#one curious and the other ever-changing for eternity | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sh1-n0bu · 19 days ago

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i have noticed a small pattern of elves being on my latest fictional character obsessions and HEAR ME OUT!!

elf who has lived for hundreds upon thousands of years, who had experienced many of the things the world has to offer. sadness of bidding hundreds of farewells to the beauty of life and alliance of different races

elf who even after all his years of living still yet to find a love for himself. regal and seemingly detached to the concepts of relationships elves may be, even they get lonely. some nights feeling a little bit too long, a little bit too cold as they add another layer of blanket over themselves or reaching over to hug one of his puffy pillows like how he would hug his future lover. the coldness of being immortal seeping into his bones and making him shiver despite elves being above the concept of getting sick or feeling the cold temperatures

elf who runs into you by some chance meeting. maybe you were walking in the territory of elves without knowing it, maybe he purposely goes to human residences and towns, seeking adventure, excitement and change of pace. who immediately is enamored by you just by your smile that you flash his way, a kind one, a gentle one, to a nearby passenger. who falls in love with the callouses of your hand, the freckles, the small scars, the little bits of imperfection that marked you as clearly human, very much mortal, very much brittle but still with your own strength that he hasn’t felt before

elf bf who starts to court you the moment he realizes that you weren’t seeing anyone, bringing small gifts, exchanging knowledge, singing you soft ancient lullabies that no other mortal has ever heard before. maybe he finds himself writing a poem about you one day, describing your looks, your feelings, your everyday actions that you may see as mundane but ones he sees as just as courageous and beautiful in their own ways

elf bf who has never seen human flesh or bare skin before, finding the rippling biceps and toned legs of yours to be… curious. a tentative finger touching the muscles here and there, stopping you mid work as he inquires about them in a soft tone. elves of course were magical beings, blessed with magic and eternity and had no need to develop visible physical muscles till the point they become buff or beefy to some extent all due to their magic and ancient powers. the tips of his pointy ear twitching softly, eyes wide in wonder as you explain that contrary to his kin, your own develop muscles if they are put to work in physically demanding job for enough time

elf bf who over time, finds himself obsessively scribbling down any sort of new information about human anatomy on a journal, always asking you new things as he finds himself able to learn more despite having been alive for hundreds upon thousands of years. tracing the old faded scars on your body with the tip of his finger, counting the freckles, kissing the stretch marks as they were all you. regardless of how you see it, to him it was all you, together and healthy. you were alive even if you may have battle scars and he always makes sure to thank the stars as it was thanks to the tribulations you have conquered that you two were here now. staring eye to eye, touching your foreheads together as you whisper about mundane things

elf bf who one day sees you cut down a tree, cut a log off or prepare firewood and finds that he was imagining the bulge of your muscles against himself. big arms caging him in a bear hug, legs to support him and strong back that he could sink his nails into as he moans under you— hold. since when has his thoughts of you turned… impure? since when has he become turned on? sitting there on one of the logs with a painful strain against his pants as he swallowed the saliva that gathered in his jaw down, tearing his gaze away. no no, he really shouldn’t think of you as such, you were still in courting phase after all and elves were a race that took their romances and courting extremely important

yet regardless of his kin’s customs and traditions, your pretty elf bf couldn’t help but continue to stare. his gaze constantly seeking your figure out, seeing you just go through the motions of every life peacefully while he gets pathetically turned on by your actions as if he was still but a fledgling who learned of a kiss. chopping down trees for firewood, maybe you would work in front of a fire or heat for too long and get sweaty, removing one of the overtunics. maybe you’re just simply dragging a bucket full of water from the well, cranking the pulley as the muscles on your arms and back strained

elf bf who finds himself extremely aroused as his mind wanders to the gutters as he just shamelessly stares at your working form. oh, to feel those calloused hands touch his colder skin, palms smoothening over his creamy skin, and down his chest, his stomach and over his bulge. maybe you would tease the poor thing, tease him of how quick he is to get aroused, the pre of his half-hard cock weeping through his underwear and pants like he was some sore pathetic loser. a little virgin. bully him about being unable to use his cock, make him whine at your mean words as his hips weakly buckle under your exploratory hands

elf bf who couldn’t help but imagine the usual sweetness of your attitude gone, replaced by one that was just a tad bit meaner as you pushes his face down into the pillows of your bed, force his hands to stretch open his puckering hole for you to fuck senselessly. imagining you whispering all sorts of filth into his twitching ears, promising to breed him full, to use him to your heart’s content all night long as he whines and squeals like a little lamb caught in the nest of a hungry wolf. who couldn’t swallow down the quiet whimper coming from his throat as he imagined your hand grasping at his long locks, fisting it tightly as you yank him back, forcing him to arch his back and push the tip of your cock to bruise his guts even more

elf bf who waves off your worry when you had managed to hear the embarrassing noise that slipped past his lips, saying that he was having a bit of a sore throat. gods, he would love to actually whimper from having a sore throat of getting his mouth plowed all day by your fat cock head forcing his jaws wiiideee open

elf bf who couldn’t help but get a little needy in his kisses since then. hands that touched your muscles with curiosity now running over your skin as if trying to feebly seduce you. dropping things to the ground a bit too many times, following you close behind even as you told him that some of the work you needed to do required space and for him to be away for his own safety. who straddles your lap all snug, pushing his chest flush against your own as your simply daily evening kisses after dinner becomes a bit too heated. he definitely had little to no experience with the way his tongue kept licking at your lips meagerly, long fingers curling over your shoulders tightly while his bucking hips on your lap as he starts to get hard again

elf bf who has finally had enough of just his meager imaginations, tugging on the strings of your white tunic with shaky hands as he rambles about touching you, you touching him, feeling him, using him — anything dammit! use those hands of yours on him!

elf bf who soon realizes that he had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew when your hands grip at his hips, dragging his clothed cock against your thigh that had him whining like a cat in heat. meagerly, he tries to replicate what you just made him do, dragging his hips back and forth on your thigh but he all but just looks like an inexperienced bunny. which he probably was judging by the things he spoke to you about himself

elf bf who finds so much pleasure in simply grinding against your thigh for now, the precum of his now hard cock weeping through his pants, staining it into a darker color. all cute and red in the face that spread to his pointy ears, cute high pitched whines falling from his chewed up pink lips. a cute, surprised “a-aahn♡︎??” echoing in the room as you pull his eager body against your own. your chest to his back, hands loosely draped over the hip bone of his

elf bf who lets out the most embarrassing high pitched squeals when your hands travel up his body under his clothes, traveling more and more until teasing at his nipples. rolling your fingertips against the soft areola, squeezing and fondling his pecks as if they were breasts. who jolts in place when you pinch at the hardened buds, tugging at them to test the waters as he arches his back off of your chest, a filthy mewl falling as if he was being fucked stupid already

elf bf who blubbers out uncharacteristic words of “s-shensiitiivgh♡︎ n-no, don’t pinch the-eeengk♡︎♡︎!“ his pleads of your rough hands not torturing his sensitive nipples being replaced with an open mouthed wail when you place a kiss to the pointy tip of his ear. his ears were so sensitive! you knew that and now you were just being downright mean to him as you whisper filth into his ears of acting like a cooped up virgin for merely getting his chest played with. he wasn’t! he was way older than you! slurring out “how c-could you be sooh m-meanngk…♡︎?” as you lick a slow stripe up the pointy helix

elf bf who bucks his hips on your thigh, trying to bounce, trying to move away but ending up whining as his clothed cock grazes against your hardened muscles again. his cute nipples being tortured and groped by your hands, the delicate helix of his ears being assaulted by your wet kisses and licks. any time your hot breath spoke into his ears of how he was such a precious little thing, just like a bunny in heat, he would try to wiggle away. shaking his head with a weak sniffle, his mind churning into a mush as all he could do was to pathetically fuck his cock into your thigh, letting out a soft mewl everytime you buck your leg up to meet his shy excuse of thrusts, jumping in place

elf bf whose minds and body starts to feel weird. the room feeling stifling and your touch making his own skin heat up too much. who tries to tell you that he was feeling ‘odd’ and concerned, yet only to harshly thrust his hips back into your own arousal. eyes widening, a shudder running down his spine at the feeling. still clothed and hidden like his own but good grief, it just felt… so huge since he was sure your human dick couldn’t possibly be much bigger than his own. but no, it got him gulping down the saliva in his mouth

elf bf who bounces himself experimentally onto your own hardened, covered dick, feeling his balls brush against where he guesses is the tip of your strap. his earlier cute whines growing in volume as your torture of his sensitive spots grow worse, groping, squeezing, calling him too eager to get fucked, making him dumb and airheaded. the constant tugs to his chest, the words you spat into his mind so lovingly and the small actions of your hips thrusting up to meet his own weaker excuse of grinding

elf bf who’s voice grow more and more breathier, who finally loses it as he throws himself back against your chest, his head on your shoulder as he let out a wail of “h-hoowt!! t-too ahgg♡︎ haah anhg t-too hoounwt...♥︎!” as he cums into his pants, dirtying the material as a single glob or two of his sweet transparent arousal oozes out through the linen. the dark patch growing into a considerable size, his body racked with twitches and jolts as he cums untouched on your lap. precious little thing getting drunk on the feeling of sex and physical pleasure so much till the point he disregards all of his traditions, bending himself over onto the bed, his hand reaching back to tug you forward by the belt with a desperate whine and a cute blown wide pupils and twitching ears♡︎

⇨ meludir, lindir, legolas, maglor, mairon + whoever you like

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harmoonix · 1 year ago

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⚜️Eternal Flower⚜️

• Astrology Observations •

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀❀

⚜️ - Chiron square/opposition/conjunct North Node = Your path is healing one, this aspect can indicate frustrations that may disturb you from finding inner peace

⚜️ - Jupiter square/opposite/conjunct Saturn = They have a fight between freedom and responsibility, it can be very frustrating for them to choose one of those 2, they can feel locked up in their own world

⚜️ - Jupiter square/opposite Sun can make the native to miss great opportunities, in this case your ego can be very big with those aspects. Your ego can make you lose a lot of opportunities

⚜️ - Neptune trine/sextile/conjunct Moon are really great at listening to their intuition, you can have a powerful inner voice with this aspect

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

⚜️ - North Node in Aries/North Node in 1st house, please make yourself a favor and put yourself one the first place in your life, you'll see things change. You gotta live for yourself, everyone once in a while..

⚜️ - Lilith aspecting Jupiter are so crazy and wild when they are horny. With this aspect Jupiter expands your libido. Another session of breaking bed??

⚜️ - North Node in Libra/Leo you really need to love yourself dear, loving yourself can be complicated for some people but is not impossible

⚜️ - Lilith in Leo Degrees (5°, 17°. 29°) degrees can have have feline typo of face. Like cat eyes maybe? Maybe yellowish/tanned skin? Also wear orange and yellow it will help you

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀✾❀

⚜️ - Venus in the 9th house/Venus in Sagittarius/Venus in Sagittarius Degrees (9°, 21°) always remember me about hearing a tropical song party, they have that tropical flow 💃

⚜️ - Sun in the 9th house/Sun in Sagittarius/Sun in Sagittarius Degrees (9°, 21°) did ever happened for people to confuse your ethnicity or the country where you are from? Yeah with these placements can give this vibe

⚜️ - Taurus/Libra Moons they are my Romeo and Juliet and no can change that, they often have this vibe because of their romantic aura (Taurus about finding love in herself and Libra finding love in the others this is literally everything)

⚜️ - Pisces/Cancer Sun/Venus/Mercury = They are the people who can have the most cutest voices ever. They also have an adorable face

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

⚜️ - Moon - trine/sextile/conjunct Pluto = You can fall in love with them at the first sight. They are full of mystery and charm, is something like 'I love you since I first met you' with them

⚜️ - Pluto in the 1st/10th/11th house they literally attract envy everywhere they go. They are the reason why the haters can't sleep at night

⚜️ - Chiron in Aquarius/Chiron in the 11th house may find comfort in their friends. They can be really lonely people but with heart of gold

⚜️ - Lilith aspecting ascendant= misterious appearance, they are so full of mystery and secrets, people can be so curious of them

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

⚜️ - Sun - Mercury aspects have that cute/shy voice, they may talk softly and so calm in the same time, literally so charming

⚜️ - Libra/Leo Risings have that beautiful shinning hair, literally go girl spin your hair around. Rapunzel Vibes

⚜️ - Don't be afraid for challenges when you have Aries/Sagittarius placements with you. They can take it all and risk everything for the adrenaline

⚜️ - Venus - Mercury aspect in someone's chart can be the type of native who may like to write love poems/letters and even songs sometimes

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁

✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀✾

💫 Good day to everyone reading my notes today… It's a great day to follow your dreams and to let every negative energy out of your body 💫

💫 Have a blessed day today 💫

- Yours truly, Harmoonix 💫

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kichiyosh1 · 11 months ago

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"I made it with you in mind"

wanderer x reader

to think he'd end up finding joy in such a childish activity

✧: he ends up being mean at the beginning but he apologizes in his own special way, slight hurt/comfort but nothing major

(I'm back ig? idk :3)

He couldn't believe the absurdity to which you and the young archon were subjecting him to.

The sins committed by the former harbinger are things he won't refute or deny. Indeed such actions musn't go unpunished, but perhaps he's underestimated the extent of the dendro archon's mercy.

Mind explaining what all of this is supposed to be?" he knows, with just a single glance, he grasped what was about to unfold, he just couldn't believe it. There displayed before his very eyes, a colorful assortment of beads lay scattered across a wooden table.

"You've dabbled in arts and crafts before, haven't you? You could say I proposed the idea to Lord kusanali as a way to keep that evil little brain of yours occupied"

'What evil is there to be done in bracelet crafting of all things, huh?' he deadpanned while simultaneously picking up a bead, examining how it reflects the light that's passing through the crystalline windows.

He let out a scoff.

"Have you forgotten who I am? A being of celestial creation, lessened to do recreational activities such as these? how amusing." Pathetic was the word he was looking for. Seriously, do you really expect him to just sit down quietly and start passing beads on a string without complaint to how this is a hit on his pride? It'd be more fitting if you locked him up for all of eternity, but this, this was just mockery.

It was the warmth of your hand that snapped him out of his thoughts. Eyes widened before squinting, but he dared not move, curious to what it was you were doing. You had started to fasten a piece of string to his wrist, gentle with your touch, measuring it so that it'd fit securely, but not too tight to be uncomfortable.

"Who gave you permission to lay your hands on me?" The warmth of your touch was strangely starting to get to him. He swatted your hand away, any more of that and he wouldn't know how to react.

Both of you were now glaring at each other. "Is it that hard for you to accept someone's act of kindness? I'm just trying to help." You could've sworn there was a slight change in his eyes when you said that, but was quickly replaced by an irritated smirk on his face. "I don't recall ever asking for your help, go give it to someone who actually needs it." He waved you off before plopping himself down on one of the stools before suddenly picking out random beads and charms like he wasn't against the idea a moment ago.

With furrowed brows and your mouth left slightly agape by his rude behavior, your face settled on a frown. You were used to the wanderer's arrogance and unpleasant attitude towards people, but there are times where even you are left puzzled. You went out of your way to make sure the activities kusanali planned out wouldn't overwhelm him, she'd ask you if you were doing this out of pity for him. You firmly shook your head.

You simply cared for him, that's all there was to it, but it didn't seem like he reciprocated the motion. The last he's heard from you was a sigh, before the sound of your footsteps slowly leaving faded.

You haven't visited him since. I mean how could you? if he was going to act like a brat while you spent your time there then might as well steer clear out of his way. No, you weren't being petty, and even if you were, you most certainly had every right to be. You nodded to yourself, justifying your actions as wanderer just being an asshat and you being the more mature one in this situation.

It wasn't easy. There were times where you would cross paths when he was on break from his duties (and bracelet crafting), or times where he himself is actively seeking you out, and before he could even call out your name, you're already making a bee line towards the exit.

You sat yourself down, exhausted from all this running around. Another successful day of not coming into contact with the wanderer.

"Doesn't he have other businesses to attend to?" If he had time to be going around looking for you then surely he was slacking off, right?

"As far as I'm concerned, you are my business." Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"So how long do you plan on avoiding me?" he was standing behind you, face leaning down above your head as you met his gaze from your position on the bench.

You put on an air of annoyance before flicking his forehead, causing him to hiss and reel back from your attack as he rubbed the spot. "Hey! you deprive me of your company for days and now you dare assault my face? you-" you were already walking away, with the esteemed wanderer quickly following closely behind you.

"Hey", he reached for your hand, but you batted it away. It was definitely worth it to see the offended look on his face, but there was a small pang in your heart when you saw how his face faltered. "Who gave you permission to lay your hands on me? don't go acting all buddy buddy with me now." you crossed your arms, throwing back what he had said to you a few days ago.

"ah, you're upset with me about last time." You kept a stern look on your face, expecting for more, but if he failed to deliver then you'd have no trouble turning away from him again.

His mouth kept opening and closing similar to that of a goldfish, but no words came out. He looks conflicted. It took him a whole minute to sort out his thoughts, and with a deep sigh he spoke.

"The way I reacted, it was uncalled for. Like you said, you were only trying to help and I should have, I, it's just the way you held my hand, it made me feel weird." his gaze turned downcast feeling a little embarrassed by getting riled up by something so minor as physical contact.

you don't know that of course, you'd just assume he was really really ticklish in some areas

Would you mind closing your eyes for a moment? I promise It'll only take a second", the soft spoken tone he's taken on is foreign to you, but not unwelcome. You were hesitant but complied. And if he does anything funny you'll make sure to write a full on report about it to kusanali.

You could only feel how he softly held your hand, how he delicately glided his dainty finger in order to tie what you assumed was a,

a bracelet?

You opened your eyes and that's when he leaned in, his soft breath near your ear "It was supposed to be a surprise gift, but an apology gift works too." your face felt warm, and your hand did too (to which he was still holding). Was this the weird feeling he was talking about.

A moment after, you examined the accessory on your wrist.

and my was it beautiful.

The main colors of the bracelet were your favorite colors, accompanied by beautiful white pearl beads and crystal flowers and cute charms. Truly something you wouldn't expect the wanderer himself to make.

You released a small laugh, happiness spreading throughout your system. "Did you really make this?" You were starting to look too happy for his liking, but of course you always looked more beautiful with a smile on your face. He scoffed in order to hide the ever creeping happiness that was also starting to spread across his face.

"Is it that hard to believe? I had you in mind when I made it after all, so if you're going to complain about its design then the person used as reference is at fault." You were just about to complain to him about him complaining that you'd not dare complain about it when he added on.

"again, I'm sorry for disregarding your help. Whether I needed it or not, I wanted to make the bracelet solely on my own so that it'd be more meaningful of a gift to give to you." This time he held your gaze, determined and truthful about what he said.

It seems you had judged him wrong, well not entirely. True he had a unique character, but that's just what made him, him. You held his hand, and the colors from earlier are returning to both of your faces. You held it there before pointing to his wrist, "It's only right I make you one as well, right? that way we'll be matching." You then intertwined your fingers. He was gonna combust.

EXTRA:

"I didn't think wanderer would be that into bracelet making" Kusanali peaked from the corner of the room. He was deeply concentrating on what he was doing and she did not want to disturb. "A little peek into that mind of his wouldn't hurt". After using her skill, a flurry of thoughts from wanderer flood her mind.

'Is this too much? or maybe too little? is [y/n] a minimalist or a maximalist?'

'This reminds me of you, this one too, and this one.'

'This charm is cute, like you. Wait no you're most definitely more cuter'

'this bracelet should be honored to be worn by you'

'maybe i'll make you a necklace next'

'I hope you'll like it'

#genshin impact x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #I hope there aren't any mistales like I wrote this shit and never looked back lol

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lxkeee · 8 months ago

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TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN

-PART NINE

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Seraphim Angel! Fem! Reader

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Genre: Angst (for now)

Warnings: family trauma/lore

Notes: TSOTSC finally reached 20k words, yippee!

PART ONE | PART EIGHT | PART TEN | NAVIGATION

Azrael looked at the female angel beside him, noticing the lovestruck expression on the girl's face. He looked at her with a deadpanned expression, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Azrael's deep black eyes followed her line of sight, landing on a light blond haired short male angel with rosy spots on his cheeks, Lucifer. Azrael grimaced, watching as Lucifer talked with Michael, Lucifer's twin brother.

Azrael can hear a satisfied sigh left [Y/n]'s lips, Azrael still doesn't know why the girl is so lovestruck with the guy. Lucifer's curiosity is a looming threat, everyone in the high council of angels can feel it but they can't do anything about it as the said angel hasn't done anything yet.

Azrael sighs, grabbing the cloud pillow off the couch so he could sit beside her, the cushioned seat sinking as he sat down. He nudges her, catching her attention.

“I still don't understand what you see on that guy.” he deadpans at her and [Y/n] rolls her eyes at the taller male.

“Do you want me to take out my 50 slide presentation again on why I like him so much?” [Y/n] asked with a raised eyebrow and Azrael flinched, raising his hands in defeat.

“No, thank you.” He mumbled, shuddering as he remembers the time she presented those slides to him, which he still didn't understand why she liked the boy so much. He was zoned out during all of the presentation.

Azrael sighs, chest heavy and tight. He doesn't understand why. The thought of his best friend getting married to someone else hurt for some reason.

“Make sure you won't regret it, you're getting married to him soon.” He deadpans and [Y/n] just laughed, “I won't. He won't do anything to hurt me.” she said confidently.

Azrael rolls his eyes playfully, “You seem confident with that statement.”

[Y/n] scoffs playfully, “Because I know him.”

“Do you really know him?” Azrael retorts back, raising an eyebrow at her. [Y/n] flinches slightly, Azrael is right. She's still 25 years old and so is Lucifer, they're both very young. They still have lots to learn about each other.

It doesn't matter, Lucifer loves her and she loves him back. They have an entire eternity to know each other.

With a long exhale, she turned to look at Azrael, “Maybe I may not know him entirely but I will be able to.”

Azrael just sighs, shaking his head, “Whatever you say [n/n], but if he does something... Don't tell me I didn't tell you so.” he chuckled and [Y/n] rolls her eyes playfully at him, nudging Azrael playfully.

“Hey, I know him. He's my best friend and we've known each other the moment we existed.”

Azrael scoffs playfully at her words, “Who knows? People change.” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. [Y/n] avoided his gaze and turned to look back at Lucifer who seems to notice her.

Lucifer gave her a wink and a charming smile, sending her a kiss to her way causing for her to blush and giggle.

Azrael rolled his eyes at the scene.

“They do and I hope he changes to become a better version of himself.”

After getting married to Lucifer, life felt good. Lucifer treated her so well, bringing her flowers everyday, giving her affections in every chance he gets.

Everything was fine until God created the first ever humans, [Y/n] knows how much of a curious man Lucifer is, naturally, he went out to observe them.

It created cracks in their relationship.

Lucifer began to go home later than usual, occasionally forgetting to give her affections.

And their topics—his topics have now shifted to God's newly created creature, a woman named Lilith.

[Y/n] had to endure the pain and heartache as she listens to her husband talk so fondly about the woman, complimenting Lilith in every possible chance he gets.

But nevertheless, [Y/n] remained to have confidence in him. Choosing to trust him, he is her husband after all. They've been together for many eons, she knows him.

Does she?

No, she doesn't.

Especially on what she's currently witnessing, [Y/n] hid between a large tree in the garden of Eden. She had the urge to check up on Lucifer, her instinct was screaming for her to do so.

Her nails are buried in the bark of the tree, ichor flows out of her fingertips as she tries to prevent a sob from escaping her lips. The wooden sensation of the wood against her fingertips, the stinging pain of the scratched skin of the tips of her fingers is what she felt.

With the additional sensation of the aching feeling that came from where her heart lies.

Warmth slid down her cheeks, bringing her gold covered fingertips to feel her skin.

Tears, the tears never seem to stop running down her beautiful yet sorrowful face.

Her eyes locked on to her husband, Lucifer—who looked at Lilith with so much affection in his eyes as he held the woman's hand.

‘Why... Why is he looking at her like how he used to look at me...?’

[Y/n] asked herself repeatedly in her mind. Each word got louder and louder on her mind, and each time she did, pain became more apparent to her internal voice as she asked herself in anguish.

‘Move... I need to leave... Move [Y/n]!’ she cried to herself, her mind screaming for her to leave. To save herself from even more heartbreak.

Yet, she remained still. Eyes fixed on the two.

Her hands slapped over her mouth to prevent sobs from escaping her plump and soft lips, eyelashes fluttering and glistening with tears. Warm sunlight filtering through the strands of her eyelashes, making the redness around her eyes more prominent.

Dull [e/c] eyes blankly staring at the two—her husband and a different woman.

Despite its dullness, her eyes were filled with anguish.

Tired, dull, and swollen.

No longer bright, hopeful, and happy. It's now filled with sorrow, and unimaginable heartache. Something an angel like her shouldn't feel. Yet, Lucifer Morningstar made that possible.

[Y/n] watches as her husband caresses Lilith's face, so affectionately.

Something she didn't experience from him lately.

“You're so beautiful.”

She heard him mutter to Lilith with a voice that carried so much emotion, it was enough to shatter her heart to tiny million pieces.

Finally gathering enough strength, she finally released herself from where she stood. Finally allowing herself to move, flying away swiftly and discreetly.

A single feather was what was left of where she once stood.

She arrived at her shared home with Lucifer, quickly locking herself inside their bedroom.

Her body slouches against the door as she slowly slides down to the floor.

Painful sobs left her lips, shoulders shaking as she buried her face into her hands.

‘No, no, no, no, no... I must be seeing things... Lucifer can't just fall in love with someone that easy...’ she laughs to herself, voice cracking and trembling as she did so.

Shaking her head as she desperately tries to make herself believe her own words.

“This must be a misunderstanding, that's right... I'll ask him when... When he comes back...”

She says to herself, voice lowering to almost a whisper.

‘That is... If he comes home...’

She thought sadly, supporting her shoulder on to her knees, burying her face into her arms. Strands of her hair falling off to the side of her face, framing the heartbreaking picture of the face that belongs to a heartbroken angel.

‘He can't just... Leave me like that... He can't just break our vows.’

She thought to herself, her hands rubbing her sides for comfort.

She only has herself to comfort herself, her husband isn't here after all.

“When he comes back, the two of us will have a proper and mature conversation... I hope.” she says to herself weakly, picking herself up from the floor. Knees tremble from the weight of her emotions, chest filled with pain and heartache. She can barely breathe, she wonders if she was still breathing.

She felt like a walking corpse.

Wiping her eyes with the sleeves of her dress, the soft material of her dress providing comfort to her swollen and aching eyes.

She dragged herself across the room, finally approaching the full length mirror just by their closet.

She can see how much of a mess she is. Eye bags underneath her eyes, tear streaks evident on her cheeks, her hair a mess. Pale skin and chapped lips from severe dehydration from how much she cried.

‘Is that me...?’ She asked herself, finally processing what she's seeing, finally coming to the realization that the figure in the mirror is her own reflection.

She can barely recognize herself, she doesn't look like that. She doesn't remember looking so tired and so... Sad and pathetic.

‘This wouldn't do, I don't want Lucifer to see me like this..’ she thought to herself sadly, the face of Lilith flashing in her mind.

Lilith, the first ever human woman. Of course, someone as beautiful as her would be someone Lucifer would fancy.

[Y/n] couldn't help but compare herself to the woman. Lilith has bright and blemish pale skin, hers were a sickly kind of pale.

Lilith has bright and hopeful eyes, hers are dull and sad.

Lilith has a beautiful and blemish free face, hers are tired and dark bags are underneath her eyes.

[Y/n] shakes her head, getting rid of the negative thoughts that filled her mind.

“Stop that, Lucifer loved you just the way you are.” she says to herself, yet doubt was evident in her voice.

‘Loved. That's right, he probably doesn't love me anymore.’

She shakes her head once more, ‘Stop that, he hasn't told us that yet... So I shouldn't say something like that...’

‘I'll just clean myself first, make myself presentable. In case he ever comes home.’

She says to herself, dragging herself to the bathroom to freshen up.

He never came home that day.

She lies on their shared bed, coming to that realization as the clock finally hit one in the morning. The bed was cold and lonely, the warmth that was usually beside her isn't present.

Closing her eyes, allowing the tears to glide down her pale cheeks, the tears staining the pillowcase of her pillow.

Past memories flash on her mind, memories of where Lucifer and her were still happy and in love.

“You are my best friend, the love of my life... I am so lucky to be called yours.” Lucifer says to her, kissing her forehead.

They were still teens in love, young and stupid but in love.

“You are so cheesy, stop saying cheesy things you're making me flustered.” she giggles as he twirls her around, bits of the clouds around them fluttering due to their movements.

Lucifer giggles, dipping her effortlessly and presses his forehead against his, “But it's my job to make you flustered, darling.”

She giggles, pink dusting her cheeks, “I love you, Lucifer.”

“I love you too, darling.”

She cried herself to sleep that night.

She sat on the couch of their living room, the early sunlight filtering through the large windows of their home, giving their home some warmth. The warmth makes her forget the coldness of her skin and the numbness of her heart.

Her head whipped to the sound of the door being opened, lo and behold, her husband finally came home.

Her eyebrows furrowed, eye twitching. She was aching to snap at him but she took a deep breath and calmed herself down.

“Lucifer, where have you been?” she asked softly, voice cracking and trembling in each syllable.

Lucifer flinches, jumping slightly from surprise. He was surprised to hear his wife's voice. He didn't expect her to be awake so early in the morning.

He gave her a nervous smile, “Darling, why are you awake so early?” he asked, [Y/n] just continuously tapped her feet against the marble tiles.

“Enough of that, I know you have been spending time with that human.” she says softly and Lucifer's eyes widened, avoiding his wife's eyes because of guilt.

“It's part of my job, love—”

“Stop lying to me, Lucifer Morningstar.” she snaps, eyes glaring at him, “I didn't know telling her that she's beautiful is part of the job? Might I also include... Caressing her face? Was that part of the job? Tell me, Lucifer...”

“Are you tired of me...?” she asked softly, and Lucifer's eyes saddened.

“No, no, no... I can never be tired of you...” he says softly, he's unsure if he's lying to himself or not. But he desperately tries to believe that he's not tired of her. Yes, he still loves her... Right?

He doesn't know the answer to that.

“Then why...?! Why are you spending the majority of your time with her?!” she screamed, her voice filled with anguish as she grips her hair. She swore she ripped some strands but she's too much in pain to care.

Lucifer's eyes widened, surprised by her outburst.

“Because I'm trying to make her feel better because Adam hasn't been good to her and I hope you can find it in your heart to care for her just a little.” he says softly, remembering the things Lilith told him, how Adam was mean to her.

[Y/n]'s eye twitch, the nerve. Why would she care about her?

“Why would I care about her?!” she asked angrily, and Lucifer frowned, “Because I care about her.” he says honestly, annoyance evident in his voice.

“Morning, noon, and night I care about her, yet you cannot spare a single sympathy for her.”

[Y/n] was taken aback, the first time sensing such hostility from him. Her husband defending another woman when all she ever asked from him is his time, some time for her.

“I'm just asking why you're spending so much time with her! I am your wife, Lucifer... I need you too!” She exclaimed, her voice cracking in anguish, “You're barely home anymore and it's getting unbearably lonely in our house, I missed you so, so much... Please.. I need you.”

“For heaven's sake, [Y/n]... Lilith just existed and she's scared and confused and Adam is also not treating her right! She needs someone.” He sighs, blue eyes looking at tired [e/c] ones, he would've asked for her forgiveness for his tone, but he was blind with the sense of duty towards Lilith. He couldn't think straight. Neither of them can.

“So stop being selfish, I'll come back when you have cleared your head, okay...?” he says softly yet a tinge of sharpness in his voice, turning around to leave, his heels clicking against the marbled tiles in each step he took.

The sound of the door clicking as he closed it brought her back to reality.

Her legs gave out as she fell into the cold hard marble floor, kneeling like heaven's first ever sinner. Her sin? Falling in love with heaven's most beautiful angel.

Blinking, she tries to process what just happened.

She and Lucifer just had their very first fight, and she doesn't know how to process it.

‘Azrael was right, I really don't know him at all.’

She thought to herself sadly, wiping her tears with her wrist before a broken sob escaped her lips once more.

She was left alone crying to herself in an empty, cold, and lonely house.

Days passed by, both Lucifer and [Y/n] were ignoring each other, unsure how to approach the other.

[Y/n] remained unmoving in their bed, all alone and cold. It's been so long since she last took care of herself.

“I feel so tired and weak... Heaven's... I feel like I'm about to pass out.” she murmured weakly, turning around to look at the empty spot of her shared bed with Lucifer, to see the said man to be nowhere in sight. He hasn't been home for a few days now.

‘I am so tired... Maybe I should rest for a bit...’ she thought, her eyesight blurring from the lack of sleep, she kept waiting for Lucifer's return but the man was nowhere in sight.

She sighs sadly, her eyes drooping without notice.

She passed out.

She doesn't know how long she was asleep but the moment she woke up she was in Azrael's house, the man told her that she was asleep for days.

And also told her about the fall of both Lucifer and Lilith.

She still couldn't wrap her head around it, refusing to believe it.

Azrael sighs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed of where she was lying down.

“It's true, he and Lilith gave the apple to Eve... I'm afraid work is going to get much harder now that evil exists.” he spoke softly, eyes saddened as he looked at the downcast female.

He's wondering if this is the right time to tell her...

“And another thing... [Y/n]...?” he calls out softly to her, she looks at him with not a single light on her eyes.

“What is it...?”

“You're pregnant.” he says softly, [y/n]'s eyes widened.

“What...?”

[Y/n] gasped loudly as she sat up on the bed, her head whipping around to look at her surroundings.

She's back in her room, weren't she in hell before?

Her breathing was uneven, placing a hand over her chest to calm her fast beating heart.

‘Why now...? Why did the memory have to come back now...?’

Tears were cascading down her cheeks, pitiful sobs leaving her lips.

“Mom...?” a soft male voice calls out, the door to the room opening, the head of Xavier peeking through the small opening.

The boy's eyes widened when he saw his mother crying on her bed.

“MOM...?! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! ARE YOU HURT SOMEWHERE?!” he asked, immediately rushing to his mother's side, kneeling beside the bed.

[Y/n] shakes her head slowly, “I'm alright, I just got a bad dream...” she admitted softly, small hiccups leaving her lips.

Xavier's [e/c] eyes softened, grabbing a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket that he hasn't used yet, using it to wipe his mother's tears away.

“Do you wanna talk about it...?” he asked softly, his hands gently dabbing the soft cloth on [y/n]'s face, making sure to dry her tear stricken face.

“A little bit...” she says softly, smiling gently towards her son. Her eyes saddened even more, Xavier really looked like Lucifer.

“That's alright, don't pressure yourself mom.” Xavier spoke softly, standing up so he could sit at the side of the bed, leaning down to give a kiss on his mother's forehead.

She nodded and took a deep breath, “I dreamt... About your father.” she says softly and avoids her son's eyes.

Xavier's eyes widened, his shoulders dropping but decided not to speak and allowed his mother to talk.

“I dreamt of the past, how happy me and him were used to and now... I don't even know anymore.” she laughs bitterly.

Xavier's hand clenched slightly before relaxing, “It's not your fault mom...”

“I know.”

Xavier sighs softly, “Mom...?” he calls out softly to her, [Y/n] hummed.

“I think we need to talk about him now, it's a long overdue topic.” he says softly to her and she flinches but sighs.

He's right, she's been avoiding this topic for so many eons. It's time to talk about it.

She sighs softly, “You're right... I think we should.” and Xavier smiled, proud of her. He always has been.

[Y/n] remained seated on her bed, thumbs playing with each other. Xavier has already left to do his usual routine around the house.

Their conversation about Lucifer has already ended, she told him everything about what happened. Told him why she loves him so much and what he did to hurt her.

She told him how she and Lucifer were together for how many years before marrying each other, she told him the things that he did that made her love him.

And she just can't let go of her feelings for someone that she loved for so many eons. It's not that easy.

Even after all these years, she can't forget.

[Y/n] sighs softly, her hair cascading down to her face, framing the shape of her face perfectly. She turned her head to the side to look at the window, she could see the large backyard forest-like garden.

Knock, knock, knock.

Her head whipped in the direction of the knock, she turned to look at the door to see Michael standing and leaning against the door frame lazily.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, “Michael... What are you doing here??” she asked softly and Michael sighed as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“I came as I heard what happened, are you alright?” he asked worriedly, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. [Y/n] smiled and nodded, “Yes,I feel slightly a lot better now.”

Michael smiled though, his eyes still held a tinge of worry in them. He sighs, “[Y/n]... Do you want to stop this mission and let someone else do it?” he asked her softly and [Y/n]'s eyes widened.

“I am perfectly capable of doing this, Michael... Don't worry too much about me.” she says softly and Michael sighs once more.

“I'm just worried for you, everyone is.” he says sternly and [Y/n] frowns, “I know but I can assure you that I'm fine with doing this...”

Michael sighs once more, clearly already used to her stubbornness.

“If you say so,” he says softly before looking back at her once more, “—but if it's suddenly too much for you, don't hesitate to tell me okay?” he says sternly to her.

[Y/n] giggles softly, a small smile on her face, “Yes,I'll keep that in mind.”

Michael smiled and gave her a single nod, “You better.”

Michael's eyes widened, snapping his fingers as he seems to remember something, [Y/n] tilted her head at him, confused.

“I just remembered, Gabriel said she was gonna visit later.” he says deadpanning and [Y/n]'s lips tightened into a flat line, she gave Michael a deadpan, “Yay... I can't wait.” she says unenthusiastically.

Michael laughed softly and ruffled her hair, “I'm sure it wouldn't be too bad.”

“She's gonna lecture me again about how men are shit.” she says deadpanning at him as she remembers the times Gabriel kept on lecturing her about how Lucifer was just a man.

“That is so real, love that for her.” Michael says, nodding.

“Michael, you're a man.” [Y/n] says with a small smile while shaking her head with her eyes closed.

“Am I?”

[Y/n] turned to look at Michael... Who's now a woman now. She deadpanned at him, “Really?” She asked sarcastically with a small smile, Michael laughed out loud. His laughs reverberated around the room.

“I think I look gorgeous as one.” he says sassily, flipping his long blond hair behind his back.

[Y/n] giggled and Michael smiled, proud to make her happy.

“You're so silly, try wearing a maid dress next time.” she suggested playfully at him, giving him a wink.

“Don't push your luck.” he says deadpanning at her and she just laughs, holding her hands up in defeat, “Okay, okay... I won't.” she says in-between giggles.

He smiled and ruffled her hair, “Alright, alright... You seem to be feeling much better now,” he says standing up, giving her a small smile, “—I'll head out first, I still have some work that are needed to be finished.” he says with a long sigh.

[Y/n] giggles, “Alright then... Don't push yourself too much okay?” she says softly, her eyes looking at Michael with worry.

“I won't.” he says and she deadpans at him, “I know you're lying.”

“Shush.”

“I'll see you later, [N/n].” he says with a smile, [Y/n] smiled at him, “I'll see you later, Michael.”

“It's Michelle.” he says sassily once more, flipping his long blond hair dramatically making [Y/n] cackle, “Right... Michelle.. lmao.. I'll see you later, Michelle.” she says in-between snickers.

“Laterz girlfriend~” Michael says sassily as he left, transforming back to his male form as he did so.

[Y/n] was left alone in her room, but this time... She was laughing thanks to Michael.

TAGLIST I:

@valerie-36 @blackbleedingrose @adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @selvyyr @froggybich @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @dou-dou @mezzyb0nb0n @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @koirb @galaxyj3lly @crystalplays28 @luleck @zc000ter @rory-cakes @mixplara @crescent-z @bitchyzombienacho @kalisha2004 @altervex @nehy019 @napbatata @kouyoumarryme @sxgacxbe @kooidoom @ok-boke @random-3455 @izzieg3987 @snoozewritezz @dreamzaremyreality @hcneyiced @witchbunny1210 @ghostdoodlen @aikobakugou @just-here-reading @dzhanett-blog @des-deswain5621 @cocomollo @haleypearce @onyxstarhigh06 @nirvana5874 @shaebutter-baby

#lxkeee updates #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer #lxkeee hazbin hotel masterlist #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer magne #“TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN”#lucifer x reader angst #lucifer x reader #lucifer x y/n #lucifer morningstar x reader angst #lucifer morningstar x you

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diejager · 1 year ago

Text

Bittersweet Devotion pt.2

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, heartbreak, mention of cheating, mention of death, no happy ending, apology, tell me if I missed any. wc: 9.3k

Your universe, Earth-XXX, was a parallel one to Earth-616 in some sense. You had a Peter Parker, a Gwen Stacy and a Mary Jane Watson, it had everything down to the death of Ben Parker and the devastation it brought to your friend. It was the same year as Spider-Man 616’s world, it had the same political standing and same history. Your world, like many others, was a near carbon copy of 616, down to the smallest things; but like others in the spiderverse, you had differences. Some were minor changes in the course of its canon story, others were major changes in the characters and the era.

You - like Miguel, Miles, Jess, Hobart (he liked going by Hobie), Patrick and Patriv - were one of those major deviations in the original canon. You didn’t exist - or so you thought - in Peter B. or Peter’s universe even though you lived in the same year. The reason might be that in the reality, the sum of all potential universes that paralleled each other, created the multiverse - the Spiderverse.

The concept of it seemed strangely unlimited, the infinite possibilities to a different ending or a different start for its world. The multiverse was, in some sense, as old as time, a culmination of everything made imaginable by man. Found in ancient texts - the Puranas, ancient Hindu mythology - that expressed the infinite number of universes with their gods and principles. Whereas Persian literature - tales - touched the idea of learning about alternate universes that were similar, yet distinctly different from theirs.

Misconstrued by many, the strangeness of it was deemed a danger, the unknown possibilities were feared by people of older age, but venerated in the past as it was in the present for the unfathomable possibilities. It exists in fiction, where they borrowed the idea of many worlds within a reality from myths, legends and religion. Heaven, Hell, Olympus and Valhalla were all reflections of a familiar world, a material realm for the blessed, the sinful, the gods, and the worthy. The similarities sometimes frightened you, how close the people were to knowing of the reality you all lived in. The tangibility of crossing worlds and bringing about chaos to every string, every realm, every material form of the multiverse.

They, after all, were real, Hell as much as Heaven in your universe. Gods from every religion, either monotheistic or polytheistic, some you’d personally seen are Thor and Loki, brother and sons of Odin the Allfather, and the God of Thunder and Mischief respectively. Another was a big crocodile lady, Ammit, from what you’d heard from the all-knowing Dr. Strange. From God to Norse and Egyptian gods, from angels and demons, and from humans to mutants, your plane of existence was as wide as it could go without drifting off the edge and causing a mass domino effect within the multiverse.

You were curious, naturally so for a scientist, exploring the worlds that felt familiar to you but you hadn’t truly grasped - different, yet similar. You hadn’t given a second thought to exploring yours. After all, why explore yours when your horizon was as broad as you imagined it, unperturbed by any limits when it came to the multiverse? The eternal and unlimited growing number of realms in your expanding reality.

Perhaps that was the reason why you hadn’t known your universe had its own Miguel O’Hara. You rarely came back for anything, you had everything you’ve ever wanted in Nueva York, Earth-928. You have friends who could truly understand you, people who stood beside you when you fought, youngsters who looked up to you for mentoring and a dream- or it was a dream. Dreams, not dissimilar to wishes, were hopeful, naive in a way, they came and went. Some dreams would come true, while others fell, like the fallen stars that crossed the night sky.

Yours simply happened to be a fallen one, one not meant to happen and become greater. You let it go after he dropped you, after he turned his back and let his mouth run unperturbed. He brought her up, someone he swore he would remember but left in the past. A new chance to become something, to become whole again, and Miguel took it. He wanted to start anew, fresh with someone he never met, you wanted the same; you both had what you wished for, until he put his foot down, cutting the thin web that connected both your lives.

It broke your heart. Months of patience and anxiously stepping around each other, nervous about breaking the trust freshly built between you both, lost in a few weeks. You were brittle, heart fractured and threatening to fall further apart if someone was any crueller to you. The smallest glare, the tiniest scoff or the weakest remark would send you reeling into the abyss of heartbreak and the throes of anguish. Yet somehow, you found yourself being led away by a copy of the Miguel you loved.

He mumbled apologies as he held you tightly, his arm over your shoulder as he cradled you under his umbrella, hastily urging you to follow his guidance. If it were any other person, you would’ve been wary, cautious of any strangers that touched you so closely and chaperoned you so quickly; but this was Miguel, a man you trusted and that you still trusted wherever he came from. Earth-XXX’s Miguel O’Hara was still similar to the one you knew, someone you could trust. You did.

He led you to his flat, someplace near Alchemax’s building in Manhattan, a safe neighbourhood for the richer citizens of Manhattan. A cozy place of neutral tones and muted colours, yet warm as he welcomed you - a stranger as of yet - into his home. He had machinery strewn around, reports stacked on his coffee table and smaller things he had been tinkering about decorating his home. As a geneticist, he liked to play with machinery, having drawn his designs and models, built his creations from scratch and worked from the base programming to make something better. At least Miguel from Earth-928 did, and it seemed this one did as well.

You stood in his shower, where he left you in a frenzy to bring you dry clothes, drying out your hair with the towel he motioned you to use. You doubted that he had anything your size, his broad shoulders and his towering height, nothing he had in his draws - and the boxes he stowed away in his closet - would fit you. They would drag down your ankle and sit low on your collar. Granted, you were soaked down to your socks and had no temporary clothes to cover yourself with during your stay.

You had stripped from your soaked clothes and patted down your wet skin, shivering from the cold that clung to your bones even after Miguel had increased the heater in the small confines of the bathroom. It was small but big enough to move around and stretch your arms comfortably. You hadn’t felt the cold until he brought you to his bathroom, the numbness of the past months weighing heavily on your shoulders and the bleeding of your heart made everything seem so meaningless. The colours draining from the world around you, a once bright New York turned grey, the monochrome tones of black and white mixing and interlacing to form even more boring shades.

The vibrancy and life you once saw around you dulled and died suddenly, like the winters brought by Demeter’s devastation and sadness when her daughter was taken from her, stolen from the berth of flowers she liked frolicking about. How Demeter doomed the world to see her pain, to feel how she felt in the moments her daughter had to return to her husband than stay with Demeter. You felt laden by your faults and his actions. Doubtful of your relationship, of what led you both to such an ending. Had you been clearer or more forthcoming about your emotions, or had you confronted him for his behaviour, would you still be in his arms?

Were you at fault for missing something you had relied on as comfort and safety? Could you be blamed for his reaction to your meddling in his affairs in the Society? Could you blame him for dropping those words on you? After all, being reminded or compared to a past lover was anything but gentle, the gut-wrenching envy and betrayal you felt flash through you was nearly drowning. It made you feel lacking, to be reminded of his old flame, the one he was about to marry and the person he seemed to love before all. Could you even compare to what she was; what she did? (Dina had cheated on him, you knew that, but he was truly happy in their moments of pleasure and domesticity. They were a family until she died.)

You were drowning in your self-made sorrow when his voice called you, grounding you to the room. Standing before a door, naked and shivering, arms wrapping the damp towel around your shoulders. He called again, cracking the door open to pass you the - his - clothes he thought would fit you. He coughed as you took your temporary wear, your cool fingers brushing his warm ones. It was a sudden and jerking contact, you pulled back jerkingly, a shamble of an apology and a thank you flew from your tongue. His chuckle was a reassurance in the complete quietness of the flat, his low voice reminding you of better times.

The sweater hung loosely around you, dipping down your collar to expose your shoulder. It was warm, the cotton used to make it still soft after being stored away and the soothing scent of spice and pine deeply integrated into the fibres. The pants were stretched around your hips, the tight fabric thin and flexible under stress, hidden under the long shirt. The legs, however, swayed loosely around your limbs, too big for your calves, but tight enough to hug your thighs. He had certainly made sure to bring you clothes that would fit your frame. You hadn’t attempted to smell his pants, you thought it would’ve been too intrusive and disgusting to do so if only to smell a remnant of Miguel on his as you did on the sweater.

Miguel was waiting for you in the kitchen, his back turned to you as you ambled towards him. His shoulders loose and back relaxed in the presence of a stranger made you appreciate how good-natured he was in most universes you’d been to. He turned his head, gesturing you to sit on the chair facing him on the island as he returned to something he was making while you changed.

“I hope you don’t mind hot chocolate,” he started, voice light and hopeful as he turned to you, cup in each hand as he moved to stare at you. “I’m not one for tea.” He slid the warm mug into your hand, eyes watching your expression as he slowly sipped on the hot beverage.

His eyes squinted slightly when your lips curled upwards, a smile hidden by the steaming mug. You cupped the mug, feeling the warmth of the freshly brewed drink, the steam rising in soft curls and melting in the cooler atmosphere. Tentatively, you brought the rim to your lips, slowly tilting the cup. The powerful taste of chocolate hit you strongly, the sweet and dark liquid melting the tension in your muscles until you could curl over the table with an appreciative sigh.

“Thank you…” you knew his name, wanting to call him, but his reaction would be unwanted, the shock, fear and suspicion that would fill his beautiful, brown eyes. So you slurred your words, dragging out your voice until he could tell you his name himself.

“Miguel. Miguel O’Hara, ” he nodded, cocking his head upwards, pointing at you with his chin. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Hey every time I want to call you.” His lips broke into a cheeky smile, teasing you when he saw that you’d comfortably melted into the drink and his island chair. He wanted to ease the tense atmosphere from before into something much calmer, to help the accumulated tension in your shoulders to fall like the rain that clouded the streets of New York.

You let out a hoarse chuckle, your throat still fresh from crying, and told him your name, trying to stabilise your shaking tone. His cheeky smirk tugged at your heartstrings, you hadn’t seen Miguel laugh or smile this freely in months. You missed it. The casual banter you shared and the on-and-off insults you’d hurl at one another, all good-natured insults meant to rile him.

“Thank you, Miguel,” you nearly choked when you uttered his name, the wound still so fresh and bleeding it slip from your tongue easily. It brought up so many memories, both painful and joyful. Your eyes glazed over, tears threatening to fall once again, to paint your cheeks with agony that you - him, or perhaps both of you - had brought on yourself. “Thank you…”

Miguel hummed sympathetically, eyes staring down at his drink, deep in thought. Perhaps he was thinking of a way to invite you to share your problems, to tell him why you broke down on the street in stormy weather. Or maybe he was thinking of the fastest way to kick you out, to get rid of the mess you became. The silence, however, was reassuring, calming the nerves that followed the eerie calmness of Miguel’s den or the loud, hectic atmosphere of the Society. His warm, worrying gaze grounded you, the softness behind his concerned stare was heartwarmingly nostalgic.

“Difficult breakup?” His words seemed hesitant, unsure of his conclusion to the cause of your appearance. Unknowingly, he had struck gold, pinning down the right problem in your life with a few observations. Of course, he was observant and aware of his surroundings, why else was he so willing to bring you into his home?

“How’d ya know?”

His sigh was telling, the deep, concerned and tired breath was only used when he knew that you wouldn’t tell him what ailed you, like the groan of a disappointed, yet worried father.

“Because I know how it feels,” he says slowly, pensive over his words, picking them carefully to not damage you further than your ex had. He knew the pain of a harsh breakup, the pain and sorrow that followed, like a dark cloud that hovered over you whenever you were awake.

“Why?” You croaked.

“Why?” he parroted, frowning at your question.

“Why did you invite me in? I’m a- a stranger to you, you don’t even know me. What if I’d been acting to mug you or potentially kill and steal from you? What’d you do then, Miguel?”

“I know the risks, but you didn’t, didn’t you? And wouldn’t, you don’t look like the person to harm another.”

You scoffed at his words. Didn’t and wouldn’t didn’t mean you would not do it later after gaining his trust, to stab him in the back after he helped you and nursed you. The simple, naïve idea that you didn’t look like a violent person was mind-blowing, it was stupid. How could he know if you didn’t mean harm later on? Like how Miguel never meant to harm you - he loved you - and yet in the end, he had.

“That’s naïve,” you muttered, eyes closed as you drank the cooling beverage, the sugary drink trickling down your throat.

“I’m confident in my ability to read people.”

He did seem confident in his ability, the straight back and the strong gaze in his eyes showed; and, maybe because you knew from experience that Miguel was observant and careful, he hadn’t gotten where he was by simply trusting people and following the herd. He tested and made mistakes, he learned from them each time and found a way to use it to his advantage. The Miguel you saw in every universe was similar in some ways, their good nature, their cunningness, their bravery and their intelligence. All aspects known to characterize Miguel O’Hara in all universes he existed in.

You conceded to his will, head bowed and shoulders slack. You breathed shallowly, swallowing the lump in your throat:

“Yeah, what gave it away?”

You thought it would be the last of him you’d see in your life, you wished it wouldn’t, that you’d see him over and over, to feel what the Miguel from your universe had to give, but you knew it was wishful thinking, a wish thrown to the stars. Logically, he had no reason to call or text you after exchanging numbers days prior. He promised to call you, and he made you promise to call him if anything ever resurfaced, be it pain, anger, heartbreak or hate. You, instinctively, believed his word.

You hated yourself for falling so easily to another Miguel, how you bent to his words and the sweet promises he uttered that night. There was no sign that he would keep his word, that he would see you again after your breakdown, except for his words and your belief in him. Then it wasn’t misplaced, all the trust and belief you had, since he called you, asking to meet up at a cafe. Miguel had set up a place and time for you when you replied with a croak, still feeling down. He had whispered reassuring words to you, urging you to meet him - he explicitly told you he’d feel offended to be stood up - and spend some time outside. The air was fresh and cool for an autumnal month, it wasn’t too cold that you were forced to wear a thick jacket, but it wasn’t warm enough for you to go out in a simple shirt.

You were hesitant to take him up on his offer, knowing how easily you could rebound. You’d crash into Miguel’s open arms, searching for the love and affection he fed you like a lovesick puppy, but, then again, Earth-XXX’s Miguel was similar, yet different from his variant. It would be a lie if you told yourself you didn’t miss him, the soft smiles, the gentle touches and the affectionate words. You had spent so much time as his right-hand Spider that it felt odd not seeing him the following morning. It was a routine you’d formed: waking up in his bed, kissing him good morning, getting to work together and eating together. Everything you’d done in the past years was with Miguel from Earth-928 the routine, the rigidity, it was grounding, it was the only semblance of normalcy in the world you lived in.

Now, you had to face the possibility that you were too broken to see another Miguel, to hold a casual conversation and form coherent and normal sentences. The purposefully slow steps you took to the cafe picked after having a moment outside the glass front were telling in itself. You swallowed the little amount of saliva in your throat to soothe its dryness and walked through the doors of the quaint establishment. It was painted in calm, brown tones, rustic in design with a warmth that rivalled the comfort of your bed. It lifted a bit of the tension you had, shoulders slumping slightly as your eyes searched for a familiar mop of brown hair.

Laying against the brown sofa, he stared out of the wide window from his booth. The warm, morning lights caressed his cheeks, lighting up the sharp edges of his jaw and nose. He was sculpted in perfection, like the youthful beauty of Adonis, crafted with the meticulous and attention-catching hands of an artist that created what was thought to be a god’s beauty. You could spend your days watching him, catching every little detail of Miguel’s face under the changing lighting, but you were standing near the entrance and he was waiting for you. His words echoed in your mind: “Don’t forget about next week, I miss seeing you.”

His eyes flickered to you, blinking as he turned to you, flashing a smile. You returned the sentiment, a shaky smile lifting the corners of your lips. You sat across from him, eyes wandering the cafe to stare at anything but him, lest you wouldn’t be able to stop the rush of emotions that would light your face in a flush. He uttered your name, greeting you in a friendly manner. You nodded back, muttering his name, pushing down the wince whenever you said it.

“Chocolate.”

The still-warm cup stared at you, light steam wafting over the reflective liquid. It was full, unlike Miguel’s cup, and drank down to the middle of the container.

“Thank you.”

He probably wouldn’t let you repay him for the hot chocolate he bought you, the smile he gave you told you as much when your eyes flickered between his and your cup. The hot chocolate was a reminder of your night in his flat, where he lent you his shoulder to cry and his ears to listen. Embarrassment seemed to flash whenever you recalled the memory, how vulnerable you were to him, your walls broken down and your heart open. Though, Miguel didn’t seem to mind your fragility, giving you as much time as you needed.

“How are you? I wanted to give you a few days to think before meeting again, I thought you might’ve needed the time alone.”

You nodded lamely, fingers curling around the warm porcelain, back slumped into the booth to hide from his knowing eyes. He was right, you had needed the time alone to clean yourself up, scour through your memories and tend to whatever mess you made of yourself. You were thankful. The last few days had brought revelations, how - both of - you had ignored the signs of a rupture in the relationship and continued to push on, like crossing a crumbling bridge.

“‘M doing better. How- and how are you?”

He smiled at your attempt, you were trying on your own after a few - forced - encouraging words from Miguel. Maybe you’d learn to live with the pain, coexisting with the numbness that filled you until it dulled to a point where it would be barely acknowledged by you or anyone in your vicinity - where it wasn’t painted on your face with bright colours. Or the pursuit to forget it, pushing it into the farthest corner of your mind and heart, painting over the crack with glue. As long as you wouldn’t drown in your sorrows, ending up playing with dangerous substances to stay afloat while your mind sunk deeper into addiction and denial.

He wouldn’t let you get that far, Miguel understood you and he lived through it as you did. Although his was a more violent breakup - she had cheated on him, his explosive reaction was natural - than yours, he hadn’t relied on anything but self-meditation and a lot of thinking. Like a friend - you were one by his standards, he’d invited you to his flat, you’d seen his organized chaos and ranted about your life while he comforted you with his shoulder and a cup of hot chocolate - he would stay by your side, hoping his support would be enough to help you.

“Great so far.”

His grin - somehow - grew even larger, enthusiasm gleaming in his eyes.

Oftentimes, Miguel would be the one to call you, your phone ringing in the afternoon of the day prior with his soothing voice on the other end of the line. He spoke easily, finding the time to invite you out for the simplest reason, to talk, to make a drink, to have fun, and - your favourite by far - to see you. His initiative had you trying to double your efforts to heal, reaching outside of your boundaries and texting Miguel whenever you had a moment to yourself. You felt guilty that he was always the one to plan these outings, so you promised yourself that you’d become a better friend than you currently were. You even remembered his teasing tone when you called him for the first time:

”Aye, finally. I thought you’d never call me, chica. I felt neglected, thought you had forgotten about me for a second there.”

It started with the first coffee date, bickering about who would pay, pushing your card before the other while still seated at your table, frowning stubbornly and throwing promises about letting the other pay next time. Either way, Miguel rarely let you pay, coming atop as the winner of your little fight with his strength and height (you couldn’t exactly put all your force into your push, it could break bone and bruise the skin.).

Then it would be random meetings on the streets that would lead you to a random bench at the park, basking in the other’s presence, retelling your day and him nitpicking anything he could with a ridiculously criticising frown. He was playing, you knew he was. You did the same after you’d gotten more comfortable talking to him, it became easier to see him as a different - as his own - person. A few hits on the shoulder left and right, but it was mostly laughter at ridiculous expressions made to emphasize your disdain for a certain event.

The months that followed were a blur to you. Rather than going to a cafe or the park, you went to restaurants and crashed at one of your flats, yours if he wanted to play games and lounge about with food and drinks, and his if you wanted to watch movies (he had the best television you’d ever seen, such high definition and speed.) and tinker away at his inventions and theories. He was certainly happy that his new friend was another scholar in the field of genes and engineering (you were mostly into engineering than genes, but you knew a few things that you’d found interesting.). You could both gush - scientifically - about the possibility of gene splicing and lab-generated mutations in humans, like the mutant superheroes.

You’d taken some liberties and went drinking, meeting at the same bar biweekly to relax after a few hard days at work. It served to loosen your nerves until either of you felt comfortable to chat up a storm about the most random subject. It’d been about the odd dent on the rim of his glass; then it’d be about how the sky was grey this week, there weren’t any warm, yellow rays blaring down on you when you went out; or it’d be about the distasteful cut of a man’s moustache. Drinking loosened your tongues, some words were said and some sentiments were shared, but none were truly taken seriously knowing you were tipsy - nearing drunk - those nights.

Every time you saw Miguel, you felt like you were rediscovering a part of yourself as well as him, the thing that made him so distinct and loveable. Miguel was expressive and honest, he slowly and gently let you down from whatever high you were, the pillar you needed to stand again after falling. He was so much different. It used to pain you how much they looked alike, but character-wise, they were like the two sides of a coin. It made you appreciate the delicate intricacies that made the multiverse.

You won’t - can’t - deny that you’ve grown fond of this Miguel as you did with the other one, but you couldn’t let yourself love him. He didn’t deserve someone broken and hashed into many lives: the masks you wore, the things you did, the secrets you hid, and the things you could do. He didn’t deserve someone who could bring him to his death; dying simply because he was connected to Spider-Woman; beaten simply because he knew Spider-Woman; kidnapped simply because they deemed him useful as leverage. All things that could go wrong haunt you. Miguel was human, he wasn’t a Spider, he wasn’t a superhero, and he wasn’t a vigilante. He was Miguel O’Hara, the geneticist working at Alchemax, with a brilliant mind and a kind heart.

You cherished every part of him. That’s why you can’t let your heart lead, dedicate how you’d react to Miguel after the months you spent together. He was so close, yet so far; he was touchable, you could hold him, kiss him and hug him, but he was unattainable, you couldn’t tell him how much you loved him. You watched him with hidden love, showing your affection as platonic, a friend watching another. You had hardened yourself to your heart’s cries, for loving Miguel was a dangerous game-

“I- what?” you gawked at Miguel, wide eyes and mouth agape. You were shocked at the words that left his mouth, his soft, wet lips moving as he repeated the words.

“I love you.”

His cheeks were flushed, burning a soft red, it trailed to his ears and nape. His open collar - his jacket hung on the back of his chair and his shirt clung below his collar, a skin-tight shirt that hugged his sculpted chest sinfully, it hid little to the seeing eyes of the crowd and your drunk self. His sudden words had all but sobered you, shaking you into clear lucidity of his confession.

“You… love me?”

He blinked dumbly at you for a second, as if taking the time to absorb what he told you and what you repeated. Miguel was tipsy, not drunk. He smiled and nodded, a bashfully affectionate grin on his beautiful lips.

“Yes, is it so hard to believe, chica?”

He often called you chica, you thought it was a friendly term of endearment between friends (truthfully and regretfully, you knew little of Spanish, even with being in a committed relationship with an Irish-Mexican.). You just realised it was his pet name for you. All this time, he had given you his heart, and yet, you had denied him of yours. He was more playful and less burdened by life, it made him more teasing and smiling. The term chica somewhat made sense, a cuter and more playful way of calling someone you loved than the deep-meaning ones like mi cielo and mi vida, a play of words like a small secret between you. This secret hid behind names given between friends, a well-kept one, close to his chest but gifted to you.

It might’ve once been - started - as friends, but it grew and festered in his heart until he found the time to express himself, to tell you how he truly felt for you - how he grew to care for you. He deemed this moment fine, bordering tipsy and nearing drunk, he’d be open, brutally honest but still aware of the words that left him. He wasn’t a lightweight anyway.

You wanted to tell him you also loved him, but you couldn’t do it, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed with heartbreak, you simply stared at him in hesitancy. You opened your mouth once to reply and closed it, open and close, again and again until all you could do was stare at him. How were you supposed to answer him after the bomb he dropped?

”Yes! I love you too!”

”Oh, Miguel, I love you too.”

”I- I love you as well.”

There were so many ways to express your feelings to the man who confessed, but none seemed to convey the true emotions that lay in your heart. You wanted to tell him you learned to love again thanks to him, that the time spent with him had made you open your eyes to the beauty that you were blinded by the pain and you slowly grew to care for - love - him as much as you did with Spider-Man 2099. He had the same smile, the same mind, the same heart, but he was more innocent, less burdened by disaster and happier.

So you simply nodded. It made his smirk grow.

“Aye- would it be better if I called you ‘mi tesoro’ instead? It’s more straightforward, no?”

Even now, his words were light and playful, his tone affectionate as he leaned closer to you. You could see the mischievous glint in his warm, chocolate eyes (you thought that was why he liked serving you hot chocolate, it reminded you of his eyes.) and the curve of his lips as they moved to form words. You were transfixed by his beauty, mesmerised by the comforting hues and the sharpness of his cheeks, missing how close he was to you.

“Or maybe-”

Softness caressed your lips, a plush, warm feeling that made you flush. He was kissing you, those pretty lips on yours. Your breath stuttered and you froze, but it didn’t stop Miguel’s initiative, a hand cradled your nape, holding you in place as he pushed himself closer to you. He moved against you, tongue slipping from his mouth and tentatively laving over your bottom lip, asking for something.

He was so warm, so caring. You could just close your eyes and follow his lead - you did. He pushed harder, yet the kiss stayed soft and passionate, he lightly nipped your lip and soothed the stinging with his warm tongue, beckoning you to open your mouth for him. Your lips parted, opening up for Miguel to dive in, muscle meeting yours halfway and curling over yours. He still cradled your head, fingers running through your loose hair and tilting your head backwards, giving him more space to show you how much he loved you. Your arms, somehow, found themselves wrapped around his neck, pulling him as close to you as he was pushing himself against you.

His kiss was loving, his hold was careful and his touch heartwarming. You almost regretted having to pull away, but you had to breathe, your lungs starving for air after having been devoured by Miguel’s adoring kiss. The moment you opened your eyes (you didn’t know you had closed them while you kissed), his smile greeted you, a lovesick one bubbling with unending joy. You almost choked from how it fit so well on him.

“That’s- that’s one way…” you spoke between breaths, chest swelling with every erratic pant, matching his similarly worn-out breathing.

That was all he needed from you. Your kiss was enough for him to know you loved him the same, a patient and gentle love he was willing to give you. Your heart pulsed strongly, lips curving and eyes squinting, you pushed yourself closer to his heat, his all-encompassing warmth that wrapped around you when you wanted to feel safe and loved. Your world couldn’t be any brighter, like the vibrant colours of blooming flowers when Persephone was given to her mother, where the snow melted and colours washed over the lands once more, painting the blank white and dead grey in joyous tones. It glowed brightly and warmed you like the summers that followed the melting ice, the clear, blue skies of Olympus and as freeing as the soaring hawks and skipping elks.

Letting go was far harder than loving. To let the person who you let in leave felt emptying, it left a gaping hole in his heart. Where it was once calm, struck a raging storm of rejection and regret, crashing waves the size of Poseidon’s rage and violent storms the strength of Zeus’ retribution. It hurt watching you walk beside a variant of himself, a happier and lighter version of him without his mutations or duty. You were the Spider-Woman of your universe so there wouldn’t be a second one unless there was a catastrophic canon divergence.

He hadn’t followed you at first, respecting your wishes of being left alone. He had to give you that much, at least, after those months spent beside his ignorant ass. He hadn’t seen it until it was too late, lost under the weight of his duty and fears that he’d forgotten he had people who cared, who felt, who loved. It was too late, it was always too late with him. If he couldn’t fix his first mistake, who’s to say he could fix this? He couldn’t save his first daughter or his second’s universe because it was falling apart. He couldn’t save anyone because he hadn’t realised his mistake in interfering in canon events, and he lost you because he couldn’t stop his vitriol, his violent temperament that had pushed you away. He always took things for granted until they were lost to him.

Was it two or three weeks before he decided to check up on you? He didn’t know anymore, the weeks blurred until he finally amassed the courage to go against everyone’s words. Through the flat hologram of his orange screen, he watched you lament on your own, body curled into itself and shoulders shaking. Your sobs were heart-wrenching to watch while he had no means of contacting you; you would’ve reacted more strongly and aggressively if he’d contacted you after leaving.

So he watched.

You stared vacantly from your window and left only for the bare necessities or to act as Spider-Woman. Crime never slept so you couldn’t stop even in your time of need. You swung from building to building so gracefully that Miguel was hypnotised by your grace. He watched these moments as a reminder of the missions he took by your side, webbing and catching anomalies all across the multiverse with fearsome speed and accuracy. You both had made a fearsome team, but that time was over, it was a memory long forgotten.

So he watched.

Your flat was cold and empty, the space filled with spectres of memories, the cool rooms vacant of life that used to fill them with warmth and happiness. It was saddening from his perspective - the observer, the watcher and the reader of your story - of your time spent alone. He wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, that he was watching you from afar, a silent protector that would only act if you were in imminent danger - as long as it wasn’t part of the canon.

So he watched-

Besides you was Miguel - not him, another one - and he looked much too comfortable by your side for his liking. His variant seemed much too close for a friend, moving from sitting before you to beside you, arm slung over your shoulders and leaning back and, sometimes, towards you at a breath’s distance. He turned green with envy, a vicious monster brewing inside his body with the threat of bursting out, clawing at his chest. The other was too close to you for his liking.

He watched as his variant bought you drinks - always, however long and loud you’d complained and fought, he never let you pay in the end - and paid for your dates. He abhorred it. How happy you looked with the other him. How calm and satisfied your smile was. How close his variant was to you. He wished he was at the other’s place, taking his rightful place beside you. He would kiss you, smother you in love and give you whatever you wanted, whether it be a hug, a kiss or his time, he would’ve given them to you. He wouldn’t dance around the edge of your affection and his love like he was doing, like a man unsure of his feelings and anxious to act on it.

He thought the other Miguel was a coward - though he knew he wasn’t. He wanted to blame his variant and find fault for anything he did, but they were still the same person. He was Miguel O’Hara as much as he was. He wanted, but couldn’t, especially after seeing how both loved you the same, having a similar type. They were so much alike that he could’ve replaced his variant, yet so vastly different in other manners that he would’ve stood out. His history, his trauma, his curse, the other had none of them. He was normal while he was Spider-Man, a stronger, more brutal version of Spider-Man.

Granted, he loved you with every fibre of his being, but he had never showered you with as much love and affection as the other, having his character muddled through long hours of work and long-lasting tragedy. You were another of his tragedies, where he found love again and lost it by his own making. He would have left too if the Society didn’t depend on him, leaning towards him for support and help in protecting the multiverse. It was something he couldn’t sacrifice for his whims.

So he kept watching and let his heart crack and envy fester.

He watched you grow even closer to him, shoulders and hands occasionally touching, making you jump and blush. He watched you move from simple coffee dates to full-blown restaurants and bar dates, drinking and eating at your leisure - something he could’ve never provided you. He watched you wobble around when you were drunk, your arm over his shoulder and his around your waist, supporting your drunk weight. He watched you kiss, the other pressing your bodies together and you reciprocating the loving embrace you had once given to him.

He felt like crying. He was crying, silent tears rolling down his sharp cheeks in slow, thundering waves of his heartbreak. He clung to the desk, claws unintentionally popping out and bending the metal under his fist. The sound ripped through the silent room like the image that ripped through his heart. He was alone in his grief, shoulders slumping and arms shaking with the intensity of his emotions. He had locked the door, barricading it with a busy, do not disturb sign, warning the others that he was occupied and wouldn’t be reached unless there was an emergency.

“Miguel…”

He’d forgotten Lyla was here - she was everywhere and nowhere at the same time, with your help he had given Lyla an upgrade in her system that gave her access to every Spider that had the watch. She had access to every file in the database and his secrets. Lyla was loyal to him as much as she was to you, respecting your words with a promise of her own to leave you alone. That, however, didn’t mean that she wasn’t privy to his pains, watching him while his eyes were stuck to your universe’s screen, giving him some comforting words that were meant to lift his spirit. It never worked but the intention was there.

He couldn’t look at her, still facing the hologram of you kissing. He felt the surge of too many emotions to be able to think clearly, his self-control tethering on a thin line of fragile web. If he turned, he would explode on Lyla, giving her the brunt of his suffering even though she didn’t deserve it, she felt and laughed as much as any other human. He remembered programming in emotion with you, laughing about how much she would be as teasing and annoying as you. Lyla was another gift to him by you, so it would hurt him more.

“Miguel-”

“Don’t- Do not say another word.”

For a man in tears and pain, his voice was curt and stoic, playing the leading figure he’d taken for so long. It betrayed his shaky figure, fingers crushing the metal loudly and shoulders jerking with ever-wrenching choked sob. His world was crumbling around him, rippling and cracking from the seams and folding into itself. The control of his state was failing miserably as he kept staring at your mirthful smile after the kiss. It tore him apart knowing he pushed you further away and into the arms of another. It hurt him deeply.

Through everything, he heard Lyla whisper a small sorry before she popped out of existence, her small holographic body vanishing along with her orange light. Gone was her familiar light, gone was the nostalgic memory of programming her, and along her, was the support of another person. He was truly alone in this moment, to fall on his knees and let himself drown under the weight of everything.

If your love was a tangible thing, he would’ve cradled it between his warm palms, holding it tightly to his chest to feel the soothing effects you had on him. Like a balm to burns, you cooled the searing pains that the world inflicted upon him, the warm blanket that covered him when he needed rest and the pillar that held him when he fell. He’d lost something he couldn’t gain a second time, clutching his head in his misery, drowning and howling.

It felt surreal until it wasn’t until it all sunk in. He truly couldn’t grasp the utter loss and betrayal he felt. The realisation that he truly lost you to none other than himself. The irony of it all slashed deeper, how he drove you closer to another him by his own doing, making you love a Miguel with more gentleness, more kindness and time than him, Miguel O’Hara, the Spider-Man from Nueva York, Earth-928. Everything he had was lost in time, his spiralling thoughts of loss and misery clouded his vision, bringing tears forward in bigger waves.

Was he doomed to lose everything he cared about? Was he bound to love and lose? Why couldn’t he have a happy ending like everyone else? Was it because he was different? Perhaps it was, there were other O’Hara Spider-Man, but none were mutated like him, a product of self-infliction and sabotage - none had their DNA spliced and mixed with a spider’s. He was simply too different from the others, they were lean but still had a strong musculature, muscles tightened to create more strength and defence; none were big and broad as he was, with rough edges and mean streaks. They were nice and happy, faced losses of their own, but always came out on top (there were some minor - sometimes major - variants of Spider-Man here and there, but they all had some similarities in their stories of becoming.). He saw the devastation and grasped onto the thinnest silver lining he could find, holding onto it to stay afloat while others thrived where they were.

Maybe it was truly because of him. He was realistic - near cynic - he couldn’t see things optimistically, life had made him that way. The silver lining he saw in things was small, nearly extinguished by his near-pessimistic way of life. Did that have an impact as well? It most likely did, at least partly. Fate had given him a bad hand in things, he couldn’t be completely blamed for how things turned - or so he thought, hoped. A man wasn’t only the result of what he’d done, but also of what he was given. When push comes to shove, Miguel acted in a way he thought meant well for him and the others even if it didn’t seem like the right decision at first. He rarely doubted his actions while he did them, only after, could he let himself face the consequences of what he’d done. Miguel simply didn’t have the pleasure of waiting. He needed to act when it was called.

If he had waited, if he had been patient and sought out others for support, if he had spent time thinking before acting, would he still have his little girl beside him? Would he still have you in his arms? If he had shown you more affection, would you have still loved him?

Did you still love him?

Miguel didn’t know what he was doing. Standing before your apartment door in civilian clothing and a bouquet of twelve, beautiful white tulips - the meaning not lost to him. It was an attempt at apologizing for his mistakes, a desperate one led by heartache. He brushed his hair back, trying to look as kept as he could in his situation: dark bags and sickly skin, tense muscles and sore back. This was a daring move from him, it would end up catastrophic if the Miguel from your universe saw him at your front door; but he checked, making sure his variant was elsewhere before opening a portal to your place.

He hadn’t moved in a while, listening to you move around your flat, the sound of your soft steps shuffling from behind the door, a wall between you and him, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to cross it unless you welcomed him. He held the bouquet in one hand and knocked with the other, his knuckles hitting the wood softly and hesitantly. There was a pause between every knock, drawn by his nerves and the anxiety that gripped him.

You moved and closed in on the sound at the door. He saw your shadow dance under the small gap on the floor and pause. You knew. You knew it was him even without peeking through the peephole, your spider-sense aiding you in recognizing the unknown. Although your hand rested reluctantly at the knob - perhaps still too raw from your break as he was - you opened the door for him, figure small and apprehensive.

“Miguel,” you muttered his name, greeting him with a slow nod. You stepped back and opened the door wider for him, he took it as a good sign that you let him in rather than shut the door in his face.

He nodded back, saying your name. He took a step forward, foot breaking the barrier to your flat. The second one ensured he was fully invited, both feet strongly rooted on your side of the door. He wanted to make himself smaller, to appease you, but he knew you wouldn’t have liked that. He squirmed under your stare, a mix of curiosity and concern.

He nearly sighed audibly when you gestured at him to sit and he moved to the sofa he remembered sleeping on with you, cuddling under a warm blanket while you watched a movie. He knew your home by heart like you knew his, the memory washed over him with melancholy. You sat on the armchair to his left, your back to the kitchen. He swallowed thickly and handed you the bouquet, freshly cut tulips glistening with pearly drops under your lights.

Your shoulders shook as you leaned in to take the bouquet, jolting back when your fingers grazed him. Feeling your skin felt invigorating, it breathed back life into him, even slightly. You thanked him with a slow nod, seemingly unsure of what to make of it. Was it a gift? Was it an apology? Was it a farewell sign? He figured your mind was running in circles trying to understand the meaning of the pretty bouquet he handed you. You were always an overthinker, but your mind worked brutally well. That’s something he always appreciated about you.

“I-” Miguel started, seemingly stopped by something that he couldn’t get out of his throat. Maybe a ball of dread or needles of anxiety, but it held him from giving you the words he spent nights thinking over, to give you the message he built from the deepest crevice of his heart. “I’m sorry, (Name).”

You stared at him, understanding that he needed a moment of silence to truly convey his feelings. You hadn’t uttered a word since he first started, expression neutral, not betraying whatever brewing storm you locked inside of you. He was grateful, truly.

“I know- I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really, really sorry, mi vida.”

He sensed you tense, the muscles of your back contracting and rippling under your shirt. Every unseen fibre moving was bare to him, he could see and feel better than most, if not, everyone else.

“I acted out of anger and lack of sleep, but that doesn’t mean you deserved that- never. I just, my mutation makes me more animalistic, more… aggressive than the other, and I hurt you. You didn’t deserve any of that and I can’t always blame it on my mutations. I should’ve been able to control myself. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you in those ways.”

He lowered his gaze to his hands, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing his palm, trying to coax himself into relaxation. Although your breathing softened, a calm breeze in an atmosphere thick with tension, he didn’t dare look up and see the face you were making.

“I was a bad boyfriend and a horrible friend. I’m- I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t want you to forgive me, but- I just needed to tell you how much I regret hurting you. I want to apologise, I don’t know what else to do, I don’t know how to fix this.” He breathed deeply, collecting every ounce of confidence and honesty to brave your reaction. “I’m sorry, mi cielo.”

He shuddered, body rippling with his pained breath. He hadn’t realised how painful it would be to face you with his fears and confession, with the threat of abandonment and rejection fresh in his mind. He was a man of pride and strength, rarely facing anything with trepidation and hesitance.

“I’m really sorry, mi cielo. I’m so, so sorry.”

He sat in silence, letting it hang over him like the blade of a guillotine, silent and brunt. Perceiving the flash of the sharp blade before it fell on his neck, sentencing him to a quick downfall with a long, lasting agony that would sting his neck as long as it would hurt his heart. The French used it for executions, the thing that spelled people’s end. At its height, it was used as an apparatus to behead traitors or people who were deemed dangerous to the people of the new republic. Down the blame went and off the head popped, like it would happen to Miguel if he wasn’t prepared for it. He truly didn’t know whether he had prepared for his rejection, for the death of his heart, to watch the flickering sparks of his flame wither out.

“I’m sorry too, Miguel-”

The rope strained, knots twisting and rippling in the tightness of the pull. It shook, whipping in the air as it straightened completely, held closely by the hand of the executioner. The wind blew but it was sturdy, withstanding the violent gales that slammed against the body of it.

“-it means a lot that you came here to apologise- ”

The crowd was filled with silence, the emptiness of the area a mock of a ghost town. Abandoned to be sentenced to death without anyone to witness. They deemed him not fit for their acknowledgment before his death, before the sparks of his life extinguished. His fate wasn’t worth their time, unlike the poorest criminals who stole for money, unlike the richest pigs who fed from the poor with their silver spoons and golden crowns, unlike the cruellest killers who gutted and left men, women and children to bleed out, and unlike the guiltless innocents cursed for something they hadn’t committed.

“-but, I can’t.”

The rope was let loose, its tail flying and whipping in the air as the blade descended with its weight. The wood chafed against its support beams, yet it flew gracefully and rapidly, singing the doom of its prisoner. The blade gleamed under the moon’s bright light, the silver whispers of peace and sleep deaf to his ears.

“I can’t love you anymore.”

It cracked down on him, his life flashing before him as it cut into him. Severing his control over his body, putting out the dying embers of hope. He clung to desperation in his last moments, wishing to relive the moments of happiness, bright oblivion and cherished love.

He wished that he could’ve seen your shadowed figure hidden in the darkness, tears lining your cheeks as you watched him take his last breath. The only person who came to see him leave, the one who he would’ve burned the world for. In the end, after everything he’d done, you still gave him a small moment of your time to witness his fall, you deemed him worthy of such an act. You offered him your kindness.

My extensive tag list of extremely patient people pt1.:

@iseizeyourmom @raynerainyday @etherealton @sciencethot @coffee-obsessed-freak @thesecretwriter @beepboopcowboy@bontensh0e @aikoiya @allysunny @fandoms-run-my-life @brittney69 @aranachan @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @konniebon @starlightaura @redwolfxx @aniya7 @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bvbdudette @wwwelilovesyou @wwwellacom @akiras-key @bobafettbutifhewasgay @opiplover @rinieloliver @uniquecroissant @yas-v @xrusitax @blkmystery @darherwings @ariparri @notivie @vr00m-vr00m @battinsonwhore05 @irishbl0ss0mz @mivanda @saint-chlorine @livelaughluvmen @battinsonwhore05 @notivie @lililouvre @giasjourneyblog @ykyouluvme @skullywullypully

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huntersrequiem-if · 1 year ago

Text

Hunter's Requiem

demo [HERE] | forum [tba]

dark fantasy, horror (?), romance

CW: violence, gore

You are a minor deity of the Hunt, known by your followers as The Hunter, used by the other Higher Beings as The Hound. The All-Seeing Sun had given you countless tasks over your existence.

Yet one day, while on a mission sent out by him, you were summoned and judged for treason. The punishment left you mangled; your magic ripped off.

Cast away, you went into a deep sleep to recover.

After centuries you awoke to find your name spoken in whispers in the darkest nights. The Traitor. The world has changed, yet you still have true believers who await your awakening.

Will you be successful in your revenge? Will you be able to topple the gods or will you try to live in peace?

Features:

Play as male, female, nonbinary.

Your choices will affect the fate of your followers.

Befriend, romance or even antagonize a wide cast of characters.

Have a loyal shadowy companion by your side.

Astaroth [M]

"And to think I hated you. Now I can’t imagine living a single day without you.”

Your “other half”, attached to your psyche. He is content to stay in the backseat and offer comments. Tall and lean with gray skin. His face is sharp and angular, eyes with black sclera and white iris. Long black straight hair parted only by his antlers. His hands are black, tipped with long claws. The gradient loses color the closer it gets to his elbow. When he grins at you, you see beast-like teeth glinting in the light.

The Beloved Moon [F]

"That was the worst mistake I ever made. Please, I will do anything you want for you to forgive me.”

Moon has a curious interest in you. Since the moment she saw you, she had sought any chance to talk with you.

A short woman with deep blue skin and freckles that shine like stars. Her skin is shifting between deep blue and purple. She has a round face with full lips and a button nose. Round eyes with black sclera and bright blue iris stare at you with curiosity. Her long curly hair is white with pale blue streaks. Massive white feathered wings cover her back, sometimes used to cover her body like a cloak. Her smile might be gentle but the sharp fangs showed less so.

The Eternal Night [NB]

“I have turned a blind eye to the world far too long. I will no longer allow anything to happen to you.”

The Eternal Night is a distant person. Even more towards the other gods, yet for you they show a kinder side. They are tall and slender. Their sharp face is softened by full lips and expressive eyes. They have dark grey skin paired with stark white hair, that reaches their chin. The wavy strands frame their face nicely. Their eyes-- black sclera with crimson iris—are often covered by their mask. Massive black wings sprout from their back, and then the light catches the feathers right they look more blue than dark.

Santana [F/M]

"Why is it that every time I look at you I feel that I have known you for lifetimes? Why does my soul yearn for you?"

A priest you met in your past, a rather interesting person with a stubborn brand of kindness.

Tawny skin sprinkled with freckles. Golden hair is kept in a braid, far away from their face, yet a few strands escape and frame their heart-shaped face. Expressive eyes look at you, their blue gaze shining brightly.

They stand at an average height, donning the white and golden robes of the priests of Sun. Over that, they wear a chainmail.

You thought you lost them to the sands of time.

??? [F/M]

“Do you have any idea how long I prayed to see you, to hear your voice?”

Every day, they're slipping farther, their grip on the edge of the chasm growing fragile. Can you drag them back or will you shove them off?

#interactive fiction #if: intro #if game #if wip #interactive novel #interactive game #hunter's requiem if

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vivmaek · 1 year ago

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Hi! I hope you’re doing good! Do all aspects and placements in someone’s chart make up their appearance? I’ve heard that it does, and I’ve heard that it doesn’t. Just curious to know :)

THE NATAL CHARTS RELATION TO PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Hi, I love this question! I can see arguments for both sides, but in my opinion I think all placements within someones chart make up appearance. I say this because our emotions and inner psychology directly affect physical appearance. And the same can be said for our physical environments. Here are some examples:

Gemini Saturn in the 12th House - Prone to getting bags under the eyes due to poor sleep. Struggles with anxiety and poor appetite.

Venus in the 2nd House - Having the resources to maintain ones appearance. Having access to high quality food, clothing, makeup, and skincare.

Neptune in the 8th House - Prone to drug usage, and is especially susceptible to the negative side effects. These types look spaced out and detached even if they have never used substances. They've probably been asked, "Are you high?" even if dead sober.

12th house stellium - Looks mysterious, even when you get to know them. No one ever truly knows a 12th house stellium. My life long friend constantly reveals details about her life that change the way I view her. And I never really know what she is up to, even when we were in each others daily lives. She travels more than any young person I know, yet remains humble and wise. 12th house stelliums are the ultimate mystiques, and this is an incredibly attractive quality.

1st House stellium - Their distinct personality overpowers whatever their physical appearance may be. Usually people attach traits onto others based on their physical appearance, but the reverse happens for 1st house stelliums. It is almost like they're cartoon characters, its like their personality and sense of character was developed before their physical form even came into existence. Their physical appearance suits who they are so well, I don't know how else to describe it.

Pluto in the 6th house - There are periods in which people with this placement will be overworked.

Scorpio Uranus in the 12th House - The wild card. Their subconscious state shifts drastically and changes unexpectedly, and this most definitely affects the ways in which they present themselves to the world.

Scorpio Mars in the 5th House - People with this placement are baddies. Cool af and might partake in some dangerous hobbies.

Chart ruler in the 4th House - Nostalgia frames the ways in which these people present themselves. Might have a timeless look about them.

Virgo Mercury in the 8th House - Could partake in hygienic practices that are diligent and maybe strange.

Cancer Saturn in the 5th House - Handyman vibes. Down to earth in their self expression.

Sun in the 3rd House - Seemingly youthful, the eternal student.

Strong 11th House placements - Their appearance is somehow associated with whatever group they belong to. This could be church, clubs, sports teams, humanitarian efforts. (For instance, Tom Cruise has his Jupiter in the 11th house and you can't look at him without thinking about Scientology.)

Strong 7th House placements - Tend to take on traits adapted from their relationships. They mirror people.

Uranus in the 9th House - Might end up living amongst a culture that differs from the one they grew up in. This will affect the ways in which people perceive their appearance.

Saturn Square Pluto - 😐 <- this face

Mercury Trine Pluto - 🤨 <- this face

Mars aspecting Uranus - Prone to accidents, bodily injury, scars.

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fozmeadows · 11 months ago

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As someone who hasn't read the works of radical feminists like Simone de Beauvoir, could you explain what's wrong and what bothers you about biological essentialism? I'm curious about your opinion after reading your post on radfems (and I'd like a perspective that isn't so based on biological gender essentialism, which I honestly have a hard time moving away from because I don't understand other perspectives well). 👀

The problem with biological essentialism is that purports to answer the eternally unanswered question of nature vs nurture in a wholly one-dimensional way - ie, with biological sex as The Single Most Important Aspect Of Personhood, regardless of any other considerations - while simultaneously ignoring the fact that biological sex is not, in fact, a binary proposition. We've learned in recent decades, for instance, that intersex conditions are much more common and wide-ranging than previously thought, not because scientists have arbitrarily changed the definitions of what counts as an intersex condition, but because our understanding of hormones, chromosomes, karyotpying and other physical permutations has expanded sufficiently to merit the shift. So right away, the idea that humanity is composed of Biological Men and Biological Women with absolutely no ambiguities, overlap or middle ground simply isn't true. Inevitably, though, if you mention this, people with a vested interest in biological essentialism become immediately defensive. They'll start saying things like, oh, but that's only a tiny minority of the population, they're outliers, they don't count, as though their argument doesn't derive its claim to authority from a presumed universality. To use a well-worn example, redheads are also a tiny minority of the population, but that doesn't mean we exclude them when talking about the range of natural human hair colours. But the fact is, even if humans lacked chromosomal diversity beyond XX/XY; even if there were no cases of cis men with internal ovaries or cis women with internal testes or people with ambiguous genitalia - and let's be clear: all of these things exist - the fact is, our individual hormones are in flux throughout our lives.

There are standard ranges for estrogen and testosterone in men and women (which, again, vary according to age and some other factors), but two cis men of the same age and background could still have completely different T-counts, for instance - meaning, even the supposed universal gender factor isn't universal at all. More, while our hormones certainly play a major role in our moods and cognition, so do a ton of other genetic and bodily factors that have nothing to do with the sex we're assigned at birth - and on top of that, there's nurture: the cultural contexts in which we're raised, plus our more individual experiences of living in the world. One of the most common, everyday (and yet completely bullshit) permutations of biological essentialism comes when parents or would-be parents talk about their reasons for wanting a son or a daughter. Very often, there's a strong play to stereotypical assumptions about shared interests and personalities: I want a son to play football with me, for instance, or: I want a daughter to be my shopping buddy. But even within the most mainstream channels of cishet culture, it's understood that these hopes are not, in fact, grounded in any sort of biological certainty. The dad who wants a sporty son might be just as likely to end up with a bookworm, while the mother who wants a little princess might find herself with a tomboy. We know this, and our stories know this! For the entirety of human history - for as long as we've been writing about ourselves - we have records of parental disappointment in the failure of this child or that to embody what's expected of them, gender-wise. More than that: if biological essentialism was real - if men were only and ever One Type Of Man, and women were only and ever One Type Of Woman, with recent progressive moments the sole anonymous blip in an otherwise uniform historical standard - then why is there so much disparity and disagreement throughout human history as to what those roles are? The general conception of women espoused in medieval France is thoroughly different to that espoused in pre-colonial Malawi, for instance, and yet we're meant to believe that there's some innate Gender Template guiding all human beings to behave in accordance with a set, immutable biological binary? And that's before you factor in the broad and fascinating history of trans and nonbinary people throughout history - because despite what TERFs and conservative alarmists have to say on the matter, our records of trans people, and of societies in which various trans and nonbinary identities were widely understood (if not always accepted), are ancient. We know about trans priestesses from thousands of years before Christ; the Talmud has terms describing eight different genders, and those are just two examples. All over the world, all throughout history, different cultures have developed radically different concepts of femininity and masculinity, to say nothing of designations outside of, overlapping with or in between those categories - socially, legally, behaviourally, sexually - and yet we're meant to believe that biology is at all times nudging us towards a set, ideal gender template? There's a lot more I could say, but ultimately, the point is this: people are different. While some aspects of our personhood are inevitably influenced by genetics, hormones, chromosomes and other biological factors, we're also creatures of culture and change and interpersonal experience. The idea that men and women are fundamentally different, even diametrically opposed, at a biological level - that the major separator in terms of our personalities and interests isn't culture, upbringing and personal taste, but what's between our legs - is just... so reductive, and so inaccurate.

We can absolutely have common experiences on the basis of a shared gender, but gender is not the only possible axis of commonality between two people, let alone the most salient one at all times, and the idea that we're all born on one side of an immutable biological equation that cannot possibly be transcended makes me feel insane. According to modern biological essentialism, intersex, trans and nonbinary people are either monstrous, mistakes or imaginary; all men are fundamentally predisposed to violence, all women are designed for motherhood, and we're meant to just hew to our designated places - which, conveniently, tend to echo a very specific form of Christian ideology, but which in any case manifestly fail to account for how variedly gender has been presented throughout history. It's nuts.

#foz answers things #gender #feminism #biological essentialism #history #sociology

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 10 months ago

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AITA for bitching about fics I dislike on my blog?

as a foreword, this is kind of a non-issue and no one's ever told me to stop, but I'm curious what other people think of fandom etiquette.

the fandom: a fairly small one. 2.4k fics on ao3 small. I recognize most people posting in its tumblr tag small. if I tell you the name of the source you'd almost definitely be able to find me small.

the source: pornographic, which means everyone involved is or should be an adult. it's BL with a switch MC, but the fandom overwhelmingly prefers bottom MC/top LIs (love interests), to the point where I've had people be astonishingly rude to me because my favorite character is a bottom LI and some of my friends have been outright harassed for the same. I used to not care about sex positions in the slightest, but now when I see bottom MC fanworks I can't help but remember how poorly I was treated.

the fics: wildly and inexplicably popular, even though they are, frankly, poorly written. it's eternal bottom MC turned up to 11, complete with copious amounts of OOCness in order to turn every ship into the worst ye olde yaoi gender roles dynamic you can imagine. it's things like MC, canonically a 23yo plank of a dudeguy, being written as a big titted milf in his 40s (which is made more confusing by the fact that one of the LIs is already a big titted milf). it's also things like the MC being written as disliking sex and having to be coerced into it when one of the most charming things about him is that he's a hilarious sex pest, or writing the LIs sexually harassing the MC when they really would never do that. I've likened it to replacing the characters with OCs that share the same name and my friends have agreed with me. I'm honestly convinced that the author and his readers don't actually like any of the characters if they feel the need to change everyone so thoroughly.

why I might be an asshole: it's assholish to hate on free fanworks, and I've bitched about these fics on my public tumblr blog. the fandom is small enough that there's a non-zero chance of it getting back to the author and a reasonable chance that fans of the fics have seen my bitching. I'm probably projecting the hostility I've received onto someone who's done absolutely nothing to me, and I am absolutely just straight up jealous that their fics get better stats than mine. I may also be being an asshole to myself, because being critical of other people's fics has made my hypercritical of my own.

why I don't think I'm an asshole: I think everyone has the right to be bad at things, but I also think everyone has the right to be a little hater. I don't put the fandom tag on these posts; they stay on my blog and my blog alone, and if later on I feel like I was unfairly vitriolic I'll delete the posts. I only post on tumblr because I'm certain the author in question only uses twitter, which dramatically lowers the odds of him stumbling across my posts. the fics are so popular that it's definitely possible that their fans would see my posts, but I think it's unlikely that they'd bother looking at my blog because 99% of my posts are about one of the bottom LIs. I have never and would never leave comments on the fics themselves, and I generally try to keep the bitchy posts to a minimum; it's far from a constant thing.

tl;dr - I publicly bitch about fics that (in my opinion) are poorly written and extremely OOC, under the assumption that it's unlikely the author would ever see it. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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posletsvet · 1 year ago

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Mushishi's second episode genuinely is so wild. It goes:

Do you know what happens when you close your eyes?

No, not your physical eyelids. When your very being shuts in and you travel too deep within yourself, stray too far away from the wordly light, kind and familiar, when you close your inner eyes, you may find a path to a place where the true darkness dwells. It's the darkest shade of night you've ever known, and ever darker than that, and terribly deep. Any absence of light in the outside world will pale in comparison to this great nothingness, and any unlit space will seem welcoming with illumination, and the tiniest speck of light will scorch and scar your retinas. And inside that void you will feel something beckoning, something almost eager to greet you back and make you stay. And inside of you, in response to its greeting, you might feel something willing to listen.

But if you're brave enough and curious enough and the darkness won't claim you, the eternal light will. Because there, at the bottom of pitch black emptiness, lies the river of light and it's the throbbing, quivering, shimmering heart of life itself, its beginning and its cradle. And it smells sweet like euphoria and wine and rancid like rotting flesh and humus, and it's the brightest shade of dawn you've ever known. Its ever-changing, undying beauty is entrancing and it will devour you whole if you don't find in you the strength to avert your eyes -- and you won't want to.

And swarming near that luminescent vein, the wondrous and bizarre creatures play. If you look hard enough, you might be able to discern them in the brightness flowing past you. They're simply life at its most basic, its most pure, and they're not like anything you've ever seen. And their shapeless, foreign otherness will take your breath away, but this otherwordly delight will be so profound you may mistake it for fear. Don't be afraid. Even when they feast on your flesh and enter your dreams and sap your eyes of the ability to see, they do not seek to harm you. Beauty tries to colonize you, as does decay, and so nature pulls itself back into balance, perpetuating life indefinitely. And there, at the spring of all things that lies in the thick of the world's putrescence, you cannot look away from it.

Oh, and there's also him. Some random dude wearing a polo shirt. Who apparently only has one eye and, wait— Is he smoking a blunt? Hello, Ginko.

#mushishi #ginko #ignore this it came to me like a fever dream #this show is so bewildering when you try to pick it apart to its essentials #i adore it with my whole heart

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ddarker-dreams · 2 years ago

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Give and Take.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, obsessive thinking, Scara in his Kabukimono phase being creepy. Word count: 1.1k.

You have such a peaceful expression when you sleep.

It’s always instilled such awe in the beautiful puppet. The world bound to your unconsciousness must be pleasant if you have so little trouble exploring it each night. He wishes he could enter so he may see it for himself, the colors and shapes your mind paints. He’s long since given up on finding solace in his own dreams. His dreams are what brought him ruin. It’s curious, then, that his creator would curse him with eternal slumber when he proved himself too weak for his original purpose.

Ever since then, he’s felt on edge at night. How could he rest without a care when the possibility exists you’d be gone when he awoke?

No, it’s too risky, he decided. It’d be ideal if he could always keep you awake, and he tried, to the best of his abilities. When the moon hung in the sky he’d pester you with all sorts of minor details. He’d purposefully misplace the comb you got him when you started getting ready for bed so you’d help him search, or become uncharacteristically talkative if it meant you’d spare him a few more minutes. Unfortunately, mortals do need their sleep, hence why he no longer relied on this plan.

Reflecting on it, he’s ultimately glad he changed his methods. Now he’s treated to the unique privilege of watching over you while you sleep. At night, there’s no one who can barge in and interrupt your time together, no Tatasurana denizens showing up unannounced to steal your attention away. It’s just the two of you, as it should be. He works hard to ensure you get something out of this arrangement too — it wouldn’t be fair if he was the only one who benefited.

If you readjust and your blanket slips down, he’ll lift it back into place. Should the room grow too balmy, he’ll crack open the door. Then, if an unexpected breeze displeases you, he’ll dutifully pad his way back over and close it. He sits eagerly by your side in anticipation of meeting any of your unspoken needs. You’ve done so much for him, he figures it’s the least he could do.

Slowly yet surely, he’s come to forgive the night for what it took from him. So long as it continues to grant him this time with you, he’ll push away the thoughts he once had of plucking the moon from the sky.

His hands curl into fists by his side. He counts the times your chest rises and falls — fifteen — the mindless task successful in grounding him. Still, he can’t help the tempest that brews within. How much more could he give you if he were truly divine? Instead of flowers pulled clumsily at the roots, still covered in dirt and wilted by the time they left his hand and entered yours, he could’ve given you the world. Laid it at your feet and asked what you might want next. The sun? The stars? He’d string them together and wrap them around your neck if you so much as batted your lashes at him.

Divinity slipped through his fingers, washed away by his foolish tears.

If he were a god… would he have had the courage to hold you by now? Take your hand in his? Learn if your lips would feel as soft against his as he hoped? Instead, he’s reduced to this unsightly state, following you around like a lost duckling on a day-to-day basis. You smiled at him, doted on him, but that wasn’t enough. Something was missing. He had been contenting himself on an appetizer without any hope of the entrée ever arriving. His hunger was growing faster than you could satiate it.

Lithe fingers caress the side of your face. He’s careful — he knows how much pressure he can apply without waking you up — the feeling of your skin’s warmth causing artificial heat to flood his cheeks. He draws the characters of that name the others refer to him as, Kabukimono, saying a silent prayer that it’d remain eternally embedded. Next, his wandering finger finds itself above your parted lips. He hesitates. Holds his breath and stays still as a corpse. If he had a heart, he thinks, it’d surely be pounding loud enough to wake you.

He presses down. Runs the pad of his finger over your lower lip, left to right, then right to left. It’s a slow, meticulous process, drawn out for his gratification. It is soft. He knew it would be. His delight almost gives him away, he leans down without thinking, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Trembling lips hover longingly above yours. Indigo locks splay across your face and he can’t tear himself away from the sight. He wants to dye you with his color, to seep so deep into you that he could never be washed away. Whether it be this shade of blue, or the red pigment you wore around your eyes after saying you liked his, any color born from him was meant for you.

Is it wrong of him to want to stain you? Surely, it can’t be, not when the mere thought feels so good.

You shift the slightest bit in your sleep. He can’t think to feel occupied with terror, not when your movements inadvertently cause your lips to brush against each other. It’s chaste, it’s brief, a pressure so light he wonders if he truly felt it at all. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, not now, when he’s in danger of being found out. You’re mumbling under your breath and moving too much to be in a deep sleep.

He walks across the tatami floor with extreme caution, avoiding any areas that might creak and give him away. It’s an agonizing few seconds that can’t pass by fast enough. He slips out of your room just in time, closing the sliding door as you rise, blinking the sleep from your eyes and stretching. He returns to the guest room you set aside specifically for his usage, his legs finally giving out beneath him. One would think he had just finished running a marathon if they saw how heavily he’s breathing.

For a few moments, he lies motionless on the floor, only moving to press his fingers against his tingling lips. Enchanted, almost disbelieving.

You kissed him. You were his first kiss. Was he yours too?

He closes his eyes and smiles, giddiness invading his body and running rampant like a virus.

It might be greedy to ask for more than he’s already received, but still...

... He can’t help looking forward to what other firsts each night following this one may bring.

#scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #yandere kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x reader #yandere wanderer x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #scaramouche brainrot #my stuff

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golvio · 5 months ago

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Quietly obsessing over the fact that, based on how you can get to The Fury in the base game, Voice of the Stubborn will be the common denominator of the two possible starting routes, but also that his role in Fury might change depending on whether he’s the second or third Voice you meet.

I don’t remember exactly which interview I heard the devs say this, but I remember them saying that the second Voice you met was usually less helpful in the Chapter II they appear in, but the third Voice who appears in Chapter III is more helpful in that their advice guides you towards a conclusive ending to the relationship/story you’ve built with the Princess in that particular loop. But I don’t remember there ever being a route where you can get the exact same Voice from two different circumstances (unless Voice of the Paranoid can show up in The Wraith from Spectre’s direction, in which case I’m being a dum-dum).

In Adversary > Fury, Stubborn’s a perfect mirror of Adversary in that he’s accepted his role in the story as Her Eternal Enemy and enjoys it so much that he doesn’t question it. Contrarian being introduced serves as a potential destabilizing, deconstructive influence who might encourage him and Fury to start questioning their respective places in the narrative. Meanwhile, Tower > Fury has him introduced as the third voice in a manner that seems similar to his appearance in Den, where he sees himself as protecting us from a bully by encouraging us to stand up for ourself and fight back instead of meekly accepting our role as prey. But he also has no prior relationship with Fury and therefore no time to get comfortable in his role as Enemy, nor has Tower-Fury ever encountered an aspect of us with quite as willful and unrelenting as Stubborn.

Still, I don’t think it’s going to be just like Den where Stubborn is only helpful in the ending where you try to slay the Princess in revenge. I think there’s a reason why he’s in both versions of the route, even if it feels like Fury’s going to be a radically different character based on which route you approach her from, much like the Greys. I think, like the Greys, there’s a common theme to her route that makes both versions converging on the same role make sense despite the two versions of her being completely different characters. Fury’s route has this theme of literal and figurative deconstruction as both versions of her are denied what each sees as their purpose, throwing the cycle of violence/domination between us off its axis though not breaking it entirely, and then this possible theme of exploration/self-exploration as she takes us apart to try to figure out what that means. For whatever reason, Stubborn needs to be there, regardless of whether he’s initially helpful or not. And the updated Fury route will have the most new dialogue, sprites, and music out of all the upcoming new content for The Pristine Cut, if not all the base game routes in general. I find that extremely suspicious. There is something more the devs want to say with Fury, and, again, Stubborn has to be there for it.

Not to mention that, even though he was born to fight and perfectly happy with the idea of fighting Adversary forever, the only other time we’ve ever seen him truly at peace was The Wild, where he lays down his arms and willingly wants to be one with her. And then this route is another one that involves the Princess going inside of us in a very bizarrely intimate way. On top of that, the Tower being a very surprising route for me because she only ever seemed truly interested in the Long Quiet beyond allowing him to be “a priest or a pet” was when he was resisting her and trying to fight back, whether in Tower (before he actually makes her bleed and everything goes wrong) or in Apotheosis, where she seemed genuinely curious about what he was going to do if he tried to stop her.

Like…the update announcement said there was going to be a “new ending.” Is it going to be a character-specific ending like Stranger, where her route left such a massive loose end that she needed to have her own ending to give her and Contrarian’s story closure? Are we going to get that but with Fury and Stubborn? I mean, we can’t have a story about the breaking of cycles that possibly involves poor Stubborn having his own existential crisis and then leave both him and Fury hanging, can we?

#slay the princess #slay the princess spoiilers #stp spoiilers #the fury #voice of the stubborn #the tower #the adversary #the wild #long post

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year ago

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gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the king.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride—young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self, trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself. Something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the king’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The king sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars, only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…” At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the lord out, truly, but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed. The Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his house has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A princess of the realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon, and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little— “I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me. I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me. A Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow—pause—look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely by his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest, right in his heart.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty. But it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally—his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. An underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the king himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the yells of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s wrist to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension crosses your face at the question. At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage has very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he can claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her. Not this one. Not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back.

“Look.” He nudges him to walk alongside as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor has jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

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