#perhaps this is what it truly means to be unhinged about something

[padfootastic]

loving a character as much as i do james and sirius means that all my control freak tendencies shine brightest around them bc i refuse to even entertain others headcanons 😭 yes i acknowledge u also love them but not like i do and therefore u r wrong. sorry.

[tenwhiteandalusians]

is episode 8 the domitian arc ? more on this and EVEN MORE narratives i’ve been ignoring that the show said “actually,,,” about in 5

[mattnott]

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍

mattheo riddle x fem reader

SUMMARY. in which mattheo seeks power and needs your help to perform a blood ritual. WORDS. +6.3K. english is not my first language.

WARNINGS. smut, mdni, porn w//plot, mean mattheo, aged up characters, friends to fuck buddies, blood play, blood kink, cuts, spitting, nipple sucking, oral sex f!receiving, pussy drunk mattheo, handjob, dirty talk, biting, marking.

navigation -> masterlist

He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying. Every move he made, every word he spoke, every breath he took was saturated with confidence and superiority.

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

Mattheo was like a storm no one could outrun, an enigma without resolution, and that was exactly what made him so intoxicating. There was something in his presence that pulled people toward him, whether in admiration or fear, and no one could quite decide if it was for better or worse. He wasn’t just hard to ignore; he was impossible to overlook. He demanded attention simply by existing, and it was maddening, the way he could dominate a room with nothing more than a simple glance.

It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe it was the way he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, the sharp, biting comments he always seemed to have ready, words that stuck like blood on stone.Or maybe it was the fights, the way he seemed to throw himself into them too often, always coming out with the same satisfied expression. After all, he was the only son of the Dark Lord, and that alone was enough to draw all kinds of attention.

Whatever was the reason, chaos seemed to follow him everywhere, like he thrived on it. Perhaps he didn’t care at all. No outsider really knew, and no one ever tried to figure him out. Nobody had the courage to do so.

Either way, there were always whispers about him, cruel rumors about his personality and massive ego, some saying he was just like his father, or maybe even a darker version of him, while others came from students eager to get close in obscene ways, hoping to spend a night with their bodies tangled in his. 

Yet Mattheo didn’t show that he cared, always pretending to be focused on his own goals, moving through the chaos unshaken and unbothered, though deep down, the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

But you had seen enough to know the truth. He was cruel, ruthless, and everything people whispered about him, perhaps even worse. And yet, here you were, trapped in his chaos, each moment with him drawing you deeper into the darkness.

You were trapped. Absolutely trapped.

Perhaps it was in the way he looked at you, his deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away, leaving you struggling to keep your heart from racing, as if he saw something inside of you that you weren’t capable of seeing. Or maybe it was the way his words stayed in your mind long after they were spoken, carving their way into your thoughts like a knife you didn’t want to pull out, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already in too deep.

If you thought about it more, you didn’t know what had brought you here. The main factor to why you were so attracted to an ongoing fire.

Could be the adrenaline from his strange proposal, or the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, his presence always glued to your mind. Could also be the need to be near him, the way your body moved toward his as if it had no will of its own, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to control your heart in a way you couldn’t even understand. It was twisted, even a little scary, but neither of you cared.

After all, you were friends.

You didn’t know when it stopped feeling like curiosity—just a lingering thought— but the doubt never really went away. Instead it became prominent, tight in your chest whenever he was around. There was something darker about him, something dangerous in the way he lived recklessly, only focused on his own desires, how he thrived on the attention he got, pulling you deeper without even trying.

And now, standing there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next, there was no turning back. No escape.

The Room of Requirement was cloaked in dark shadows, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of flickering candles. Their soft, wavering light offered a fragile sense of comfort, though it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of burning incense and something darker, almost unspoken.

Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls, making jagged patterns that twisted and stretched with each almost shiny flicker. That night, the requirement room felt weird, unlike the form other students seemed to used—every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

The faint metallic scent in the air lingered, sharp and heavy, mixed with something even more heavy, felt almost like a warning. On the stone floor, crude runes spiraled out in precise, jagged lines, their edges glowing faintly as though alive and energetic, pulsing in time with the biting silence as if they were watching, waiting to know what was about to take place.

In the center of it all stood Mattheo Riddle, the one person who seemed to take up every space in your mind, his dark robes draping loosely over his strong frame, giving him an effortless air of power, his features, defined and almost angelic, partially hidden by his messy curls that always fell into his pretty eyes.

The flickering torchlight danced off his hair with every movement, making it seem almost alive; there was something strange about how his appearance seemed almost angelic, yet you knew Mattheo’s true personality, making him all the more dangerous, like a trap just waiting for you to step in.

He could look still, even controlled, but there was nothing controlled about this. Nothing about him was controlled.

Mattheo looked at the dagger in his hands, his gaze drifting over the blade, but it wasn’t the dagger that had his attention. It was you. Your eyes were on him, and it felt like he was being torn apart with just that look. It wasn’t like the attention he was used to—no fear or admiration in it.

No, this was different. It was more like an assessment. The weight of your gaze was almost suffocating, as if you were digging into him, getting under his skin in a way that made him feel stupidly exposed and making him feel a strange sensation tighten in his chest, choking his throat in ways he couldn’t understand, and he hated it.

He hated how you made him feel like this—torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to run away from that. And even if it was good or bad; neither mattered. He didn’t want to know. The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.

Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers. He wasn't certain which would provide him with greater comfort, but he was certain that if you gave him that satisfaction, he will never be the same again.

Mattheo sighed and shook his head rapidly, making a dramatic gesture as he attempted to avoid your concentrated, evaluating stare on him once more. He concentrated on the tiny silver dagger in his hand, trying not to hold it too firmly in his palm, but nothing could take away the sensation, and even if it didn't cause him any discomfort, the pressure that made it was obvious.

He let out another sigh, this time frustrated, rubbing his forehead, but couldn’t help releasing another, this time a relieved one, when he saw your attention shift to the two circles drawn around him, almost like some kind of illustration, and he couldn’t help but smirk knowingly as he noticed the change in your expression; at the confusion in your eyes and at your furrowed brows as you tried to make sense of the strange symbols, carefully etched inside the circles on the floor.

Mattheo looked away, quickly shifting his focus to the symbol at his feet. In comparison with the other symbols, this one was far more complex, with each line and curve being meticulous and precise. As he raised his chin in satisfaction with what he did, Mattheo couldn't help but widen his smirk into a full grin, an equal amount of pride and arrogance coming across his expression.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you. Even though you were there not completely voluntarily, you still had a place in it, whether you liked it or not. 

This time, it was Mattheo who looked at you with an intense, almost predatory gaze, his hand tightening once more around the blade in his palm as he kept his eyes on you. He was already preparing to take the first step toward the power he would gain from what you two were about to do. All he needed was your final confirmation and for you to step into the middle of the circle with him.

“Are you ready for this?” His voice broke the silence, low and almost a purr, making you look up at him. Ready? Fuck no. In fact, you were terrified. Every part of you screamed to run, to get as far away from this room and this stupid ritual as possible. But your body didn’t listen to your brain. Your heart didn’t either. Instead, you stayed still, frozen, your eyes locked with his own, already filled with amusement and something darker, like a challenge. 

You knew this was stupid. Hell, it was almost suicidal. A ritual to give him more power, cutting your own hand, spilling your blood, mixing it with his just to make him stronger. It was madness. More than that, even.

But then again, a part of you wanted it. A part of you wanted to leave a piece of yourself with him, to bind yourself to him in some twisted way. And for some fucked-up reason, you craved that. You wanted to be marked by him, to have a part of you inside him forever. Mattheo had already carved his mark into your mind, into the darkest corners of your heart, and now you wanted to do the same.

Stupid curiosity.

“Well?” Mattheo asked again, his voice dripping with amusement, though you could hear the faint edge of annoyance creeping in. He tried to hold onto his usual confident, relaxed demeanor, but it was slipping. “What’s it gonna be?” The same damn question. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to make him ask a third time. 

“I…” You paused, your voice cracking, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself under your breath as you felt his gaze digging into you, waiting for the answer he wanted. “I think I’m ready,” you finally said, taking a step forward, ignoring the part of you screaming to get the hell out of there. Yet your body moved faster than your mind, and before you knew it, you took an unconscious step closer to him, making his eyebrow quirk in amusement. 

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think?” he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. He almost laughed; if it were not for the situation you two were in.

“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath, cursing yourself again, and Mattheo’s smirk stretched wider. “I’m ready.” You corrected yourself, the words tasting wrong. “I’m ready,” you said again, this time to convince yourself more than him.

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, and your cheeks flushed as his voice echoed in your ears. When he looked back at you, his eyes were softer than before, though the usual intensity remained, as if he was offering something that, despite not being comfort, somehow left you feeling relieved in a way.

He stretched his hand towards you, his voice calmer than before but still firm. “Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner this thing is going to end.” The sooner he would have control. Mattheo called you again, and you let out a soft sigh before taking that first step.

Each step you took was filled with hesitation, but your body didn’t seem to care. It moved toward the circle, fighting the doubt gnawing on your mind. When you finally stepped inside, you couldn’t hold back a small sigh as your hand found Mattheo’s. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you saw the same smirk on his lips, the reaction causing a tug on your heart. He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel how much he enjoyed this, how much he knew the effect he had on you.

Sometimes you wanted to punch him. 

As soon as you took his hand, Mattheo’s confidence wavered slightly; his heart pounded just by your touch. However, he couldn’t hide the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched your flushed cheeks and how your body betrayed you. It was too easy.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the intricate runes carved into the floor with the tip of his dagger, his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there. “It’s going to hurt like hell.” He said it with such ease, as if the pain and the blood were just a minor part. You swallowed hard, the confirmation of what you already knew settling deep in your stomach. “At least for you,” he added with an eyebrow raised, his voice laced with amusement.

His words weren’t reassuring at all—not that you expected them to be. He didn’t care about calming you or making this easier to bear. That wasn’t his style, and it never had been. Mattheo thrived in chaos, in mess, and he wanted you to feel every bit of it. He wanted to pull you into the madness, to push you until you struggled to keep yourself together.

“You’re not exactly helping me calm down, you know?” you said through gritted teeth, barely stopping yourself from telling him to go fuck himself. 

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence. “Glad to know, sweetheart.” He said casually, like it didn’t matter at all. “But who said I want you to calm down?” he murmured, and you might have thought he was joking if it weren’t for the fact that you had known him for years.

You scoffed at his lack of sympathy. It wasn’t surprising, though; his attitude was one of the things that drew you to him, even if it wasn’t exactly healthy. You watched as he lit more candles, the flame dancing with every step he took, highlighting the sharp lines of his features. He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one. 

After a few seconds, Mattheo stood up, still holding the dagger in his hand. He glanced at you, and for a brief moment, something in his gaze made his heartbeat almost thud down his ribs. He took a few steps toward you, and your eyes met. His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and the weight of the air between you made your stomach twist. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a hint of mischief in his tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, the excitement creeping slowly.

“Take off your shirt.”

You blinked, shocked, and for a few seconds, all your fear vanished. “Excuse me?!”

Mattheo observed you, almost as if he were stripping you bare. “Your shirt,” he repeated, his tone annoyingly dismissive. He spun the dagger in his palm with flawless precision, taking a step closer as if your hesitancy pleased him. “Take it off,” he said almost coolly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

You crossed your arms, feeling your heart race as your face flushed with heat. “And why, exactly, do I need to do that?” You snapped, your voice sharp. You had fantasized a thousand times about Mattheo asking you to do this, but you never imagined it would actually happen, especially not now, in this situation. 

“For the ritual,” he said simply, tilting his head and giving you a smirk that bordered on taunting, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “I need access to your skin, sweetheart. The magic won’t work otherwise.” His words were smooth, but you couldn’t shake the feeling they held a hint of mockery.

You hesitated, studying him closely. There was something about his response that didn’t sit right, too casual in a way that felt almost taunting, like he wasn’t being completely honest. “You’re making that up,” you said flatly, letting your arms drop to your sides, your eyes narrowing as you searched on his face for a sign of truth. 

His smirk widened, and he continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, his eyes locked on you. The sight of your flushed cheeks only seemed to make him think with his other head. “Am I?” He took another step closer. 

“Please, Mattheo, I know that’s bullshit!” you spat out, trying to ignore how his smug expression made your skin heat, though particularly of you couldn’t help but consider it.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, the tension between you nearly unbearable. His voice dipped, rough and almost deliberate, as his dark eyes shamelessly trailed down your body before locking onto yours again.

“Alright,” he murmured, a smile laying wickedly on his lips. “Maybe it’s not entirely necessary. But it helps. A lot.”

The dagger moved lazily in his hand, the sharp edge skimming his palm without cutting his palm. His gaze never left you, steady and intense, like a predator watching its prey. “And we both know you want this to work out, don’t we, sweetheart?” 

Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, a truth you hated to admit even to yourself. You wanted him to notice you—really notice you—the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you had. But the sharp flare of anger clawed its way up your chest, tangling with the strange pull he always seemed to have over you, leaving you somewhere between furious and helpless.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You weren’t sure if it was aimed at him or at yourself for falling into this moment—this trap. Probably both. 

“And yet,” he said, taking another step toward you, “here you are.” He mocked you, making you bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off. 

The space between you two was basically nonexistent now, and Mattheo fucking hated it. Hated that it was him moving closer, like he couldn’t help himself. Hated how his body had a mind of its own, reacting to you in ways that made him feel like an idiot. The thought of you, without your shirt, without anything, was driving him insane, his imagination running wild no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

Fuck. He could already feel the strain in his pants, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. It pissed him off—how easily you got under his skin, how fucking hard it was to keep his cool around you. 

“Fine,” you bit out, your voice rougher than you felt, and Mattheo’s smile twisted with satisfaction, practically waiting for you to do it. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way his eyes were glued to you. Your fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt, heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find the guts to go through with it. 

Mattheo’s smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving you, and for a moment, it felt like he was inside your head, reading you like a damn book. His gaze dropped low, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness. You seemed so fucking soft. “Need help?” he asked, voice dripping with mockery. 

“Shut up, Mattheo” you snapped, yanking the fabric over your head in one swift motion, a shiver running through your whole body. Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

The second the shirt left your body, the air felt heavier, but you felt the coldness against your exposed skin and nipples. Mattheo’s expression shifted, his smirk slipping for a moment as his eyes scanned over you, taking in more than you were prepared to show. You cursed yourself for not wearing a bra under the thin fabric, your chest bare under the dim torchlight and his searing gaze. Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

You couldn't help but feel trapped by his piercing stare as his eyes remained on you, shamelessly tracing your hard nipples. He seemed oblivious; nonetheless, his eyes burned with need as his mind wandered, thinking about the taste of his tongue on your nipples, sucking and biting until all you could think about was the feel of his wet tongue. He held the dagger tightly, only reacting when the blade cut into his flesh.

“Well,” he began, attempting to put the thoughts flowing through his head to the back of his mind, his voice rougher than before, “guess you were more ready than we thought.” He mocked you again, but it seemed like he was also mocking himself.

You could feel your cheeks burning, a mix of anger and something else boiling inside you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to block him out, but the moment you saw the way Mattheo’s eyes were fixed on you filled with desire, your hands fell to your sides, betraying your own brain. You wanted this. You wanted him to see you, to really see you.

But as you realized you were staring at him in the same way, you quickly shook your head, trying to push down the desire and need, force some control back into your own voice. “Just get on with it,” you ‘snapped’, trying to hide how much it stung, how much you craved that attention. 

Mattheo’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, full with devilment. He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and gestured toward the circle with a lazy flick of his hand. “As you wish.”

His expression didn’t shift, his confidence simmering just below the surface as he stepped even closer to you, trying not to look at your bare chest. His eyes flickered to the symbols on the ground, their faint glow reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care. He didn’t look at you but still waited for your reaction. You had already drawn one from him—only fair if he returned the favor, right?

You, on the other hand, swallowed hard, your gaze shamelessly tracing the lines of his abdomen and bare, muscular chest. The candles and torchlight cast sharp shadows across the scars etched into his skin, and you held your breath without meaning to. When he glanced forward slightly, his eyes still on the ground as he did so, he had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of your clenched fists, trying to control yourself.

This was going to be fun, at least.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke or moved. The silence stretched thin, both of you consumed by the same thoughts, the same dirty images racing through your minds. Your chests rose and fell heavily, both of you struggling to regain a normal breath. It was fucking madness. 

Mattheo quickly composed himself, standing at the point of the small symbol on the ground, making sure you mirrored his position on the opposite side. Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin. He gave a low sigh, words slipping from his lips in a language you couldn’t understand, his voice deep and commanding.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the symbols on the floor pulsed to life, glowing with an eerie light, while the candle flames flickered wildly, as though responding to his words. 

He looked at the dagger in his hand, a proud glint in his eyes before letting his gaze drift up to your face. His eyes lingered on your features, the softness of your eyes, the way your lips parted just enough to drive him insane. He almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch you, but he stayed still, his jaw tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, his lips moving without sound. “I am,” you mouthed back, the hesitation in your eyes impossible to miss. But he ignored it, choosing to focus on the way you stood there—no turning back now, and honestly? He didn’t want you to cover up. 

Mattheo gripped the dagger with steady hands, his brown eyes flickering briefly to the runes as if making sure everything was aligned. Without a second thought, he pressed the sharp blade to his palm, slicing through the skin with quick, practiced precision. The blood surged from the cut, dripping thick and dark onto the glowing runes below. They reacted violently, flaring brighter, more alive, as if the blood was feeding the symbols, feeding him. 

You held your breath, knowing you were next. But you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the ground, watching his blood drip onto the floor beneath both of your feet.

After a few seconds, he lifted his chin, pride in his eyes, his curls moving like the magic around the circles. He grabbed your hand without a word, pressing the dagger into your palm, his gaze never leaving yours. He was waiting, daring you to cut yourself just like he had. 

You felt his blood drip onto your wrist, the warmth of it sending a jolt through your veins. As the dagger pressed into your palm, a breath caught in your throat. The weight of the blade was more than you expected, and for a moment, your eyes lingered on the crimson stains left by Mattheo’s cut, almost hypnotic, tempting you.

Your heart quickened, your pulse echoing in your ears. You hesitated—for a moment. His eyes found you once again, a look that urged you to continue. The hesitation lingering in your heart suddenly dispersed; you wanted nothing but to mark him as yours.

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did. The pain was sharp, fleeting, quickly replaced by the blood spilling down your skin, as the runes reacted violently to your action, their glow flaring in response. 

It was instantaneous. The moment your blood touched the floor, the room seemed to exhale, the light flaring brighter and the air humming with a charged, almost electric energy as the ritual began. But the reaction was brief, for Mattheo’s focus shifted.

Mattheo’s gaze was fixed on the cut on your hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he was mesmerized by the crimson blood streaks trailing down your wrist, mingling with his the drops of his blood already on your skin. His jaw clenched, and you swore you saw him swallow hard as he continued to look, his chest rising and falling with a depth of intensity you’d never seen in him before. 

“Mattheo?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your heartbeat quickening against your bare chest. Yet, it was enough to break his attention.

His eyes naturally met yours once again, vulnerability flickering in his gaze, though the rest of his expression remained unreadable, like a contrast to the hunger simmering beneath. But Mattheo didn't step back. Instead, his calloused fingers brushed against the blood on your wrist, smearing it slightly. The contact sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, neither of you remembered how to breathe.

“Mattheo…” you called out again, but this time it was almost a plea for him not to stop. He obeyed your unspoken request, his fingers tracing your skin as if exploring new territory, so gently that it almost made you forget the lingering sting in your hand. 

Mattheo’s hands moved deliberately, spreading the blood from the deep cut on your hand. He seemed oblivious to the matching wound on his own skin as he dragged the crimson trail up to your neck, smearing it across your skin. Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood. He let out a low groan at the taste, and you couldn’t suppress your own when you felt the warmth of his tongue against you. 

“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.” His teeth continued to drag along your skin, while his hand slid down your arm, seeking more of your blood. His fingers tightened around your palm, squeezing to draw out more of the liquid, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure as the burn surged through you. 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Mattheo whispered, biting your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin painfully. He didn’t care about the grunt of pain that escaped your lips, not when more blood joined the one already staining your throat. Right after his first bite, you moaned, your thighs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the wetness in your cunt. 

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured against your throat, pressing his lips to the marks he had left with his teeth. But when he noticed you hadn’t answered, he bit your neck harder than before and squeezed your stomach, causing more blood to spread across the area. 

You swallowed hard, locking eyes with him as you tried to form a sentence, but the only words that escaped your lips were a barely audible, “Yes, fucking yes,” which only made him laugh harder. He tightened his grip on your skin, sending a sharp sting through your own body. 

“Of course you do… such a fucking slut,” Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound, feeling his pants tighten around his cock as he tasted your blood again on his teeth. His tongue throbbed with desire, savoring the metallic taste. Holy shit, he could cum just from the taste of your blood. “But you taste so damn good.” 

He seemed to have completely forgotten the ritual, and you, too, had let it slip away. You didn’t want to remember, not when his blood stained your skin, not when your own blood marked him, and not when his mark lingered on you. 

Mattheo pulled back slightly, looking at your state and the way your plush lips were parted as you stared at him, your eyes filled with the same desire he showed. 

Without warning, Mattheo grabbed your cut hand with the one resting on your stomach, his blood mingling with yours as he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth. 

You let out a loud moan as you felt his tongue teasing the tips of your bloodied breasts, the taste of your blood on his tongue making him swirl around your breast more eagerly. The sensation only made him harder beneath his robes, each moan of his growing louder as he savored the taste of you. 

You were lost in the pleasure of his mouth, concentrated with the way his tongue lapped like a hungry animal. The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger. You didn’t hear nothing but the sounds of his mouth nor saw how he desperately reached for release, your body causing him to react out of character.

“Fuck...” he murmured, his hand releasing the softness of your skin as he reached down towards his pants. Fast, uncoordinated, he released his cock from the restraints, his bloody hands wrapping around his cock that dripped with precum. His movements grew faster, driven by the growing intensity of the taste of blood on his tongue.

You looked down, catching a glimpse through the small crease of his neck as he dragged his palm over his hard cock while sucking on your nipples. You couldn’t help but moan louder, your bloody hand gripping his shoulders as you tried to ignore how your body was responding—the wetness between your legs that you knew he could feel. 

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

“Fuck, your blood tastes so fucking good.” He moaned louder, and as he sucked harder on your nipples, his mouth closing around the bud tighter. Your chest was now covered in his bites, the marks of Mattheo Riddle, almost like a sign of ownership. Your body quivered against his hold, rubbing pathetically against him as you felt the tingle flutter in your stomach. You were close, lost in the daze, you had no idea whether it was from pleasure or the lost of blood—or both. You were desperately clinging to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

The hold on his length tightened in his hand, and he came instantly. Another hoarse moan escaped his throat, and he pulled away from your chest for a moment, gasping for air. You gripped onto his shoulders once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. So sudden, so quick you fell against his hold as your body convulsed with pleasure.

Mattheo leaned against you, allowing himself a moment to relax. But when he noticed the blood still running down your throat from where he had placed your hand, he couldn’t help but let out a growl. He yanked your hair back harshly, making you gasp and exposing your throat, your scream barely escaping as he did so. 

“Mattheo…!” You tried to speak, but he didn’t care; he never did. He only pushed you further against him, your nipples pressed against his bare chest as he licked your throat, letting out another groan as he tasted the metallic flavor again. His tongue traced the line of your throat, dragging the blood up to your chin, before he licked it off obscenely, making you sigh at the sensation. 

Mattheo’s hand in your hair tightened, and in one swift motion, he turned you onto your back, pulling your hair even harder as your back arched against him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

The kiss was rough and erotic, the fire burning from the inside making it impossible to avoid it. You could taste your own blood on his tongue, and it only made your cunt wetter, the intensity overwhelming. It was too much—more than you’d ever imagined.

You had pictured moments like this, where you and Mattheo would kiss, tasting each other’s tongues, but this was different. It wasn’t the fantasy you had dreamed of; it was raw, wild, and rougher than anything you could have ever anticipated. His teeth clashed with yours, and your tongue tangled with his, as he unleashed his most primal side. He was giving you a taste of the part of you he had consumed, and you were trapped, just as you always would be.

You didn’t care about the pain in your scalp, only the hand that held you.

Mattheo’s hands were rough, touching everything he could. His mouth marking you over and over as he swallowed every small noise you released. He was warm, too warm, a sting feeling in your mouth as he sucked and bit into your lips, the softness of your skin tethering as his mouth was once again filled with the sweetness of your blood.

He was about to lose his mind.

Mattheo sighed against your now split lip, “Stop me… Tell me to stop, and I will.” He wouldn’t; you both knew it.

You held him against you tighter; you were already too deep into him—all you wanted was to devour him, mark him enough to show everyone he belonged to you, only you. You wanted to inflict a pain he would never forget, a pain similar to the pain he caused you, so you did. Your hands wrapped around his neck, your mouth tracing his lips, then his cheeks, then suddenly the warmth of his neck. Mattheo gripped you hard; he made no sudden movement, anxiously awaiting your motive. You bit into his neck, sucking the flushed skin as your teeth marked him with the same strength he did to you. 

Another soft flow came into your mouth, you gasped, the metallic taste odd in your mouth but enough to send your heart thundering.

Mattheo whimpered, his dominant facade slipping as he sickly enjoyed the way you took control. You were so sweet, so delicate—you were completely the opposite. The idea he corrupted you twisted a sick, powerful thought in his brain. You were his. 

Your tongue reached towards his mouth again, finding yourself eye to eye with the man you wanted nothing more than to control. “Don’t ever stop; I need you.”

Mattheo grinned, his lips bloody, his brown eyes becoming dark as he suddenly pushed you towards the runes that glowed against your body. The symbols glowed, vibrating with the blood that dripped onto it. As he stood over you, he wished to capture the moment forever. You looked so fucking pretty.

He leaned over, his knees staining with the blood smeared against the cold tiles. His fingers moved quickly, desperately. He watched as your body spoke to him, reacting to every touch. Your breasts covered in his marks, his blood and yours on them that caused his cock to twitch violently.

He wanted more than the taste of your breasts; he wanted to taste the juices that gathered in the silk of your panties. He wanted to feel the way your cunt twitched and throbbed against his mouth, and damn, did he want nothing more than to have you fuck yourself on his tongue. The sweetest angel from Hogwarts all displayed for him, to hell with the ritual; now he just wanted to swallow you whole. 

Without warning, he hoisted your legs onto his shoulders with an almost violent urgency, a deep moan escaping his lips as he leaned closer to your wet pussy. The intoxicating scent filled his senses, making his bloodied hand tighten around your thigh, gripping it as if commanding you to choke him; a command you had no intention of disobeying.

Mattheo looked at your face, the dried blood around your parted lips, your cheeks flushed from everything he was doing to you, and your dilated pupils watching him anxiously. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and you instantly bit your lip. Fuck, he was about to get hard again. 

“Please, I need you, Mattheo,” you begged, rubbing your hips desperately, trying to get closer to his flushed face. You needed his mouth, and he was more than willing to be a good friend and give you exactly what you wanted. 

“No need to beg like a slut, sweetheart,” he said, moving closer to your pulsing cunt, the light from the dunes making your wetness glisten even more. You held your breath as his warm breath ghosted over your slick folds. “I’m eager to give you what you want,” he murmured, leaning even closer, his nose brushing against your arousal as he took in your scent. Just as you were about to beg him to do something, his tongue was quicker—teasing, tasting, and finally giving in to the need to lick you.

Mattheo followed his instincts and hunger, his palms gripping your thighs even tighter, leaving bloodstained marks on your skin just as he had on the rest of your body. The sting of his own cut burned with the pressure, but he didn’t stop, sliding his hands to your hips as his tongue moved swiftly against your folds, savoring and memorizing every inch of you.

You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this—only after his hunger was completely satisfied. Your back arched, heat swirling in your stomach as Mattheo licked your pussy with reckless desperation.

He was ravenous, savoring every part of you, and when your nails dug into his scalp, he let out another growl, pushing himself even deeper between your legs, making you moan even louder.

“Fucking yes, sweetheart,” he murmured against your pussy, sucking harder as your cries of pleasure filled the room. “Keep moaning like a slut, keep saying my name.” He bit down on your flesh, making you moan even louder, your legs trembling around him. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending shocks through your body and making you cry out even more.

Fuck the ritual, fuck the power—the only power he craved was the power he held over you.

“Mattheo,” you moaned even louder, rocking your hips against his face as your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer. “Right there, oh my—!” you cried out, feeling him lose himself between your legs, consumed by his thoughts and the blood still staining his lips.

Mattheo’s fast, steady movements continued, his almost feral tongue lapping at your cunt as his hands roamed your body. He could feel his cock harden at the sound of your sweet moans. Fuck, the taste of your blood mingled with your arousal was divine—almost too much for him to bear. 

He continued kissing your clit, desperate to savor your full taste, his tongue messily exploring your folds, drinking in every drop he could. All you felt in the moment was him. The sounds muffled as if underwater. Your fingers dug into his scalp, causing him to flick his tongue against your bud faster, his fingers circling it, his grin plastered with pride as he heard you cry loudly.

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

You only released a jumble of words, your bare back arching as you squirmed beneath him. You were on the edge, and you could feel it—both of you could. The anticipation was electric, and you were both eager for the release. All he wanted was to make you cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds, the scent of your cunt making him dizzy. “Come for me.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than you let out a final scream, the orgasm hitting you hard as your body arched, feeling your cum dripping from your pussy.

Mattheo groaned against your cunt once more, lapping at your release as he lost himself in your flavor. Quickly, he grabbed your cut hand, spreading its blood over your pussy to mix with the cum. When he felt it was enough, he ran his tongue over your folds, savoring the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweet remnants of your orgasm, only stopping when not a drop remained, and you pushed him away.

The runes still flickered on the ground, glowing brighter with the smell of your release in the air. Blood stained both your bodies, marking each other, marking the new connection between you that neither of you wanted to escape. Mattheo stood there, watching you, his brown eyes observing, shining with pride watching your state. His eyes traced the blood on your skin, lingering on the cut on your hand, before meeting your eyes again. 

“We didn’t finish the ritual,” you managed to say, your voice soft, timid once again compared to the wildness you held as you let Mattheo control you, your body still shaking from one of the best orgasms you ever experienced.

Mattheo’s smirk grew, just a little as he continued to look at the mess he had done. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We can always try again.”

He was right; after all, friends helped each other.

© 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚝₂₀₂₄ — 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎��𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎.

— please be nice, it’s 4 am it probably has some mistakes!

likes and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

also a big thank you for my favorite beta readers @earth4angels & @astrxq , without them i couldn’t write all this!! i love you both off you forever

venting: sometimes, i hate english because my hard lines in portuguese don’t make sense and seem so repetitive :(

[starkwlkr]

hello may i request a logan x reader fic where they co-parent and take care of laura? it can be in an au where laura goes to school but she keeps getting herself into fights and stuff. Just thought it’ll be cute to see a family dynamic between them hehe

little family | old man logan

an: keep the old man logan requests coming 😫 i love dilfs

mutant!reader (again, same as logan 😍)

You were at work at the local library when you got a call about Laura. The young girl had gotten into another fight. She was truly a spitting image of her father. You apologized to your manager and excused yourself so you could go meet Logan at the school. Your relationship with Logan had come to an end, but you still cared deeply for each other and for Laura.

You finally made it to the school parking lot where you coincidentally parked next to Logan’s car. You headed inside the school and from the entrance you could hear loud talking coming from the main office. It was Logan’s voice so you followed it.

Laura sat outside the main office in the chairs that were neatly arranged in a row. She looked at you then ran to you in need of her mother.

“Are you hurt?” You crouched down to her level and inspected her face for cuts or bruises.

Laura shook her head. “No.”

“Was the boy being mean again?” Laura had told you about a boy that kept picking on her. Laura nodded.

You were glad she wasn’t injured. Now it was the principal you had to deal with. You told Laura to stay outside while you confronted the principal.

“How are you sure that Laura was the one to start the fight? The other kid could’ve swung first!” Logan raised his voice.

“Sir, this is the fourth grade. No kid should be ‘swinging’ their fists in the first place. We suggest you and your wife talk to Laura and perhaps look into other schools. Her teacher described her as unhinged and we can’t have—” the principal said.

“Excuse me?” You spoke. All eyes were on you now. Laura had poked her head into the office wanting to see what was going to happen. “Laura is perfectly fine. She doesn’t need this school. Don’t ever talk about my daughter like that ever again.”

Logan could see your claws slowly coming out of your knuckle as you approached the counter. He held you back by grabbing your wrist. “Let’s go.”

Just as Logan was guiding you out the door, the principal spoke again. “What is wrong with you people?!”

“Fuck off!” You and Logan shouted at her as you exited the office, Laura followed you with a small smile on her face.

Your little family of three headed outside. You were sure Logan wasn’t bringing her back to school. Maybe it was time to homeschool Laura. . .

“I can take her if you want to go back to work.” Logan said, taking out a flask from his jacket. He never really did care about school anyway.

“It’s fine. You can go back.” He exhaled, putting the flask back in his jacket.

“Actually, why don’t we go get ice cream? We haven’t done that in a while.” You suggested. Laura immediately turned to Logan and started pulling at his jacket. She loved going out with you and Logan for ice cream.

“Yeah . . . That’s . . Yeah, we could do that.”

So Logan drove in his car while you drove yours with Laura in the passenger seat to the nearest ice cream shop. At the shop, you told them about all the workplace drama and some new books you thought Laura might.

“You three are such a lovely family!” An elderly woman gushed when she saw you. “How long have you and your husband been married? I just celebrated fifty five.”

Before you could correct her about your marital status, Logan spoke up.

“Twenty five years, although it feels as if we’ve been married all this time.” He grabbed your hand from under the table and squeezed it.

“How adorable.” The woman said before saying goodbye and leaving the shop.

Laura looked at you and Logan with a smirk.As she was about to say something, Logan quickly stopped her.

“Just shut up and eat your ice cream, kid.” All you and Laura did was laugh. You loved your little family to death.

[deathbxnny]

Hey! May i request some abyss princess lumine, Skirk and Arlecchino x Jingliu! Reader? The reader used to be from the fallen nation of khaenriah, they were a legendary figure as they were known as the strongest swordman/swordswoman of all time. Their strengh and skilled with the blade could even rivals those of gods. However after the fall of their nation they were corrupted with the abyss. However it took a different effect on them, instead of rotting their flesh. It made them unhinged and unstable as they are ruthless and merciless. However they usually keep a blindfold as a way to surpress their bloodlust. However despite all of this they are kind and respectful until they are provoke.

I really loved writing this, Anon, so thank you for the requested and I hope you'll like this!<3

Content: Angst, mentions of death, reader is unhinged, can be read as either platonic or romantic, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not fully proofread))

》LUMINE

She pitied you, she really did. In a way, she even felt guilty and responsible for the state you were in. Lumine had met and seen you in your prime, back when you were revered as a powerful figure that reigned over battlefields with you sheer strength alone. And now, only a shell of that remains. A fragile one that's at risk of falling apart at any moment. It was tragic and yet another reminder as to why she was doing the things she did. It was important for her to prevail with her plans, if not just for you.

Your mental state was extremely unpredictable, something she learned to deal with over time. You were an even match, and that kept her bloodlust from attempting to kill her. For now, that is. She knows that she can never let her guard down around you, as much as she hates it. On most days, however, you simply calmly reminisce on a long gone past with her, perhaps out of necessity to hold onto something familiar.

Your relationship is filled with turbulent ups and downs that she always handles with ease. You may not be seeking a cure anymore to your deteriorating mental state, but she forever will look for one if it means to bring you back to your former glory.

》SKIRK

You knew each other. It's the first thing she claimed when meeting you, whilst you tried confirming it through a violent battle. It was a tie. And so, you began traveling through the Abyss together, wondering what it was that led your paths to cross. You apologized for your previous transgressions as well, something that piqued her interest greatly and hinted at your irreversible mental state.

She was careful with this fragility of yours and kept you away from the bloodlust by helping you train for it. It was natural to her to teach others, and surprisingly, you kindly accept her offer. Your condition may be incurable, but that doesn't mean that you don't understand the importance of discipline. You begin to learn that you two are strong-willed and very similar through it, a fact you enjoy deeply.

Once you open up about your past and your previous glorious life plagued by victorious battles and unparalleled power, you find yourself reflecting on Skirk's starting words to you. Was it perhaps the connection through the Abyss that made you familiar to one another? Or have you truly met before the fall of your home and nation? There was still so much to learn and experience at her side, that's for sure.

》ARLECCHINO

She has stern control over your chaotic state of mind. To some, this may be concerning, but to the both of you, this was a kind mercy. She helped you regulate the bloodlust and keep it away when it got unbearable. And you appreciated her deeply for it, especially as you knew each other for a long time.

Before your nation fell, she had heard and seen you in all your glory, fight against God's and mortals alike, making you a legend. Your stories had been lost to time by now, but that doesn't mean that she ever could forget them. You are a part of the home now, and the children are trained to deal with your unpredictability as well. They enjoy how kind and respectful you are and strive to be the same.

But alas, the pain and agony the curse had left you in made her secretly look for a cure. She was lucky not to be corroded by it in such a terrible way. And so she used her luck to help you out as well. She figured that she owed you at least that for sticking around with her here.

[balrogballs]

"Bilbo had assumed accusing an elven lord of Tookishness in his own house would result in swift decapitation and not a decades-long camaraderie that both parties truly cherished, but it seemed that in this regard too, the Lord of Imladris defied expectation."

The Peculiar and the Deranged: Moments between Bilbo Baggins, Elrond Peredhel, and the most unprecedented friendship in Middle-Earth, under the cut!

(aka this friendship wasn’t leaving my mind so I wrote this on my phone and drew this with the 3 pencils I had on a train because I’m incapable of being normal about anything)

on Bilbo's first visit to Imladris, featuring Estel's pet snake:

"You had a rat?" Bilbo blinked, hoping Elrond wouldn't notice the snake he was glaring at had initially been curled around his own neck. "Sir."

"I did not have a rat," corrected Elrond imperiously, looking every bit the lord of the valley. "I would never have a rat, I do not approve of rats. My daughter had a rat. Lothinvar, it was called, the bane of my household. Until this terrible creature wormed its way in. The snake that is, not the child, though Estel is not in my good books at the moment either."

on the return journey, after the death of Thorin Oakenshield:

"What can I do? How can I ever move past this?" Bilbo asked quietly, unsure why exactly he was pouring his heart out to a being six thousand years older than him, who must have faced far greater sorrows.

"Grief," Elrond replied, staring intently at him, "tricks you into thinking it’s all you have left. As though if you let it go, even for a moment, you betray him. You hold onto relics like lifelines, thinking what else is there to keep Thorin alive in your mind? It is a lonely life, Bilbo. It will turn you into the loneliest person in the world."

"Is there no way out?" he gasped, looking up at the elf.

"Start small. A smile, perhaps, when you think of a joke he made," Elrond said steadily, like he was reciting a recipe. “And then, try telling someone about him. Perhaps you could tell me. Something new each time you visit, perhaps.”

“You say it like you have experience of it, sir,” ventured Bilbo. “Like you know it by-heart. Did you get past it?”

“I did,” Elrond’s voice was confident, too confident. Bilbo chose not to probe.

"Thorin's nephews?" Elrond asked later, after Bilbo had gathered himself together, mopped himself up. "They were slain too? Both?"

"Yes, both."

"That is good," Elrond had said with a blank, intense smile etched into his features. "That it was both at once."

"What?" Bilbo sat up in shock, spluttering. "Good? What is wrong with you?"

"Were they not twins? Thorin's nephews I recall were twins, no?"

"Brothers. But what difference does that make? What do you mean good? I beg your pardon, my lord, that's an unhinged thing to say!"

"Oh. I am sorry, Bilbo," Elrond shook his head, the awful, blank expression still on his face. "I am sorry, I spoke without thinking. It is only that I had thought they were twins. Do forgive me, I misunderstood, and spoke out of turn."

"Don't worry," Bilbo sighed, finding to his own surprise that he could manage a laugh. "With names like Fili and Kili, it's frankly a surprise they aren't."

He still thought it was a rather unhinged thing for Elrond to say, but, well — Bilbo Baggins had always been fond of the peculiar and the deranged.

on a visit to the Shire, sharing burnt scones

"Cel was — is — remarkable. She had an exceptional appetite for burnt bread: she would go into the kitchens and instruct the staff to deliberately burn sweetbreads, just because she loved the crunch, apparently."

"She sounds like a Shire lass through and through."

Elrond laughed, shaking his head: "I am certain had I brought her to visit, she would never leave. Though she is not made for the rustic life. A total terror of any creature on four legs. The first time I spotted her she was in a garden, standing on the bench screaming, because she had seen an enormous beetle scuttling around the grass."

"Oh, so it was a damsel in distress situation, eh?"

"Quite the contrary," he admitted. "She threw a pair of gardening scissors right at my head, and called me utterly disgusting for the crime of allowing beetles to exist on my property, and threatened to cut off my hair with the same scissors if she ever came across another one. And mind you, this is Celeborn's daughter, and that soul would have married an Ent if Galadriel hadn't come around."

"Well, that truly is a surprise! Did she not even like dear Arwen's little rat?"

"Oh, you remember the rat!" Elrond's eyes shone, genuinely delighted. "If I remember right, she paid our boys to get rid of it and told Arwen she had sent it to, well, your people."

"I will be certain to invent an illustrious Shire-based family tree for the rat, if your Arwen ever gets around to asking."

on a Yule visit, when Bilbo forwent self-preservation, featuring the same snake:

"Oh, it was not I who named the snake after the Mariner, it was my… other father."

"That's impressive, sir. Quite bohemian."

"One would wish," Elrond muttered darkly, pouring himself more wine, as if all the talk of snakes had driven him to drink. "Estel is friendly with Maglor, who along with Maedhros, raised my brother and I. And I had banned all talk of pet snakes until Maglor showed up last year with a present for Estel: his very own snake named Gil-Estel, which they both insist has nothing to do with the Mariner and is simply a play on the child's name. Which I would have believed, if Maglor did not also own a remarkably ugly cat named Thingol."

"When they say you are Half-Elven, Lord Elrond," Bilbo blurted out, after a short, surprised silence. "Do they mean the other half is merely mortal man, or…?"

"Yes, the other half does indeed refer to mortal men," blinked Elrond in surprise, looking something other than perfectly composed for the very first time. "Do you… suspect otherwise?"

"Oh, I was certain there was a bit of Hobbit somewhere. Just your life, you know, your family, all of it," he waved his hands about the valley. "It's a little… well, Tookish."

"What in the world is a Took?"

on a midnight wander in Minas Tirith on the morning of Aragorn’s wedding to Arwen

When Bilbo came across the figure sat on the steps, he was ridiculously old and his memory even more ridiculously ragged, so he didn’t know why it was that he thought, reflexively, it will turn you into the loneliest person in the world. He didn't say a word though, only reached out a hand and sat beside the figure. Elrond didn’t say a word, only grasped the offered fingers so tightly Bilbo's knuckles turned white, held on as he shook. When it passed, he looked away and apologised, sniffing. "Forgive me, my friend, I do not mean to get melancholic, especially not on a day of such joy. I —"

Bilbo cut across him, too old to deal with the elvish tendency to be completely insufferable.

“How did you get past it the last time? With your brother?”

"I have one of the longest memories in this land, yet I cannot truly remember this one thing," the elf smiled bitterly, tapping his nails on the stone steps. "I slept, I think. A lot. I shrunk out of the world until the sheer pain of it no longer clawed at me. But I cannot do that, Bilbo. Now, I have duties, responsibilities. I have kings to oversee, a valley to hand over and a people for whom I must keep up something of a brave face. There is no longer any room for the small death I was permitted last time."

Elrond sighed. "You must think I am terribly privileged, or that I have too grandiose an idea about my place in this world."

"No, I was just thinking how unfair it is," said Bilbo quietly. "So unfair that for you there is a last time and now a this time."

Elrond, in tears again, was looking at him with an almost obscene gratefulness, as if Bilbo had done him some enormous kindness and not something any friend would do, looked at him in a way that made the hobbit think again, inexplicably, the loneliest person in the world.

“I’m sorry,” said the lord, catching his friend’s expression. “You should not be h-“

"Shut up," Bilbo huffed, looking truly offended, rolling his eyes. "You're insufferable, do you know that? Stop acting like you've jumped off a damned cliff before my eyes, Elrond. I'm starting to think elven history would have been a lot less bloody and tragic had more of you — and I mean that Fëanor, mainly, but the rest of you too — appreciated the value of a good cry. Emotional constipation is just as bad as the real thing, you know. And you can be sure I'll tell old Fëanor that to his face when I see him."

Elrond blinked, then laughed. "Oh, Bilbo, I am glad you found your way back to Imladris this year, I truly am."

"And I, in turn,” Bilbo found himself saying, cursing the fact that his memory decided to make its wondrous reappearance that night. “Am equally glad our mutual friend Aragorn tried to bribe me to put his pet snake in your office that very first day."

on a ship in the sundering seas, far too early

"Suffering from a spot of morning sickness, are we?"

"My apologies, Bilbo," Elrond stumbled back into Bilbo's cabin from the privy, looking only slightly less green than he had when he left it. "Please do not make any sudden movements."

"I am only pleased that you and I are now such intimate friends that you feel comfortable enough to throw up your breakfast in my bathroom. Maybe you should come around and do it every morning to wake me up, like the world’s most useless cockerel."

"It was not by choice, as you very well know," Elrond muttered, downing a swig of ground herbs and honey from a bottle in his pocket. "My mortal heritage does, unfortunately, mean there are some weaknesses to the constitution. Perhaps this is why it was Elros who took ship for Numenor and not I."

"Well, that, and you couldn't resist micromanaging six thousand years of Middle-Earth now, could you?" chortled Bilbo, settling down in a plush chair and laying his walking stick by his side. "Mortality is all well and good, but heaven forbid you lose a chance to develop domestic policy over the continental grain trade. Besides, and I don't want to be the one who brings it up, but…"

"Elbereth, what now?"

"Your father was known as the Mariner, you know," Bilbo snorted. "As in, the seafaring sort, no? It would truly be such a shame if someone were to… write a poem about the mis-inheritance of seasi—"

"Write that poem, Bilbo Baggins, and I will personally petition Ulmo to turn you into seaweed."

in the house of Elrond in Aman, with the chattiest woman Bilbo has ever encountered (which is saying something)

"I only burned that layer because you made me do it, mind you. You really are as remarkable as he said you were," Bilbo blurted out as she picked out pink sugared biscuits with a dark crust that he knew to be from burning. He had even spread jam on them for a second layer of sweetness. "Mad and irritating, to be frank, but remarkable. I am truly glad to know you, Celebrìan — not as Elrond's wife, but, well."

He gestured at her weakly, meant the peculiar and the deranged. She understood.

"Yes, I do pity all the folk that know me as Elrond's dead wife," she wrinkled her nose, sitting down by him and grabbing a second burnt biscuit. "And considering my poor husband's approach to grieving, and all the laments Lindir said he's made him compose, that is what most end up knowing me as. It is quite a pity, I am as you say, delightful. Oh, Bilbo, this is amazing! So wonderful, I didn't think pastries could be this sweet!”

"No, not when your cheapskate of a husband is in charge of the rations," he said in a carrying whisper. "In the Shire though, we know how to live."

"Who are we referring to as a cheapskate then?"

"The elf who implemented a sugar tax in his valley," said Celebrian dryly. "You may know him. Have a biscuit!"

"I would truly rather nail myself to the birch," he said dryly, picking up a piece of bread. "I do not get the logic behind oversweetening victuals. Impractical, unnecessary."

"Oh," Celebrían clapped her hands to her mouth. "Of course! The Lord Elrond grew up amidst the War of Wrath! Surely, he has not mentioned that to you, has he? He never does!"

"Ah, that he was raised in military conditions by a couple of kinslayers?" chuckled Bilbo. "No, not at all. Not once. He certainly never brought it up in our first ever conversation. Should we ask him to expand?"

[twelvemonkeyswere]

I re-read Good Omens via audiobook and I just collected my favorite details

"Crowley rather liked people" is a quote I still love so much. Even though he is a demon with the job of making people upset each other, he likes humans. The contrast between what they make him do and how he experiences Earth.

That scene with the ducks where Crowley almost drowns a duck and Aziraphale is like "I say, my dear" and Crowley is like "Oh yes I forgot myself" and allows the duck to return to the surface. Crowley is usually very polite about the most unhinged things which I just find endearing

All the times Aziraphale calls Crowley "dear boy"

The fact Aziraphale has "exquisitely manicured" hands lmao. I like to think he does go to the manicurist, same as he has a proper barber in the show

Aziraphale blushes sometimes and often gives mean looks to customers to push them out of shop

I like the on-going theme in the Good Omens universe of wanting to build a better world for loved ones, but how that drive, when taken to an extreme, is self destructive. Adam says he'll make the earth good for the Them, and will make sure the Them will be protected and happy in it. But the Them don't want it, they understand Adam is acting out and is not thinking things through. There is no point in trying to possess something and bend it to will forcefully. It wouldn't be good. It wouldn't be of free will. It would make them just another of his whims and no one, either the Them or Adam, actually want that

Aziraphale thinks Crowley is a creature of God when you "get right down to it", which is a thought both meaner and kinder than he realizes

Crowley is described to have "a voice so laid-back you could lay a carpet on it"and it's my most favorite thing ever lmaooo

"You're seducing women here!" /"I think perhaps you got the wrong shop" is always a brilliant line

Even though everything in the Bently turns into Queen's Greatest Hits, I love that Crowley actually loves music, and keeps his collection of records highly organized

Also love the fact that Crowley keeps his apartment orderly, though that's probably in big part because he doesn't really live there

I do appreciate that Crowley sleeps because he wants to, not because he needs to. Truly a relatable guy.

There's a big HOLY SHIT moment in the audiobook - the speech the American evangelist gives about the apocalypse. It's fucking incredible. The actor is amazing, delivering fire and brimstone and absolute hatred and certainty until Aziraphale pops inside of him.

Death really is Azrael, literally the angel of death

Aziraphale comes up with the solution at the end but ONLY because of Crowley, who challenged Aziraphale about the difference between the great plan and ineffable plan at the very beginning of the book

There are many moments where both Crowley and Aziraphale are thought to be a gay couple, but it really made me laugh that they are at the end of the world, telling each other it's been a pleasure to know each other all this time, and then Shadwell interrupts to call them "Nancy Boys"

Everyone in the Good Omens fandom is right, I do love that in the book, the wings of demons and angels are the same color

Crowley thinks the biggest battle will be heaven and hell vs humanity. This has got me thinking a lot. I figure this is because at some point humanity will rebel against any divine intervention, once we figure out that heaven and hell have been playing dice with us. But we'll see.

It does warm my heart that the story begins and ends with a garden and with the eating of the apple - Adam doesn't know why the old man hates people touching his apples so much, but the world would be a lot less interesting if he didn't. It's a fitting end for a fitting beginning.

[melljam]

it’s unhinged long post time again! and this one’s about gitae kim >:)

so its assumed that gitae holds some form of resentment over his absent father, gap … (since he did vaguely murder him with james after all)

… but there seems to be some subtle hints that gitae might have also idolized gapryong kim

-> first up: gitae’s pipe being engraved with gapryong kim’s name in chinese (金甲龍) 「link to my post that goes more in-depth about gap’s chinese name」

as i mentioned in the linked post, it seems like that smoking pipe belonged to gap in the past and gitae somehow got ahold of it

so why would gitae keep a piece of memorabilia that belonged to his absent father if he only held resentment for the man? it might have some sentimental value for him, especially since he chose to bring it back to korea with him.

perhaps the motive behind gitae’s possession and usage of gap’s pipe could be comparable to jake deciding to don gap’s gloves

the two of them both hold resentment for gap as a father, while also selectively admiring and emulating aspects of him as a gangsters

-> secondly, on the topic of emulating gap …

jake seems to unwillingly (or subconsciously) follow in his father’s footsteps through his passion for protecting people (which is the symbolic reason he wears gap’s gloves), but he also inherited gap’s moral compass. jake dislikes unfairness or ‘cheating’, just like how gap could never “ignore any kind of injustice.”

also the way that gap is mentioned to never be able to pass by someone in need, while jake constantly gets involved in other people’s business for the sake of helping them (showing up to save victims in 3a and his entire dynamic with xiaolung lol)

by all means, minseon was correct (ofc she is <3), and jake takes after gapryong kim’s ‘good side’

and in the same vein, following in minseon’s words, gitae takes after gapryong kim’s evil side.

he’s selfish, he’s power-hungry, and he has the raw strength to do (or get) what he wants

all of which are also traits belonging to gap, shown through his cheating, his (failed) political campaign, and his strength making him the ‘legend of the pre-generation’

no one truly aspires to be any of the first two traits listed, but what about the third?

to be a legend, in terms of strength (which is very, very important as a gangism lookism character whose ability to succeed is correlated in their ability to fight …)

wouldn’t that certainly be appealing to a selfish, power-hungry man?

and it seems that it indeed was very appealing to gitae, since jinyoung alludes to gap failing to mimic gap’s fighting style in the past

-> “no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be gapryong kim.”

perhaps this was just a one-off comment about gitae attempting to mimic gap’s fists, but it could be indicative of another facet of gitae’s admiration for his father

gitae might have admired the idea of his father being gapryong kim, korea’s strongest gangster, to the point of idolization (which sounds a lot like a certain someone samuel hahah … )

if so, then he might have become obsessed with following in his father’s footsteps and attaining power as a gangster, especially if he lived in poverty as an abandoned child (just like samuel)

perhaps, in a similar manner to samuel, gitae might have grown up viewing himself as needing to be worthy of being gapryong kim’s son, needing to live up to his father’s name.

but is ptj really going to rehash the same backstory for gitae? there’s a possibility, but ultimately, i don’t think so. gitae seems like he’s driven by something different to samuel, something a little less insecure hahah :)

gitae may have found himself obsessed over another aspect of gapryong kim, something distinct from the validation that samuel craved, something like:

-> the identity of gapryong kim

the legend of the pre-generation, korea’s strongest gangster, an all-around powerful man

someone to admire, someone to idolize (only for these guys that is, jake is right in hating gap lol)

what gitae wanted was to be ‘gapryong kim’.

maybe not in a literal sense, but rather to have the power as a gangster that gap held during his heyday, to be a legend in his own right

gitae wanted to lead the life of glory that gapryong kim did, but might have felt ultimately limited by only being an illegitimate son of his

admiration, idolization, and obsession

gitae could have been obsessed with everything that gapryong kim represented, and the tortuously resentful ache of being unable to claim legitimacy to gapryong kim’s name might have driven gitae to commit his ‘ultimate sin’

perhaps gitae figured that the only way to ‘get what he wanted’ out of his life as an unwanted son was to murder his father and idol, gapryong kim, and thus allow himself to create his own legacy, one that eerily mirrors that of his deceased father, gapryong kim

-> additionally, as stated by minseon, gitae went to mexico because he ‘got what he wanted’

it’s very interesting that gitae went to mexico (since lookism takes place in south korea lol), and i think the reason that gitae decided to start a gang in mexico is an extension of his character motivation of power

gitae might have wanted to leave south korea because he was unable to attain the power that he wanted there, to build a legacy separate from gapryong kim’s, but very similar in nature

immediately after gapryong kim thwarted the ‘great threat’ that south korea faced in the past, he went into politics because he realized that was the only way for him to gain true power in korea

gitae didn’t want to follow in the path of the disgraceful politician gapryong kim, but rather the powerful gang leader gapryong kim

in mexico, the magnitude of the crimes, the underground businesses, and the authority that gangs have all fit someone like gitae better, someone who craves greater power and control

-> and to tie it back to the beginning of this post, gitae’s bitter obsession with gapryong kim might be why he keeps his pipe, or why he values that coat so much (since it likely belonged to gapryong in the past)

it’s a little morbid, especially if gitae gained access to gapryong kim’s belongings during or as a result of his murder, but gitae seems to cherish his father in his very own, twisted way

(gitae’s line about the coat being worth a life takes on a whole new meaning if he took it after murdering gap lol)

also, is it just a coincidence that gitae is currently dressed in a similar fashion to gap in his prime?

slicked back hair, black pants, a red shirt, and a black coat (possibly the same coat?)

anyway, thanks for reading my insufferable ramblings !!!

very excited to see what ptj has in store for gitae’s character now that he’s finally back :3

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hello!!! Since your fics did this to me, I have a truly unhinged request. Can we get one where Daemon is forced to marry a Hightower (Alicent's sister or someone) after his 'divorce' from Rhea Royce and while Daemon is his usual 'pretend like that marriage never happened' stage, going about ignoring her and fucking whores instead, thinking this wife is probably as boring and meek as Alicent and won't say anything. But, surprise! This one's a complete nutcase and turns out she had long since wanted to marry Daemon (I mean look at the man, reader's me) and now that she has him so close, she won't let him ignore her or escape. He HAS to fall in love with her. So one night, while he's drunk she tries him to their bed and when he wakes up, gets a Valyrian dagger and carves her name upon his chest, telling him something like "See, now I'm so deep into you, you cannot pretend I'm not here." And surprise! Masochist unhinged Daemon actually does fall in love with her. I mean, how can he not! Name carving?! Beautiful! So fucking hot! They fuck (him still tied but she rides him GOOD, like they made her for him only.) And once done, she untied him and then HE carves his name on her back. Because she too wants him so deep engraved into her skin.

Please let me have this!!! Pleasee!!!!!!!

Made For You

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader

Summary: You grew up in not one, but two shadows, your older sister's and your sister's best friend's. People often mistook your silence for docility, and perhaps to an extent you were, but in truth, you inherited all the desperation, the eagerness, and the nefariousness of from your family.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: Fem!reader, yandere!reader, mentions/depictions of violence (blood, gore?, murder), smut (dubcon?, fingering, bdsm themes, masochism, knife play [but they injure each other 💀], marking, scratching, vaginal penetration, degradation kink, breeding kink, bondage, choking), just general dark/grotty themes, typos, etc.

A/N: ok very much MINORS DNI hello im calling 911 this is crazy and i love it HAHAHAHH update i am very confused if i love it lol HsaL:FHASHFAF. i had a little problem with believing daemon would marry a hightower 💀 so i had to add a part explaining that to convince myself. anyway. i hope you enjoy. idk what happened to be honest. im just glad i got this over with. Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @sloanexx

My compulsive habit of chewing my lip had made me addicted to the taste of blood. And though I was heading to the library, the same one I did every single day, my heart was pounding because I knew today would be different. I knew today the prince would be here.

The moment I walked in, I headed straight for the bookshelf that held the only tomes I knew Daemon read. I sucked the iron off my swollen lip and released a sigh as I began to go through the books.

I snort in a sharp breath when I hear a voice to my side. I turn left and find him, short sliver hair spilling down his forehead, a faint line between his brows, and a slight curve in his lips. He had spoken to me in High Valyrian.

I bring my hands to the side. I pull at the inside of my bottom lip. He watches me, awaiting a correct response to his words.

"Iskan..." I start slowly, "kesīr naejot jurnegon rȳ se tembyr."

I'm here to look at the books.

My stomach flutters when he chuckles.

"Very good," he says, standing straight, walking over to me, "though it's Iksan," he adds, reaching out for a book. He opens it but keeps his eyes on me and repeats, "Iksan."

"Iksan," I mutter, looking down at his book.

He closes the book and mindlessly puts it back, "good," he leans on the shelf, "now once more. All together."

I dart my eyes up to him and lick my lips, "Iksan kesīr naejot jurnegon rȳ se tembyr."

He chuckle, reaching out for my hair, "had you not inherited the ghastly color of your father's locks, you'd have me fooled to be of my blood."

My breathing heavies.

He laughs, muttering words in his mother tongue too quick for me to understand.

When he pulls his hand away, I am eager to say something that will elicit the same response, "I am glad I amuse you, my prince Daemon."

Daemon hums and turns about, "you are eager to please me so. How could I not?

I follow after him as he makes his way back to his chair. I spot the heap of books on his side as he sits down.

"Would you like me to take those back, your grace?"

Daemon turns from me to the books on his side then tilts his head, "I don't suppose you are trying to get a job as a librarian."

My eyes widen at his words, "no, I am not."

He straightens in his spot and crosses his legs, "then tell me, will you make no attempt to escape from your hundred year old prospect?"

I grip my skirt.

Daemon raises his brows along with the corner of his lips.

"You know of this?" I mutter softly.

"Your cunt of a father spoke of it to Viserys in the morn," he pouts in thought, "he spewed some crap about the old man from wherever the fuck being enchanted by you when you met him two nights before at the banquet."

I clear my throat, "Lord Sheperding was... quite eager to speak to my father about my prospects."

Daemon bounces his foot up and down. He grips the armrest, "so tell me," he stands and marches over, catching my face in his hands, craning my head up, "did the cretin that fucked you into your mother ask you to come here and seduce me like he did your bitch sister?"

My throat constricts in panic, "I-"

He pushes me back until my I was pressed between him and the side of the bookshelf. His hands come around my neck, "don't you dare fucking lie to me."

I gulp at the fact he was not putting pressure in his grip. My stomach flurries. I shake my head frantically, "my father would rather kill me than ever allow me to yours."

"But that is what you want," he blurts, beginning to tighten his hold on me, "what you have wanted for long, no?"

My heart hammers in my chest. My hands dart to his sides. I moan out, "yes."

Daemon leans close to me, "then I will give you what you want." He releases my neck and begins to pull up my skirt, "but if I find your father pleased by our union, I will make sure your death is more painful than that bronze bitch's."

I let out an involuntary whine but then bite my lip tightly when I feel Daemon's hands make their way to my inner thigh.

"Oh you filthy girl," he moans, "you don't seem to need my fingers at all with how worked up you've gotten yourself."

I cover my mouth when I feel his fingers brush over my burning core.

Daemon pulls away and rip my fingers off. He tuts me and flips me over, shoving my chest against the shelf, "this will only work if you're loud enough for someone to hear."

And someone very much did hear. As swiftly as Daemon had made me come undone by the shelves of library, the news came to my father of the disgrace I had done to my maidenhood, to our name, to him. So when he came to me, he chastised me and left physical evidence of his sore displeasure and then he came to the king demanding justice.

Upon seeing the state of me, King Viserys called for his brother, and Queen Alicent offered me comfort. Daemon came with haughtiness and scorn. My father and my sister eyed him dirtily. Upon seeing the mark on my cheek, the only mark on my body that he had not left, Daemon looked to the enraged king and agreed to the demand of taking responsibility of his actions.

So with a violet cheek hidden behind makeup, reddish marks on my neck hidden behind a high collar, a swollen eye, and bitten lips, I was wed to the prince.

I was now his princess, his wife.

Yet a month later, I was just a stranger that lived in his house that inconvenienced him. Why just this morning, he came from his chambers where he would bring his whores to fuck them, then came into our shared chambers to sleep, knowing I'd be gone and awake by now.

I watched him from the mirror as he walked across the room.

I stopped brushing my hair by the time Daemon jumped into our bed. I release a breath, "tired, my love?"

"Dorea kept me up all night," he chuckles, "filthy girl."

I cringe at the nickname. He had called me that when he made me his wife. That was my nickname, mine.

I turn over to look at him. He was curled up under the blankets, embracing a pillow. I stand from the chair in front of my vanity, "there is a banquet we must attend in the afternoon."

"Go by yourself," he mutters.

I clench my jaw and walk over to him, "the bastard lord, as you affectionately call will be there."

Daemon, who had his eyes closed, furrows his brows, "which one?"

"The one who called you a tyrant in the making."

He chuckles, rolling over on his chest. He begins to curse in High Valyrian.

I reach our bed and sit by the side, looking at him, wanting so badly to brush back his hair, to snuggle next to him, to make love to him, to cage him in me. I press my hands on the bed. I purse my lips before I whisper, "would you like for me to handle him?"

Daemon does not respond nor move.

"I will do anything for you... I can kill him for you if that is what you want."

When I move to stand, my groom speaks, "kill him then."

He turns to his face to the other side of the bed, I watch as he rubs his cheek on the pillows. He mutters idly, "bring me his head."

"And then you'll let me have you to myself?"

He laughs, "whatever you want."

But he betrayed me still. He couldn't fucking wait to get his cock wet.

I came to him that night with the lord's severed head. He was in his other chamber room, with a whore I have not seen before. And she had been going ah-ah-ah in pleasure as he straddled my prince, but then she made the mistake of turning over her shoulder. She ripped out an ear-piercing shriek upon seeing my figure, drenched in red, both hands clutching things of horror.

She fled the room promptly after seeing me, screeching loudly. Daemon however, was reeling at the sudden loss of contact. It became apparent to me that he was drunk, possibly out of his mind.

I walked over to him, beholding his naked form, his wet erection. I raise one hand, the one holding the severed head. I frown deeply, "your prize, husband."

I throw it to him.

Daemon, instinctively swats as he evades it. The lord's head rolls on the floor. He groans and pushes himself up on his elbows. He looks at me and narrows his eyes, slowly speaking my name, as though he was only recognizing it was me now.

I begin to shudder. I begin to shake in rage. I clench my jaw and my fists. I grab my skirt and lunge at him, pinning him down beneath me, raising my other hand, still clad with the weapon I used to slay the man with. I press it to his throat, screaming as tears fogged my eyes, "I HATE YOU."

Daemon clutches my arms and pushes me back, not before I manage to nick his skin and make red gush down the side of his throat.

I feel like he is pushed into a semblance of sobriety after this, and yet in my rage, I still managed to subdue him in his still very much intoxicated state.

We struggle against each other, but the only important thing to know is that my fury managed to best him. Now here we were. I was straddling his hips and he was tied to the bed, hissing at the feel of my cold blade on his chest.

Daemon was wide eyed and very much sober with the pain at this point.

"It's so nice of you not to scream and call for help, prince husband," I mutter as I etch my initials on to his left pec, "your pride will be the death of you, you know. Be glad I have no intention to kill you. even now."

"Mad cunt," he spits in anger.

"You told me I could have you to myself!" I scream, body trembling in rage, "now I must mark you so your whores know who you belong to."

He huffs, shifting his hips beneath me. I repel him and force him still.

Daemon growls as I toss my blade on to the bedside table and lean and lick the blood on his skin. His blood tastes so much better than mine. I moan at the iron and shift from how I was straddled atop him. My skirt bunches up by his midriff as I suckle on his flesh and nipped at his skin with my teeth

He strains against the bounds I managed to put on his wrists and releases a moan.

I lift my head at the sound of it and breathe hotly against him, "wicked dragon," I sit up then slap him across the face, "you're not meant to enjoy this," I rub his cheek down to his chest, "not really. This is meant to satisfy me."

Daemon looks at me, frazzled by the hit.

"You've been nothing but spiteful even though I've been nothing but obedient, prince husband," I mutter, leaning into him, digging my nails into his chest, "and you insult me so greatly by wasting your precious seed on whores who could not bear you any heirs."

I prop myself up on his chest. Daemon pants at the rocking movement of my hips. I scowl at him as I gather my skirt up until my skin was bare against his. I whimper at the feel of his still hardened member pulsing beneath my own pulse. I recall the whore he was with just moments ago, and how her slick was glistening on his manhood. I feel ire and jealousy burn through me.

"Is it not painfully obvious to you that I can be your whore, your grace?!" I bark through tears as I grab his hair and pull his head up.

Daemon grunts, "fucking bitch."

I desperately retort, "I'll be your fucking bitch, Daemon. I want to be your fucking bitch, your slut, your plaything, your executioner, your bride, your darling. Everything, whatever you want from me, I can become it."

I release his hair, making his head fall down. He looks up at me as I lift myself up and grab his veiny girth, aligning him into my core and burying him deep with me.

"Fuck," he huffs.

I whimper at his reaction, licking my lips as I do so, "I want to hurt you so badly, Daemon, but I love you so much that I'll make you feel good while do it however."

I begin to bounce on top of him while I dig my thumb into his fresh wound and choke him with my other hand.

Daemon begins to exclaim in his mother tongue, gripping tightly on the bounds on his wrists.

I groan and lick the blood off my thumb as I fuck myself on him. I move up and down on his hard erection, mind going wild with the fantasies I've thought of him long before we were even wed. When he begins to let out a strangled sound, I release the pressure on his throat and lean on his chest as it heaves up and down.

"Don't wanna see you with anyone else, Daemon," I mutter as I quicken my pace a notch and begin to feel my stomach tighten, "I'll kill your whores cause I can't kill you. Never you, my love."

Daemon groans as he catches his breath, "faster."

I whine at his command and eagerly give into him, adjusting myself atop him and allowing myself to plop up and down him at a quicker and rougher tempo. I feel my insides flutter at the sound of his moans. I scratch his chest up and down with my nails and look down at his face, mouth ajar, eyes shut, neck straining.

"I was made for you, husband," I mutter, biting my lower lip as I feel my core tighten and my climax build, "was made to be your confidant, your right hand, your bride, your baby maker."

He groans, "is that right, come slut?" He lifts his head up, "you want to bear my children so badly you tied me up to fuck yourself on me?"

I whine and nod my head, "yes," I muffle out, "s'all I think about. Wanna be good to you. Wanna give you everything. Wanna give you sons and daughters."

Daemon replies in High Valyrian. I vaguely recognize it as compliment and a curse.

I begin to lose my breath as I ride him more desperately than ever.

"Then take what you want from me and come on my cock, come slut."

I nod my head and clench around him, "yes, Daemon, yes, yes, yes-"

I feel my body begin to burn and flare at my ministrations. I fuck him eagerly and begin to feel grow manic with every thrash and every grunt.

Daemon huffs and rips at his bounds, "you better not disappoint me, my Hightower bitch."

"No, husband," I grunt,

"You better take me good."

"Yes! Gonna be so good to you, so good."

I hear him say something after, but I don't have time to make sense of it as I feel myself tighten then shatter all over him. I cry out his name in pleasure, and as I ride out the pleasure as much as I can. Only then do I realize that Daemon was thrusting into me as well. It is twice as evident as I begin to slow my pace.

And then my toes curl and my nails dig into his skin when his heat shoots into me. It makes my flesh quake and intensifies my undoing.

I scream out his name. He calls me dirty ones. I bask in our union and slowly come down from my high. Slowly making sure he was just as spent as I was like a dutiful wife.

What remains is a mess. I am a mess of short breath, sweat, and blood as I slowly sink down and fall onto Daemon's chest. I whimper against him, dazed by it all, but completely and utterly satisfied with myself.

I lap at his wound, soothing myself as I enjoy the remaining stretch inside me, the fullness and warmth planted in my belly.

I knit my brows when I feel hands come around my form.

"Take off your clothes."

I lift my head out and look at Daemon's face, his eyes blown and his lips parted. I push myself up, "how did you get o-"

I whimper when he chuckles, my tenderness sensitive to vibrations if his body. His hands run up my back, to the ties on my dress. His fingers begin to tug and he undo them, "you cannot seriously believe to have overpowered me, little girl."

Before my pulse could even calm, it's racing all over again when Daemon easily flips us over and begins pushing my skirt up, "your knots are shite. I'll teach you how to properly tie a victim up."

He arduously rips my dress off my body overhead, up until I was as naked as he was beneath him. He looks down at my bareness and grips my thighs, roughly ripping his nails in a downward motion, making me reach out to him as I whine.

Daemon grunts before he chuckles, "I can feel you clench around me, dirty whore."

I squeak when he pushes forward and reaches out for something. He places my blade between my breasts then adjusts my legs around him as he pushes himself up on one arm. He then grabs the blade and eyes me darkly as he presses the steel on my skin. I slap my hand on my mouth when he begins cut into my abdomen. He looks down at his work as my tighten my legs around him, holding back my sounds as he did.

"Don't be selfish, slut," he mutters, "I own your womb. I ought to mark it now."

Daemon's eyes flick up to me as I scream into my hand and screw my teary eyes shut.

I silently sob at the sting of the blade and try to control my cries until he finishes. I begin to heave when I hear the sound of something being dropped to the floor.

I whimper and open my eyes when I feel Daemon sigh as he sinks back down onto me, face coming to the side of my own. He pushes my hands off my face in order to press our chests together. I lean into his shoulder and suckle at his skin to soothe myself.

"Shhhh," he kisses my cheek, "I'll make you feel better, my bride. Make sure to fill you up until you're full with my seed, okay?"

I nod my head and wrap my arms around him.

"Olvie sȳz," he mutters, "good little slut for me."

[lionheartedmusings]

i've been rotating this in my head since last night and i think it's worth talking about regarding q!bad's current arc, but something that truly struck me was the music choice for the "switch up" yesterday specifically and i couldn't understand why... until now.

cc!bad doesn't do things halfway and so we have to assume every detail, music included, is intentional and used to convey something, the man is as unhinged about his lore as we are.

the music that played when he prepared to go down to meet the fed worker yesterday wasn't necessarily evil or creepy, not at all. it was triumphant — intense, yes, and it starts with what one could say is a suspenseful undertone, but not "here comes the creepy torture song" and more like "pump yourself up, because you have work to do, and it's glorious".

i feel like that explains q!bad and what he needs to do very very well, because it's a very sharp contrast with the song that played during his "acceptance" stream when he unleashed his anger and revealed what he'd done. two days ago, he reached a breaking point he hadn't in a very long time — lost himself to a level of inhumanity he hadn't in a very long time, without any semblance of a moral compass around and work to do. yesterday? well. yesterday, we saw a man on a mission — a positive one at that.

there's no madness to q!bad when he goes to presumably torture this federation worker, there's no "he's lost it and now he's doing horrible things" and i think that's a very important thing to keep in mind in this upcoming arc — he is very, very lucid and very, very sane, and he's not one bit sorry. in fact, he's pleased that he's being proactive. he's happy to go to work, i imagine not only because of his self-appointed mission but.. well, because it's fun.

there's a lot of angst to q!bad, but i feel like in this arc it's also relevant to keep in mind just how unremorseful he is about... just about anything related to his past. oh atlantis? oof... oh. yeah that happened woops. venice? we wouldn't want a repeat of that, hehe. the salem witch trials? oh those were fun! he talks about torturing people... all the time. i mean, we saw the man torture q!foolish, one of if not his closest friend, and he doesn't particularly care (one can argue that it's because q!foolish also doesn't care but there's something there for both of them).

my point being, i think the release of q!bad's anger and cruelty is a tough subject for him — he clearly is incredibly restrained. but the aftermath? the actual acts of cruelty that no one would condone?

he doesn't care. in fact, if he does care, he's proud of them and of what they can accomplish. it's fucking fun for him, it clearly puts him in a good mood, and it's not in a "he snapped" way at all. man just enjoys some good old fashioned torture.

i don't believe we'll see any remorse or guilt from q!bad about this, ever, perhaps even to his detriment. i truly think right now he's just happy he's doing something and if he gets to be sadistic and cruel and twisted while doing it? it's a win for badboyhalos everywhere!

[dilatorywriting]

I have come to pour some Monsters & Mayhem Rook brainrot in your inbox. Hope that's okay!

Rook is a freelance bounty hunter who most people find deeply unsettling. He never accepts payment, only picks up specific targets which interest him, and never fails his mission. It doesn't matter if the target hasn't been sighted in two years, after 3 days of taking the request, Root is at the commissioner's house at 3am (the witching hour) on the dot, a large, bloodied burlap sack behind him, and a heart in his left hand as the obligatory proof of death. He offers to show the corpse as well (waving at the sack behind him) if they wish, but no-one ever takes him up on the offer. What with his polished smile that lacks any warmth and his green gaze that seems to be looking into your very soul. The bloodstains on his clothes and his uncanny ability to pick up on the very thought that happens to be crossing your mind at that moment does not help matters either.

In truth, Rook is a Reaper. At least, this is what the MC comes to suspect. MC is runs a bakery in the village - something they come to regret on a daily basis because being a baker means waking up at 4am so you can start the ovens by 5am and begin your prep for the day. But MC likes making pasteries, truly, and it was between this or their parents marrying them off to that stuck up noble in the next town over who only really wanted someone to make him strawberry tarts day in and day out.

The first time MC meets Rook is when they're shuffling around on the shop floor at 4:30am, arranging some of yesterdays leftover treats that had been stored in the ice box, when they become suddenly aware that someone is at the window, watching them. They turn and there is Rook, plastered on the window watching with such rapt fascination. Perhaps MC should have had a more adverse reaction, considering the time, and the bloodstains on his clothes, and such, but it was too early for that. Instead, they crack open the door and offer him a small tart to say "please promptly leave - you're getting smudges on the glass". The way Rook starts marvelling at it like he's never seen one before, and especialy when he inists on MC eating a bite first "to show how one might savour them", starts to raise suspicions that he might not be human. He starts dropping by every morning at the same ungodly hour, and asks for pasteries in exchange for whatever strange (and rare) ingredient he's picked up, and MC even lets him inside to eat them. There's something endering in the way he can wax poetic about a piece of carrot cake.

Through general gossip from the mouths of customers, and Rook's own monologies, MC does piece together that yes, Rook is that bounty hunter, and that yes, he's most likely some sort of Reaper. He's a hunter by profession, and his last name is Hunt for gods sake, and he talks about tracking people down by "the light of one's soul" and whatnot. But MC remains largely unbothered. Rook may be strange, unhinged, and probably not human, but he's also oddly sweet. He's interesting to listen to, and it's refreshing to have a conversation with someone who isn't looking down their nose at you for being unmarried at your age.

Speaking of which, as rumors start to go around about that bounty hunter visting your bakery, another proposal from the tart-loving noble ends up on your doorstep. Except it's less of a proposal and more of a "the agreement between Duchess Roseharts and the family head, concerning the union between you and Riddle Roseharts, has been reached. This is a curstesy call for any last objections, before final arrangements are made. Only objections with a basis in the kingdom's law will be considered".

And so, because you've never been very good at making up lies, and because Rook seems to scare everyone, and because Rook has, technically, proposed to you before (many times, which you never took seriously, in his long winded speeches of praise about your baking), you write in response: I object to this union, on the basis that I have already accepted a marriage proposal from Rook Hunt.

Chaos then ensues.

Ooooh this is top-tier brain rot indeed. Reaper Rook? I'm here for it. Also, like, I just recently watched the new Puss in Boots movies and like, THAT sort of reaper? That kind of death? And Rook having that sort of presence and terror factor?

But oh my goodness, this is all marvelous. I love Rook and his oddities so much, and he's been slipping more and more into all the other character's lil stories. But ahhh, Reaper!Rook, Reaper!Rook... You sound very lovely. Excuse my while I go brain rot over this

[atefingersdagger]

35 for Clato from the hand holding prompts!

Hand Holding

Prompt 35: Grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back to them

(Thank you for requesting more Clato!)

*

It’s when his palm encases her knuckles as he yanks her back that Clove realizes she’s only ever held Cato’s hand. She isn’t familiar with the feel of anyone else’s heartlines, their fingerprints against or linked with her own. Not even her own parents, as far as she can recall.

His skin is rough and clammy, sweaty, making his grip slip slightly, but his hand is so large that it swallows hers whole like a snake's unhinged mouth to a rodent. Between the gullet of his fingers, Cato squeezes, compressing until the bones of her digits are hard pressed. The act is absentminded, not one of intended harm or damage.

Clove is forced to face him by the movement alone, a whip of air caused by her hair that swings along with her head snapping to look at him. She wasn’t expecting a face of.. panic or regret perhaps. He’s looking at her in a way she’s never seen him before; brows furrowed without anger. It is enough to cease even the thought of pulling away amidst her confusion.

Her cold, blue eyes stare at where they are bordering. Truly, she’s unsure of what she needs to do with this. Holding one’s hand seems so simple in theory, yet her instincts add to the clouding of an appropriate response.

Does she intertwine their fingers? Or squeeze back now that she’s being brought back into his space. And why does her thumb want to brush his skin when a moment ago she had wanted to skin his face off so she could feed it to him in hopes of him choking.

Such a simple touch has rendered her mute.

“Cato.”

The tone of her voice is a mix of disbelief and a twinge of annoyance that is weighed down by being worn out.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“What?”

That makes her tongue get caught in her teeth. Has he gone insane and lost his means of comprehending their situation? Just because there was a rule change does not mean they are any more safe from loss. Cato should not be concerned with her well-being beyond that of the basics. The idea of him caring for her is so sweet it’s to the point of rotting.

“You heard me, Clove.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?” She asks him, arm twitching as her mind wants her to rip her hand out of his but it fights to stay.

“Apparently.” Cato constricts his fingers, again like a snake. “I just… want to win with you beside me. We can be the first dual victors, and we’ll trail-blaze. You and I.”

The sentiment sounds good, she’ll admit to that. Only the affection behind it is far more terrifying than any of his angry outbursts, even the ones that resulted in death. He has no right to turn a switch from being this brutal, bloody boy, to one with the capacity to hold her hand without breaking it and saying all of that.

“That’s not right.” Clove spews her disbelief. “Can’t be us.”

“You think we won’t win?”

Cato’s face contorts further into something of dismay, frowning with a sense of sadness once not seen on him. She had simply been thinking out loud and didn’t mean to respond in such a way. Clove doesn’t doubt that they have a good chance of winning, they volunteered for fucks sake. It’s just she doesn’t believe that he’s capable of truly wanting her around. Could this be for the audience?

“Not what I said, and it’s not what- never mind, don’t worry about it.” Clove shakes her head at her lack of words. She was sure she always had something to say, even when she was quiet. So, her uncertain words are frustrating.

“I’m only asking you to not be stupid.” Cato says, which makes her laugh.

“I won’t, that’s your job. You’re stupid enough for the both of us.”

Cato smiles, unfazed by her insult of a joke. Per usual, he takes all her jests in pride, which, she supposes, makes it all the more fun to mess with him. Even with it, he’s still holding her hand stoutly, but lacking any of the crushing he’d easily be able to do.

“We’ll go to the feast.” He relents and agrees with her after all. Half their day was spent arguing over a plan. “But I need to be there with you.”

“I can take care of myself, you know?”

“Fully.” Cato agrees once more. “But I want you alive by the end of it. I’ll watch your back.”

His hand is still so very warm, sweaty from the humidity in the air, but she recognizes that she doesn’t want him to release his grasp. Clove can see them getting crowned together now, fingers latched and secured in front of the nation. The thought of having him around is, for once, not completely repulsive.

She sighs. “How can a girl say no to something like that?”

“We go together then?”

Clove nods, her palm compressing in return finally. She’s not sure what drives her to commit the crime of a public display of affection, but she presses her lips to his cheek, having to reach up a slight to do so. Her cheeks become red like blood or guts and alight with slight bashfulness. Well, at least he’s still holding her hand.

“Together.” She says, more than sure of it.

[astrum-aetherium]

here is the most unhinged thing i have ever ever thought of: bunny's funeral, you and henry leave the wake to go fuck (maybe maybe not on his grave as a final fuck you, who knows?) but honestly? murderer henry is a turn on

this is obscene. do it again.

holy shit, this just blew my mind. i’m pretty sure i went blank for about a minute or two. this is the most deranged and yet intriguing prompt i’ve ever received. and do you know what? i like it. love it, even. remember that we’re talking about fictional characters here, all right? i love myself some artistic freedom in that regard. detailed expansion and description of this prompt to follow after the cut — proceed at your own risk. you’ve been warned.

henry would definitely be bitter and vindictive enough to propose to fuck you in the corcorans’ bathroom, he wouldn’t even want to leave the house. he would sneak you in there under the pretense of needing help or whatnot, it wouldn’t truly matter what for, but after the lock in the door is flipped shut behind you, he’s asking if he can delight in the beauty of your body — right here, right now.

you’re bewildered at first, of course, but when he grabs firm hold of your frame and starts circling your clad nipples with his thumbs whilst kissing your collarbone through your clothes, you’re completely sold on the idea. hell, who cares. bunny certainly deserves it.

he proceeds to eat you out on the counter, having asked you not to hold back on any sounds you might be moved to emanate, but to also be mindful of their volume so that the two of you are not discovered; you do just that. having made you come around two times from that, he’ll move on to roughly fucking you on the sink, caringly keeping your head away from the overhead cabinet as the mirror behind your back trembles a little too much not to be concerning. of course, he’d come in you — it’d pose an unspoken metaphor for the interrelation of birth and death, surely — and deliberately clean you up sparsely so that you could saunter back out of the bathroom still stained by the evidence of your shared intimacy. it would revive him.

alternatively, if you think this would be too much even for henry’s standards, he could take you outside, start the car, and drive the two of you out far enough to no longer be seen, only to completely wreck you in the backseat — to the point you wouldn’t even return to the wake and have to take a last-minute rain check owing to an excuse as stupid as a headache or a sick cat.

as for actual intercourse at the gravesite, well… quite macabre, if i do say so myself. god knows bunny deserves it, plus it’s a thrilling concept, but i feel like the risk of being found out would be too great for henry. however! and i really do mean the however; he would definitely make you stick around and stay behind as everyone leaves immediately after the burial. then, he would tug you close by your hips and generously caress you, perhaps even kiss you — only to pull back and spit on the fresh dirt or something, lol. he could whisper something coarse in your ear too, like how he wants to take you right there, but would never dare to. it’d be wicked; something about the funeral would get him all sorts of riled up.

[numberonetacostan]

TYSM FOR THE DOODLE! if we are talking about how the contestants act when drunk then I had a lot of thoughts about drunk taco that never quite went away. I think drunk taco is pretty quiet but so brutally honest its almost scary. I think taco doesn't enjoy drinking much because she knows she spills too many details about herself and how she feels and well we know taco, she fucking hates being vulnerable, but sometimes you need a breather and at some of the parties the cast throws and stuff everything comes crashing down on her and she needs a distraction now- she just needs to be in a place where no one can reach her and she'll be fine. And after a bit mic and knife find her holed up on mic's room since mic is the only thing that really brings her comfort in these moments and for the first time they are able to see how taco acts when drunk. If you ask drunk taco anything she WILL say the truth yes or yes like I told a friend:

''she will tell you the truth yes or yes. Like, sometimes I wish I could die but its not like I could anyways. Is not like anybody here would truly care if I was gone. Type of thing, I just know she overflows so much because when taco is drunk her walls are down. And all that is left is her raw pain.'' when she is drunk her mind is in another existencial and it freaks the cast out SO much. Something I always think about when I picture distraught taco is not only mic's reaction to it but especially pickle's. He doesn't hang out with her a lot but there will be point where he will see just how bad taco is doing, he had glimpses of her dissociating and knife bringing her out of her room to eat but the moment his eyes lay on drunk taco he just stops for a moment, sits her down, and puts a blanket on her. I like pickle and taco's relationship post-finale because like we have said to death he doesn't enjoy seeing her hurting, he may hate her but he would be dammed if he allows her to drown herself like this. Its funny with old friends because, despite of how much resentment you have for them there will always be this yearning for things to perhaps get better, or this urge to reach out to them regardless. I think drunk taco also sort of acts a bit like her season 1 self, not loud because she is pretty quiet but when she speaks she says a lot of unhinged shit. She looks at pickle, her mind barely registers that's him and she goes ''you are funny you know...?'' and yes that is meant to be taken from the ''you're funny who are you?'' from the trailer and pickle tenses up. I feel its pretty uncanny to see drunk taco like that because she seems so blissfully unaware and yet he sees how she is letting on so much fucking pain and it worries him because, of course it would. sorry I love pickle and taco I need to send more thoughts about them.

Hello Kiara!!!^^ Welcome back, and thank you for your submission!! :)

Oh goodie!! Drunk Taco!!! I can agree that she wouldn't like to drink since it makes her more vulnerable and honest, she might only drink by accident? And by accident I mean someone spikes the punch at a party and she's never had punch so she just thinks that's what it's supposed to taste like. The night that the punch is spiked is a disastrous night for many. I'd say it was Cheesy or Cherries that did it, but they both learned their lessons about harmful pranks/jokes, so I'm going to go with Yang while Yin isn't looking. He could get everyone wasted and still be well-liked.

Anyways, Taco might be able to tell that her walls are slipping against her will and go hole up in her and Mic's room. I'd see her as a rather silly drunk, reminiscent of her season 1 persona and that part of her that she keeps shoved deep down, though I'd see her randomly breaking from the silliness to say something super dark and concerning. Maybe more of a very emotional drunk than silly, yeah? I think Mic would also get very drunk and rambunctious, but Knife would be sober or at least sober enough to be taking care of people. He would be freaked out about Taco's shifts between happy happy and very depressed. Pickle would probably still be relatively aware too, between having a good alcohol tolerance (fermented vegetable, even if he's actually a cucumber lol) and just being a pretty chill drunk, and be freaked too. Knife would probably be sitting Taco down somewhere to make sure he can keep an eye on her and Pickle just happens to come across her while she's very sad. Drunk crying, yeah? And yeah, fuck it, old habits die hard and painfully he would put that blanket on her and also be keeping a good eye on her. He doesn't want to see her suffering teammate you are so right. WE are so right. She would give him a little "you're funny you know" and please let's get some drunk Taco desperate apologies and a more honest explanation of her feelings than she can manage when she's sober. I don't think it would make Pickle forgive her because he doesn't owe her that and he isn't responsible for her feelings and if he doesn't want to or doesn't feel able to forgive her he shouldn't. BUT I do think he might give her a little push to put it behind her a few days later, after they've all sobered up. Taco is desperately hoping he forgets about it, but he tells her something about looking forward and at her current relationships and not staying so stuck and ruminating on their friendship, yeah? Something like what Knife told him. He doesn't want her to be agonizing forever, that's a big part of why he was so miserable for so long. Sorry I exploded Pickle and Taco.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Blanky for the ask thingy? 🥺👉👈

Ask and you shall receive (eventually!)

First Impression

He was a touch too well-behaved and well-groomed in that first episode to grab me completely. Hadn't reached his full potential for dishevelment and badassery yet. Didn't take long after that for me to become absolutely ride-or-die for him though!

Impression Now

And I remain absolutely ride-or-die for him now!

I've come to understand the nuances of his character much more over time, I think.

The guilt arising from the role he played in getting the Expedition to where it ended up - in a physical, geographical sense they would not have penetrated as far as they did into the Arctic labyrinth without his knowledge.

The fear in him, too. What a traumatic experience walking out with Sir John Ross would have been for Blanky, let alone having to relive the memory and contemplate doing it all over again with only one leg.

And finally, his emotional intelligence, which I have already waxed somewhat lyrical about here.

Favourite Moment

Oh, his discovery of the Northwest Passage, for sure.

It couldn't have been anyone but Blanky on a practical level, for one thing. I don't know if anyone else could've read the ice and understood the significance of what they were seeing.

I also don't know that anyone else could've gotten as much unhinged joy from the sheer ridiculousness and irony of the situation either. The whole goal of the Expedition! Finally achieved! And it means absolutely fuck all!

Who else but Blanky could've met that situation head-on and laughed in the face of it?!

And finally, I don't think anyone but Blanky truly deserved to make that discovery. Not because he understood and RESPECTED the Arctic landscape better than anyone else (although that does count for something, I think, even for a Western invader). I think it's more about his act of sacrifice. In a practical sense, Blanky would not have been there to see what he saw without sacrificing his life and parting from the others. And in a more symbolic sense, I like to think the Arctic would not have revealed that secret to anyone who hadn't made such a sacrifice and given absolutely everything they had to give.

Idea for a Story

It's not as if we didn't see our fair share of it in canon, but I'd love to see Blanky and Crozier butt heads even more.

I can not envision, for example, a world where Blanky would approve of even a man like Hickey being flogged in the brutal way he was, regardless of his crime. You KNOW my sweet cheese Thomas would've had something to say about that bourach!

I also found myself thinking again about the final scene in E08 with Crozier, Blanky, and poor Little bleeding so profusely from his head wound. It pains me that we see no acknowledgement or concern from Crozier for his second's wellbeing and I'd like to see him called out for that too.

Basically, anyone having the opportunity to say "What the actual fuck is wrong with you, Francis?" is alright by me!

Unpopular Opinion

I don't know if this is unpopular necessarily but one thing I wish when it comes to Blanky is that we could have seen more of him outside of his friendship with Crozier.

I really do love that relationship, don't get me wrong!

But in thinking hard about the question below - favourite relationship - it suddenly struck me how few other options there really are. There are plenty of hints and tidbits - see below - but nothing as deep or explicit as what Blanky has with Crozier? And perhaps that's a missed opportunity...?

Favourite Relationship

With the previous question in mind, I'll go a slightly different route and mention a few Blanky relationships/potential relationships that I dearly wish we'd seen developed further and shown more explicitly on screen.

I like seeing the mutual respect grow between he and Fitzjames, for example, over the course of even that single scene in Episode Six. Absolute powerhouse performances from all involved.

I like his mentorship of wee Tom Hartnell too. I would love to have seen more of how that came about though knowing what I do about Blanky's extremely high level of empathy and emotional intelligence, it's not too difficult to imagine and infer how that would have gone.

And another relationship I feel is criminally underrated is actually between Blanky and Little. I like the way that Blanky has a clear knack for getting through to Little, for being firm with him without being unkind - we see it in E03 and again in E08 ("Which men? Were you one of them?"). Their shared exasperation at Crozier's bullshit in E05 delights me too.

Favourite Headcanon

I've rambled enough now so I'll finish with a straightforward and quite obvious one.

The headcanon that Blanky really is a huge fuckin' softy who's great with kids and animals. This is Blanky, to me:

Also I like to think that he beats even Sir John to the title of 'Ultimate Wife-Guy TM', that his wife Esther is even cooler than he is, and that Meera Syal could have played her.

[thegamingcatmom]

I just got back in my twilight phase and discovered your blog, so I was wondering if MC ever got transformed into a vampire in the sisters universe, who would be the one transforming her? I feel like the obvious choice would be tanya, but a part of me thinks that irina trying to kill MC, but accidently turning her would fit the level of unhinged they are. But also if turned into a vampire, how do you think the sisters would react to MC being stronger AND possibly hotter?

In that case:

Welcome to my blog! :3

Right off the bat: Irina cannot be trusted alone with MC at this point in time, that´s true. But it´s not gonna stay like that forever. She´ll come around sooner or later (more later though), so the chances of MC getting turned because Irina actually tried to finish the job are pretty slim. But I can see where you´re coming from and I love that yall´s minds are coming up with possible scenarios for the Unholy Trinity and their, uh...chosen one. 🤭

With that said-

It´s difficult to say who´s gonna turn her, as it depends on everything that leads up to that moment. And it´s gonna be a while yet before we even get to that moment. I don´t plan anything I write beforehand. I simply go with what feels right, so I´ll know who´s gonna turn MC when it gets to that. 😅

However, I´ve been working on a lil something for a bit now (yes, the something that´s supposed to make yall suffer), sort of like an alternate ending to The Sisters. Like, yknow how some games have multiple endings? There´s the good ending, the hidden one, and the bad one.

Well, consider my WIP the bad one. 😅

BUT: It might shine some light into everyone´s motives, especially when it comes to the whole turning thing.

.

As for the sisters´ reactions to vampire!MC?

...I mean-

So, not rly any different from now. LMAO.

It´s true though: They might not realize it yet (well, except for Tanya lol) but, to them, MC´s already-

I´m actually gonna take a page out of Edward´s (well, SM´s lol) book here:

MC´s always gonna be their MC, just a lot less fragile. ;3

Like yknow, I don´t think there´s all that much that would change for them. Ofc it´s gonna be nice when they won´t have to worry about accidently crushing MC when hugging her anymore (Kate´s bear hugs can be rather suffocating, it has to be said), but when it comes to attraction? I don´t think they could possibly be any more smitten with MC. Or else they might actually eat her up, lmao.

So, it´s not gonna be an overly sexual first reaction, if that´s what you´re asking. It´s more like they´re completely in awe of what they´re seeing, almost like they´re not quite sure what they´re seeing is even real. Because, at that point, all of them have been through a lot, right? All those months (perhaps even years, I haven´t decided yet) of madness and longing and arguments and more longing and fighting and some more madness and then longing again and-

By the end of The Sisters, it will have been one hell of a ride for everyone involved. So, seeing everything finally come full circle when their chosen one joins them in their shared forever? I don't think words could truly capture their feelings, tbh.

However, something I find quite funny to think about:

I reckon it´s gonna be MC who turns into the horndog this time, lmao. As a newborn, there´s only gonna be two things on her mind when she first opens her eyes to this new world:

blood

sex

That´s gonna be all she cares about. And, somehow, I think she´s gonna try and go for the latter first because duh, look at that gorgeous wom-

Wait, there´s another-

And another-

Jesus, can you imagine?? Poor MC, completely driven by her instincts. Instincts she just doesn´t know how to deal with yet. Her brain´s gonna melt. She´s gonna melt. This is too much, she is but a newborn-

And the sisters? They couldn´t be more delighted at that display. For them, it´s like watching a baby take its first step. I mean, they´re literally ancient. And MC´s so young, she´s a baby. YKNOW WHAT I´M SAYING??

Sugar Momma mode activated.

KSBJFKASKBFASKF

Honestly though, that´s kinda how I envision it. The sisters are beyond mature, and MC just can´t cope with any of it. She´ll need the sisters to guide her, show her how it´s done. She´ll also need them to soothe that inner beast of hers that keeps telling her stuff that totally contradicts with what she´s actually thinking-

And then MC goes about actually jumping their bones, only for them to-

.

Tanya: "Ah, ah...first we must get that thirst of yours under control, my love."

Kate: "I hate myself for this but, for once, I gotta agree with the spoilsport. One craving now, the other craving later. But God, you´re so sexy when you´re-"

Irina: "As Tanya said...we wouldn´t want you losing your pretty head halfway through and risk half of Alaska´s population being drained by noon, would we, maličký?"

MC, who hasn´t understood a word after "thirst": 🩸👁️👄👁️🩸

.

YKNOW???

But I also kinda HC that, in the world of vampires, with age comes status. All vampires have this inner beast that´s responsible for their more primal behavior and instinctive reactions in certain situations. Such as coming face to face with an elder. And MC´s got three of them.

Lord have mercy on that poor girl. We all wanna be her, let´s face it.

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋