Painter:

PYROMANCER'S PARTING FLAME

The pyromancy flame of Livid Pyromancer Dunnel that attracts the echoes of the death. When Dunnel lost his hideous spouse, he gave his own pyromancy flame as an offering, which transformed into a parting flame. Not long after, Dunnel became a mad spirit, cursed to wander the lands.

Priscilla is referred to as an abomination within the lore, and hideous spouse is not quite far off! It clearly refers to the context of what life itself fears rather than... well, like, her actual appearance. And Priscilla is connected with Death, whereas combining his flame with her changed it into something connected with Death as well! He also invades in a place that looks a lot like her arena in Dark Souls 1!

Bro just looks like old Patches -_-

(Video by BonfireVN ( x ))

Her skin is definitely more grey and dragon-ish, but I am not sure to which family member I could link orange eye color to :') Just the fact that she is meant to envision the Flame, I guess?

_________________________

Okay, thank you for giving me a reason to organise all this! I thought I'd just dump some references together, but it turned out to be sort of an analysis, and I figured some useful things for myself too! So, my conclusions are:

Grey hair gene is very real, it might even be natural hair color of Gwyn and Nameless King, not reliant on their age! Gwyndolin's hair is also grey, and Aldrich's version having white hair is reasonable since Darkness corruption seems to cause white hair!

Brown hair gene most likely appears from Gwyn's mother, or other relative of his

Descendants of Gwynevere tend to have grey hair and grey eyes, seems like the brightness of sunlight have worn out over time genetically in this family

Dancer is the only known 'apparent' descendant of Gwynevere and Flann, others appear to be either much more diluted or not having ties to Flann at all

There is a 'Darkness gene' running in the family in Filianore, Priscilla and Yorshka that manifests in different forms like it was with Daughters of Dark (ice and death with Priscilla, death with Yorshka, defiance of time with trees/ash with Filianore)

Mixing with a dragon genetically has very random results, from apparent to absolutely indiscernable

Someone GOT to inherit Gwyn's super square jaw shape at some point XD

Seath's "intended" eye color is most likely green, so it is one of the variants for what Gwyndolin's eye color might be!

[twistedinthreads]

Lost In The Labyrinth

Part 1.

You came to Oxford to get away from America; from your mother's fame and the ghosts of your past. You get more than you bargained for when you meet Felix.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: sexual content (not explicit but it's there so 18+ MINORS DNI), I used some descriptors for reader such as scars, birthmarks, imperfections, but I made her as inclusive as possible, reader is American, she's also a nepo baby but isn't using her nepotism in any real way. Bi!reader and Felix. fic title inspired by the taylor swift song, of course (and I am terrible at titles!)

Playlist (a work in progress!)

A/N: I am so insecure about this reading back over it omgggg but I'm posting it anyway! Hi friends. I've been working on this for so long, and I'm recovering from my surgery so I figured there's no time like the present. Here we are. I am obsessed with this movie and this man! I promise this fic is gonna get more interesting, but we've got this for now. Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist, and feel free to send me asks if you want to talk about reader and her lore, because she is very special to me and I adore her already!!!

Your eyes droop as you hum along to the nameless blonde that stands in front of you, her sparkly pink cocktail dress catching the light and making her glow. She’s going on and on about how Everlasting Eve is her favorite movie of all time, and how your mother is “the greatest actress of our time!” You want to vomit. It’s not like this doesn’t happen, it’s practically a daily occurrence at this point, but you’d much prefer it if people stopped giving so much of a shit. If they did, you wouldn’t be stood with a bottle blonde from Bristol talking your ear off. You’d just stepped out to get some air, for Christ’s sake. 

“You’re from the States, right?” You nod, sipping at your cocktail and bouncing from one foot to the other to conserve some warmth in your legs. She asks it as if she hasn’t been talking your ear off and didn’t notice your accent, not as thick as it used to be when you’d lived in New York full time, but still foreign here. The music is less obnoxious out here, bass easing on your chest. It’s cooler, too, the fall night air brushing against your neck like a lover. “That’s brilliant! I went with my parents once, when I was a kid. We went to Disney World.” 

You smile and nod, muttering out a “cool” as you sip at your drink, cringing at its strength. 

“Is that far from where you live?” She asks, and you wonder how she got into this fucking school. Probably a legacy, with more money than she knows what to do with.

“Uh,” you suppress a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, like… incredibly South of New York.” 

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York,” she continues to babble. “My parents go on business trips there, but they’ve never taken me. I want to see where Little Angels was filmed! Uh, Lincoln Square Park?”

“Washington Square Park,” you correct her. 

“Yeah!” She snaps her fingers and points. “That’s it! When your mom’s character is waiting there for Hugh Grant’s character, and then they walk off into the sunset together? Absolutely the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!”

You stare off into the distance vacantly, the night sky painted with different navy hues and dotted with the brushstrokes of stars. 

Suddenly, you feel a warm arm around your waist, hot breath on your cheek. “There you are!” You’d know that voice anywhere. The figure kisses you on the cheek and it takes everything in you not to start grinning from ear to ear. You turn, meeting his lips, and he plays along like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I’m gonna head home, wanna come with?”

You nod, thanking him with your eyes. He winks gently at you and grabs your hand. “Nice talking to you…” you’ve already forgotten her name. Her tone has completely shifted, body stiff as her eyes mull over you and the man that holds your hand with a vice grip. 

“Sandra.” It’s cold, but you keep your own voice chipper. 

“Sandra! Nice to meet you,” she’s in your college, so you’ll have to be cordial. “See you around?”

She just nods and lights a cigarette. 

As you walk away, one of Felix’s hands around your waist and the other holding your own, you look up at him. “Thank you so much. Holy shit. I was about to lose it.”

He lets out a low, intoxicated chuckle. “It’s what I’m here for, darling.” Uses his fingers on your chin, tugging lightly to kiss you hard on the mouth. He pulls away and you chase his lips, planting one more kiss on his mouth, this time softer. 

“Your room or mine?” You ask, to be met with a smirk as he grabs your hand and leads you across campus. It’s a path you could walk with your eyes closed, the muscle memory of so many nights embedded into your body by now. 

His room is all red carpet and wood paneling, empty takeout containers and beer cans and ashtrays strewn about. His bed is unmade and his textbooks are all over his floor, but it hardly matters when he’s kissing you like you’re the only person in the fucking universe. 

Within minutes, you settle back into a familiar routine. Clothes shed, completely bare to one another as you grind and writhe on top of him, hands on his toned chest. He’s gorgeous with his mouth open in ecstasy, labored breaths escaping it, eyes closed and clenched, hands rested on your waist as you move above him, a renaissance painting. You’re moaning too, tempering your whines so that the sounds don’t travel. The moon paints the room in subtle, cool light and the pleasure makes sweat bead on your brows.

“Missed you,” he manages between moans, voice heavy and breathy. “Missed this.” 

“It’s been like, two days,” you let out a chuckle, and it fades into a moan as you grind your hips again, trying not to scratch his chest with your manicured nails, though you doubt he'd mind too much.

“And that’s too long,” he replies, and you lean down and kiss him, open mouthed and messy and euphoric. 

When it’s all said and done, you lay naked beside him while he smokes a cigarette, arm laced around your bare shoulder, your head rested on his. It’s bliss, something you’ve begun to ache for all the time. “Really, thank you. That girl was driving me fucking insane.”

“That scene where your mom’s character and Hugh Grant ride off into the sunset together? Immaculate.” He mocks the girl, a surprisingly good impersonation, and you both belly laugh. You wipe away bits of red lipstick from his mouth and grin delicately at him. You know you’re not the only girl he’s seeing, not even the only girl he’s fucking, and it wedges something vile and dangerous in your heart. The words linger on your tongue. You want to ask, want to know, and if you sound desperate? Well, so be it. 

“What is this?” You wrench the words out quickly, looking at your hands. 

“What do you mean?” He takes a long drag of the cigarette, letting the smell perforate the air in the room, turning it cloudy in its wake. 

“Us,” you murmur, and he runs a hand through your hair. “Like… I know you’re fucking other people, Felix. And that’s fine but… I just want to be clear on what this.” 

He looks at you perplexed, smashing the cigarette in the ash tray and turning on his side toward you. You mirror his motions, so the two of you are laying in bed, you practically on top of him due to its size, your hands under your cheek. “I’m fucking other girls? News to me.” 

“I see the way you look at them,” you murmur. “India. Annabel. That guy you study with sometimes… Ryan?”

“I’m not fucking anyone else,” he mutters, seeming almost offended at the notion. He scoffs before his next words. “I practically haven’t even looked at anyone else.”

“Fe-“ he cuts you off, a hand brushing over your cheek, holding it delicately. 

“No,” he starts. “I know I have a reputation or whatever,” he waves his free hand around. “But I genuinely haven’t been seeing anyone else since we started… this.” He gestures between the two of you, and you can sense that he's lying, but it hardly matters. 

You’re almost self-conscious as his eyes rake over your body; so self aware of every little imperfection, every feature. The birthmark on your hip. The way one tit is just a bit bigger than the other. Your crooked finger from when you broke it playing volleyball in ninth grade. The gray hairs you’d been noticing popping up recently. 

“You’re the prettiest fucking girl at this college,” he says your name before kissing you sweetly. “Don’t want to look at anyone else.” You know it’s a lie, considering the fact that he does look at other girls, and often. It’s almost like you can’t bother to care, though. Your head is all floaty and tears are burning your eyes. 

He climbs on top of you, kisses down your chest, down your stomach, makes sure to take his time kissing that same birthmark you were so insecure about minutes before, your inner thighs, before finally landing where it matters most. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful, yeah?” He looks up at you with those gorgeous eyes, the earnestness in them making your heart swell up. In this moment, it’s not the same Felix that made you cry last week because he told you you needed to get your own friends (you have plenty), or the Felix that ignored you at the pub to talk to Annabel, causing you to storm out and ignore him for three days until he realized. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t care if you come, and he doesn’t clean up after himself, and sometimes his words bite, and last week he made that insensitive comment about your friend with depression. But you think you might love him, and it feels like enough. 

After, he asks you to stay with him. You laugh languidly, tears brimming at your eyes from how hard. He kisses you, soft and slow, the moonlight seeping into the window and painting the carpet with light; it looks like a lone puddle of blood in a sea of blackness. 

When you wake, it’s nearly noon. The sun beams through the curtains and you shield your eyes, trying to move underneath Felix’s strong grip. He’s got a hand wrapped around your thigh. Your leg wrapped around his waist while your arms are, slightly pained from the uncomfortable angle, folded around his neck. You regret moving your face from its spot in his chest, wanting nothing more than to occupy his space for as long as possible. 

You can’t bear to wake him, his eyelashes fluttering ever-so-slightly against his face. You smile, tuck yourself back into him, and feel his breaths come out relaxed and steady. The tranquility doesn’t last long, though, and you watch as his eyes flicker open. “Good morning,” his voice is raspy, his saccharine accent accentuating every word with posh sweetness. He kisses your cheek and gets up, your eyes meeting his bare ass. “I should go shower, you cool to stay here?” He asks as he gathers his things. 

“I need to go,” you also get up, searching around for your undergarments and your uncomfortable cocktail dress, pulling the blue, beaded garment on without much care. “Sundays are study days with June.”

You slip your uncomfortable heels on, wincing at the blister you’d developed last night but didn’t notice until now, and kiss him on the cheek as you leave his dorm. 

The trek across campus has you nearly limping in pain, as you kick your shoes off the second you make it into your room. You gather your shower gear, thankful for your own bathroom and the warmth of a long, hot shower. It’s almost painful to wash his scent off of you, but you know you’ll be seeing him again soon, and let your floral body wash cleanse you and your sore form. 

Before you get dressed, you grab antibiotic cream and bandaids from a drawer and tend to your blisters, throwing on a pair of slip-ons to avoid even more pain. 

And as you go to study with June, your mind is far from Shakespeare; it rests only on Felix, Felix, Felix. 

[crazyk-imagine]

Enguard your Highness

Pairing: Arthur Pendragon x Lost Princess!reader

Characters: Arthur Pendragon, Merlin, Percival, Gwaine, Lost Princess!reader

Warnings: Fluff, minor angst, open ending, the knights are dorks, but they mean well, I forgot how much I love this group of dollapheads, my boys are back, Merlin is lowkey bestie, Arthur is slow to recognizing people, Uther is a butt, he is the annoyance of my life, but needed for the plot

Word Count: 1k

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

“There seems to be someone more worthy of wielding a sword than you,” Merlin tells his highness.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur mumbles, watching with bated breath as you fight the bandits, all on your own.

-

Gwaine and Percival sneak up behind where the rope holding them is, whispering to Merlin, who latches onto Arthur.

The blond tries to shove him off, not understanding why he’s holding him.

“Merlin, get off-”

They tumble to the floor.

Merlin lays there out of breath, trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs as the two knights pull the prince off his servant.

-

You fall to your knees, reaching for your dagger as a hand pulls you back to him.

You spin around, kicking the nameless man in the face; he falls back, howling in pain, giving you the opportunity to take his life before he could take yours.

You take deep breaths, unsure of what to do next.

Finally remembering the two idiots in the net, you push yourself up and brush off the dirt and leaves.

Your eyes rake over the four, furrowing your brows at the sight of the three and- “Merlin?”

Arthur furrows his brows, “you two know each other?”

“How would we-”

You rushed towards him before he could finish his sentence.

The speed you used, caused your hood to fall, exposing your face.

The three are shocked, the sight of such a handsome maiden as yourself hugging, Merlin.

Gwaine and Percival could see it happening but Arthur, he’s going through a mental crisis.

You pull back and look over his figure, acting as though you're his mother. "Have you been eating? You look thinner."

He lightly shoves your hands off him, embarrassed at the sight.

“I can’t believe you were a dollop head and got caught.”

His jaw drops. “It wasn’t me.”

“Really? Who then?”

Gwaine snickers under his breath.

Percival smacks his shoulder, “we should really get a move on if we’re to make it back to Camelot by nightfall.”

Your gaze meets the tallest one’s. “Follow me, you’re nearly there.”

“Why should we trust you?” Arthur can’t help but ask.

“I am the one who rescued you before your knights could arrive.”

He pouts and stares at the ground.

You glance at Merlin who shakes his head with a smile. “Alright, now that we’ve had our temper tantrums, we can move on.”

The three share a look and smirk, wondering how you were going to deal with the future king once this was all over.

You pause in front of them.

Merlin takes a step forward, knowing you wouldn’t stop unless something was wrong.

The future king furrows his brows at your behavior. “What’s-”

You switch places with Arthur before he could blink.

They all rush forward, trying to get an eye on where you fell.

Your hand shoots up and Arthur is the first to grab it, followed by his knights who hook their hands under your arms to pull you up.

You huff before realizing you're laying on the future king’s chest.

His mouth opens and before any other thoughts could swirl around in his mind, you’re up and ready to continue.

“Are you sure you’re fine to continue?” Percival asks, the concern evident in his voice.

You brush him off, “I’m fine. We’re almost there.”

-

The five of you continue on your journey.

You stop before the entrance to Camelot. “This is where I leave you.”

“Wait- you’re leaving?” Merlin asks.

“Merlin, I can’t stay here-”

“Why not?” The prince asks. “Why can’t you?”

“Who’s going to help others who fall into the bandits' traps?”

“No one if you’re dead,” he points out the morbid fact you’ve thought about once or twice.

“I-” You take a deep breath, suddenly it hurts to stand up. You furrow your brows at the pain, realizing when it happened.

Merlin rushes towards you, knowing before you could lose your ability to keep upright. “Hey, hey. Where is it?” His hand soaked, filling him with fear and dread, “I need you to tell where-”

Your nails dig into his arm, your other hand wrapping around yourself.

“It hurts,” you whimper.

He nods, “I know but you need to stay awake.”

You nod, the urge to sleep overtaking your ability to think properly.

Arthur rushes to help him, asking Merlin to release you. “I got her.”

Percival and Gwaine open the doors, letting the blond rush through as they all head for Gaius.

“Ah Merlin just in-”

The older man’s eyes fall on your bleeding and unconscious form. “Set her down here.”

He reaches for bandages and applies pressure. “What happened?”

-

You open your eyes and wince at the light shining through and the fact that the pain of where the dagger hit you is.

Merlin enters, not realizing you have woken up and are actively trying to sneak out.

He turns, a smile breaking across his face until he realizes what you’re doing. “You should be resting.”

“I will be, when I’m gone.”

“You’re not leaving.”

“You were stabbed.”

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

“You could have died.”

“And I didn't, therefore I was destined to help you. Now, if I could-” You pause at the sound of the door creaking and find the- “your majesty,” you bow, sucking in your bottom lip to keep you from wincing.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve awake, I know Arthur will be happy to hear it.” Uther steps into the room, Gaius and Merlin make themselves scarce and work in the corner.

“I do have one question, why have you not returned home, princess?”

You lower your gaze, wondering how he knew.

“I’m happy to see my goddaughter is not dead,” he tells you with a smile.

-

You raise your head and force a smile, not wanting the people of Camelot to know what you’re feeling.

Arthur holds his hand out for you, “you didn’t tell me we knew each other.”

He pulls out the chair for you.

“I don’t like talking about it.”

He wants to ask why but his father interrupts by asking for a toast.

-

You hang by the door, wanting to leave and never return but knowing you’d leave friends behind hurt you, your chest aches at the thought.

The blond watches from afar, wondering what thoughts swirl around your mind.

He’s grown close to you within the last few months of you staying but still feels as though he can’t figure you out.

[thermodynamic-comedian]

i have so many thoughts on agatha all along's version of the salem seven. having them be the children of agatha's original coven, technically making them her siblings. she must've been, to some degree, raised alongside them, as children of the same coven. she would've been the oldest of them, already a part of her mother's coven, maybe they looked up to her as an older sister figure of sorts. or maybe they feared her, maybe they'd heard her mother talk about how she was evil from birth, maybe their own parents talked about how she should've never been a part of the coven in the first place.

and if they hadn't believed it at first, they surely did once they found their parents' lifeless bodies, the day agatha harkness was supposed to die. i imagine they were young, then: no older than 13, maybe even younger. witches from birth, now tasked with surviving the real world without their original coven. they formed a coven of their own, bound by a massacre in their childhood and a blood oath to pursue agatha harkness until they'd finished what their parents had started.

i especially think about those early years, traumatized witch teenagers, hunting wild animals for food, wearing their dead mothers' robes. growing closer and closer to each other every day, a sort of mutual language developing between them. the older ones taking care of the younger ones, the stronger of the weaker. they must've looked so different back then, all individuals, maybe they even had names. but as the centuries rolled by, as they grew to understand each other better and better, maybe they began to look more similar too. maybe their names faded away from them, and they merely called each other "sister", because it didn't matter which one of their sisters they were talking to anymore; they all acted the exact same anyways. they all served the same purpose.

until, eventually, they became what they are in the show. a hivemind of inhuman wild witches, still stuck in the ceaseless tragedy of their vengeance, sisters not by blood, but by hatred of agatha harkness. defined on every level by their endless pursuit of the murderer of their parents.

first a family, then a coven, and, eventually, a swarm of faceless, nameless monsters.

[cherrirui-official]

Friendlocke Violet Gijinkas (Part 1/7)

Since the edited episodes are starting to come out, I figured that bc of that and the fact that I've been keeping this in the back burner for a loooong while now, might as well complete all my friendlocke violet gijinkas!! Some are gonna stay the same while others are gonna have slight/ complete redesigns, so please keep that in mind!

I plan on posting them in order by groups of three, so there's gonna be seven parts in total, all of which I'll be linking here when done vvv

(Part Two) (Part Three) (Part Four) (Part Five) (Part Six) (Part Seven)

!! These will contain personal headcanons I have for the cast, little fun facts, and also spoilers for Friendlocke Violet (for both the edited vids and the streams) !!

@saltydkart-reblogs

And that's pretty much it, designs under the cut!

LARK:

HUGE nerd. spent most of his time during the Uva Academy studying different kinds of pokemon as well as different fighting styles he can utilize once he is able to go out on his own journey with his very own trainer! Too bad that didn't really help in the long run...

His entire wardrobe consists of McDonald's related outfits. It's fucking insane. He even has some from long LONG ago that aren't available anywhere else.

The bubble pattern on his hair is able to move and change. Nobody knows how this is possible, not even Lark himself. All Lark knows is that his hair looks incredibly stylish!

Speaking of bubbles, he has the ability to blow bubbles whenever and wherever he pleases!

Often keeps himself extremely clean and gets upset if even a small speck of dirt gets on him, despite this he somehow smells like McDonald's food and axe body spray. Disgusting. He's so cool!

Even after death he still likes to hang around the other team members as a ghost, often getting to know the newer members as well as reuniting with the old ones. Sometimes they see him, sometimes they don't. It usually depends.

SARA:

Due to being a human in her past life, Sara is able to actually speak with the other humans in the pokemon world. However she usually doesn't due to it being seen as extremely weird and out of place. She did slip up once while talking in the presence of Arven, who thought it was the weed making him hear things.

Oinkologne are usually unable to do much with their hooves but Sara spent nights practicing how to knit with her new hooves and now she's able to do it flawlessly. I don't know how she managed to do that but go queen!

When first joining the team she'd often have the urge to eat her food related companions. It was a strange time for Sara, but she managed to overcome it.

When Peppy gets sick, she usually is the one who nurses him back to health. She was a human once so she often is able to figure out whatever sickness Peppy has and treat it properly. I suppose she's like a second mother to him.

The bag she carries with her is full of thread that she collected from various Tarountula she encountered on the journey, as well as little things she knits together in her spare time.

For the most part, Sara forgives... but NEVER forgets.

Did you guys know that Sara has a new YouTube channel? Check it out!

Pastey:

Before joining the team, Pastey was a nameless wanderer. He's been down every road in Paldea and knows almost the entire region (except for Area Zero) like the back of his hand.

He's gotten hurt pretty badly throughout the run (ie. the Mikey fight, the Atticus fight, and ESPECIALLY the final battle), however, he does not gain any (physical) scars from those fights. This is bc he's basically an axolotl, and axolotls are usually able to heal without scarring.

Pastey's "arms" are, to put it simply, mud prosthetics. More info here vvv

Pastey HAS met Mall Bingo once before the run, however, he doesn't recognize her. The only reason he does not recognize her is bc she wears glasses. (You know how people somehow aren't able to recognize Superman bc he wears glasses in his civilian attire even tho his face remains the same? It's basically like that lmao)

Unlike the lightbulbs he eats, the gasoline he drinks isn't really mandatory to his diet. Gasoline is like alcohol to him and he drinks it like an absolute CHAMP.

He goes fishing when there's nothing else to do or when he can't sleep at night. He doesn't do this bc he thinks it's fun or anything, only bc it's a "good time passer" or so he claims. Other members of the team will often sit with him and vent out anything that's troubling them at the moment, and Pastey is always there to listen to them.

And that's pretty much it. Next is Joe, Hannah Ü, and Mykyie!