#references of stake burning

[lily-drake]

Here’s my newest fic if y’all want to check it out.  I’m feeling too lazy to publish it here today so….enjoy!

[magiefish]

This might just be a *me* thing, but I do find it kind of fascinating that almost every Feminist Greek Myth Retelling seems compelled to flatten Helen into a two-dimensional basic-bitch with no guilt or remorse for her actions despite the fact that self-loathing for her own beauty, a feeling of a lack of agency in the face of Aphrodite's whims and a complicated affection for and loyalty to both the Greeks and the Trojans are all major characteristics of hers in both The Odyssey and The Iliad. I'm sure this has nothing to do with the dynamics of modern feminism and patriarchy whatsoever.

[babblingfishes]

sometimes i say a thing that is just over-the-top salty to strangers and then i remember they aren't part of my salt cult, so writing a detailed, multi-paragraph callout post about Unnamed Scientist #2 who had one single line of dialogue is not funny to them. it's just insane. i am cringe to them. my humor is lost on these fools

[nagihiko-dayo]

So what if I told you I made a fake webtoon cover and fake webtoon promo episode about Shugur?

[1796samuel-seabury1729]

guys burrdosia is actually so cute oh em gosh i wish straight people were real

[shatterdome-underscore]

Trying out dating apps again is a special form of hell. I saw someone with neopronouns who also had eir Hogwarts house listed, like what in the cognitive dissonance are you doing comrade? Both sides are going to think you're wearing enemy colors, drop the house and come on home

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[punkshort]

'swept away' masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Summary: Detached, closed off, and hardened by failed relationships (romantic and otherwise), hotel mogul Joel Miller is looking to expand his empire to an exclusive tropical island off the coast of Fiji. The problem is, he's not the only one looking to stake his claim in the tropics. The owner of the island, a family man first and foremost, invites all the bidders to the island for a month long retreat to help him decide which mogul will be crowned the winner. And to make himself look more appealing, Joel hires you to accompany him as his significant other. But it's strictly business... right?

-or-

Big, grumpy sugardaddy!joel falls for you.

Series Warnings: no outbreak au, sugardaddy!joel, language, smut (18+ MDNI), slow burn, references to prostitution, (a little bit) of physical violence towards reader (not Joel), alcohol and food consumption, angst, Joel sucks at feelings, past infidelity mentioned, some daddy talk, implied age gap - chapters will have individual warnings

Status: complete

Chapters:

1: Into the Deep

2: Paradise

3: Go with the Flow

4: Tropical Heat

5: Riptide

6: Undertow

7: Making Waves

8: Line in the Sand

9: Sink or Swim

10: Turn the Tide

Epilogue: Smooth Sailing

Asks/BTS/Extras:

Joel's Likes and Dislikes

Floor Plan of the Villa

Edit by @pvssyfvck3r ❤️

Oops! [between ch. 3 & 4]: what if you walked in on Joel watching porn?

Sway [between ch. 6 & 7]: you and Joel share a dance during dinner

lovely dividers by @saradika-graphics

[lalunanymph]

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

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

includes: arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader has transferred into cerena's body, isekai-ed reader, mentions of death, language, suggestive, explicit smut (not between reader and gojo though lmaosgfj), themes of classism

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 2: THE TUNNELS

“Do not touch me,” your deathly warning stills the entire room. “Do not speak to me like this and if you wish to protect her reputation—”

Your eyes fall on the maid still cowering on the floor, her eyes turned to the ground, but a shadow of a smirk on her face belies her true intentions. 

She was attempting to frame me… or, Cerena. She is trying to get us in trouble with this powerful, spiteful man. 

“Next time, choose someone else who doesn’t make it obvious that this is all a ploy to smear my name.”

Such words falling from your lips take you aback because they don’t belong in your day-to-day vocabulary, but in this instant, it feels right to throw them in his face.

You turn your back on his gaping, surprised expression, picking up the hem of your gown to make your graceful departure. But, as you sweep your gaze over the sweeping stone pillars touching the ceiling and the scaglia flooring which looks so out of place with your perception of what reality is, you find yourself faltering, looking at one of the maids for help.

“Where is my room?” you stammer, drawing more of their confusion and adding to the disarray of this already convoluted scene. 

The man glares at you, looking you up and down as if he is trying to piece together your odd behavior. 

“What do you mean you don’t know where your room is?” 

Chagrin and embarrassment well up inside your chest, staining your cheeks, and you clear your throat. 

“I… seem to have misplaced my bearings today. I do not feel well. Could someone please lead me to my chambers?”

A second of agonizing silence engulfs the entire room. Then, a mousy, brown-haired maid steps forward, bowing graciously. 

“Let me take you to your chambers, milady.”

You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. Preparing to follow her, your path is once more blocked by this infuriating man who will not relent in drawing out your humiliation.

Darkness settles in those clear, azure eyes, and his jaw is clenched, though he doesn’t put his hands on you again.

“We are not done speaking about this yet, Cerena. I will make you own up to your mistake… whether you like it or not.”

Paralyzed to one spot, you watch as he departs from your side to kneel down and gently gather the maid in his arms, guiding her to her feet as he speaks to her in low tones, a look of endearment and tenderness softening the harsh edges of his azure eyes. 

It hits you then like a lightning bolt.

He is obviously and irrevocably head over heels in love with that simple maid.

The jarring change of his temperament from blatant vengefulness to tender consideration shocks you to the core, numbing your entire body with the prejudice and injustice of it all, freezing you to the spot. 

“Milady?” The maid who volunteered to lead you back to your chambers approaches you carefully, interrupting you from your ruminations. “Shall we?” 

You nod after a moment, dazed, and turn your back on the vile memories of the spectacle you were forced to endure, following behind her silently.

The sound of your heels on the red limestone floor echo in the solitary quiet, and you fidget with your hands. Eventually, your curiosity wins and you clear your throat, getting her attention.

“I apologize that you had to see that.”

To your surprise, the maid chokes back a gasp, quickly darting her eyes to the ground when you turn your gaze to her. 

“It is fine, milady,” she stammered, lacing her fingers together in a tight grip; you notice she is trembling slightly, and unable to look you in the eye for longer than a few seconds. 

“You seem afraid of me.” 

You meant it as an observation, but to her, it was a reprimand. She bows her head a few times, shoulders tight and tense with fear.

“I apologize, milady. I will do better next time. I will not—”

“Hey, hey,” you reach out to grab her arms, your voice low and soothing; trying to earn her trust. “Calm down. I am not going to scold you. I am just… stating a fact. Why are you so afraid of me?” 

Her lower lip trembles and her brown eyes shift from you again, onto the red stone floor.

“Milady… you’re… not well known for being the most patient princess in the realm. And you love to berate and belittle the people who work for you. We are all trying our best to accommodate you, Your Highness, so please, cut us some slack and we will show you how devoted we are to the crown and to your wellbeing.”

It’s a trained answer, one she recites from the top of her head like a prayer of mercy. 

You drop your hands, aware that your bizarre attitude may be scaring her. 

“I am… sorry. Please. Accept my apologies. I did not sense I was being unreasonable.”

Her surprise is a palpable emotion that sweeps across her face, and she actually gasps, taken aback by your heartfelt apology.

“Milady, it’s… please, do not apologize to me! I am but a lowly servant and you should—you should not demean yourself like that—”

“It’s alright,” you stop her refusal with a sheepish wave of your hands, attempting to soothe her misgivings. “I have done you wrong and I wish to take accountability over it. I truly am apologetic for… my behavior.”

The young woman looks at you like she’s never seen you before, her eyes wide and unflinching. 

“What is your name?” You inquire politely, and the look of surprise in those coffee brown eyes deepen. Somewhere, shimmering in its depths, you see a hint of respect and reverence.

“Elara, milady.” 

You nod, forcing a kind smile so as not to petrify her further with your raging confusion and stuttering awkwardness. 

“Elara. A beautiful name. Could I ask you a few questions—and please, be as truthful as you can when you answer them.”

She doesn’t hesitate to nod, the fear guarding her heart easing slightly, allowing her defenses to weaken. 

Your inquisitiveness is at an undeniable peak, and you need to whet your suspicions or else you would go insane.

“Who was that man from earlier? The one who claims we are engaged?”

The young woman fails to temper her look of obvious confoundment, slowing her pace so she can tilt her head to the side and regard you.

“Milady, are you feeling unwell?” 

Her concern ticks you towards an internal panic. Your laughter sounds strained even to your own ears, and you shake your head, struggling to come up with a viable excuse. 

“I suppose… The chill of today is making me foggy.”

Elara purses her lips, noting your look of disarray, but doesn’t keep the information you seek from you.

“That man is your betrothed, milady. The Crowned Prince of the Northern Haleway—Prince Gojo Satoru. You both have been engaged for a very long time, since the tender age of nine, and are set to be married this following year.”

Immediately, your stomach sinks to your toes, and you release a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

A crowned prince? 

Betrothed and married by this year?

You? 

The questions swirled in your mind like a raging tempest, and you must’ve worried her with your stunned silence for she stopped in mid-stride, reaching out to tap your shoulder.

“Milady?” 

You shake your head, trying to tame the panic down before it could consume you and you would fall to your knees, shaking and sobbing from the uncontrollable fear.

“Wh… who am I?” 

This time, she gasps, unable to hold back her dread when she hears your question, her brown eyes wavering with fear. 

“Milady, shall I fetch for the physician?” 

Her tone rises up a decibel, and you shush her, shaking your head vehemently. Spotting a relatively hidden alcove, you grab her arm and tug her into the secluded spot, her bright, brown eyes shining with confusion even in the dim lighting of this dark nook.

“Please. Trust me when I say this—I have no idea who I am, where I am or who everyone else is around here. I’m not from this world. I am not from this land. My name is Y/N, and I am not this Princess Cerena or person you think I am.”

Elara gapes, unable to believe her ears. She gives you a probing look, as if to determine if you were trying to pull her leg.

But, when your gaze doesn’t falter for a single second, she takes one step back, a look of horror bleeding across her features.

“Impossible. This is… how can you… what do you mean you are not from this world?” 

You take a deep breath and try your best to explain your side of this confusion.

“The last thing I remember before waking up in the middle of the prince’s tantrum was a man hitting me over my head to steal my purse. He was a thief and he—” your voice shakes, all the tension and confusion coalescing into a tight ball underneath your throat, triggering your desperate tears which you try so hard to fight off. 

“—he left me to die in an alleyway. I thought I was dead… that my life was over, but then, I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was… Satoru, you said? Yes. The first thing I saw was him. Satoru. I’ve never met him before in my life.”

Elara is dumbfounded, that much you can expect. But, she doesn’t refute your words. 

Believing you without a single shred of doubt.

Was Cerena such an awful person that even a bit of kindness can sway her to my side?

Your thoughts are loud, ricocheting around the recesses of your mind and you wait for her to believe you. 

Elara eventually dips her head forward, absorbing your words. 

“I… have faith in your words, milady.” Her gaze is scrutinizing. “You are different, there is no doubt about that. Your words, your expressions, certain phrases you use. You are not Lady Cerena, and for that, I believe it is a blessing.”

She clasped her hands in front of her body, having relieved herself of the burdensome thoughts shrouding her mind.

Without preamble or a word in from you, she gestures towards the end of the hallway, showering you with some much needed kindness you didn’t know you were desperate for until she gives you a wry smile. Your heart squeezes longingly in your chest. 

“Come. You must be tired from your… journey. I will prepare your room and then, you may rest.” 

For an hour after that, you sit around in your room, bored to death.

There wasn’t much to do in a world like this besides wearing pretty dresses, lounge around and being alert for any strange sounds coming from outside the hardwood doors.

Your bed is lavishly decorated with the best wool these lands could offer, warm yet cool under your touch to insulate you from the mountainous chill. A peek inside Cerena’s closet confirms that most of the treasury money her parents must’ve sent down to Northern Haleway went to these carefully crafted pieces of organza, lace and encrusted jewels upon mountains of sheer and gossamer dresses. Even her cloaks were of the highest quality—mink and lambskin leather, tailored to fit her body perfectly. 

Like a diabetic in a candy store, you excitedly shift through the elaborate pieces, feeling their fine workmanship. Many of them were low cut and sleeveless, intended to show off her petite shoulders and defined collarbones. It was obvious she had an eye for such aesthetic advantages. 

Having seen yourself in the mirror, you conclude that Cerena is one of, if not, the most beautiful woman you have ever seen in your life.

With her cascading, naturally-tinted strawberry blonde curls and fine nose, her visage could easily strike admiration in hearts around the world, no matter where her dainty feet took her.

In contrast, you were less feminine and refined than her, a paltry shadow in the face of such regal beauty that you flinched and eventually stepped away from the mirror, as if looking at another woman’s reflection for too long may scorch you. 

Choosing to lay listlessly on the bed, you weren’t used to such free time on your hands.

Back in your home world, you would be using this ample stretch of relaxation to clean up your apartment, cook, or perhaps, even get started on another bouquet arrangement you often did for your friends at no cost.

Your eyes slip close, though sleep struggles to find you.

Eventually, you’re driven to your feet, tired of this fatiguing ennui weighing heavily on your shoulders. 

Slipping your feet into a pair of fine satin slippers, you ditch the loud heels for whispery footsteps on the stone floor, taking this opportunity to explore the castle. 

You touch the cool stones, feeling the heat from the sconces above bathe your skin with a warm glow. The castle is structured in such a way that the winding hallways and open windows brought in as much natural sunlight as possible. Stopping shy of a larger balcony, you step outside and feel the cool air grazing your cheeks. 

Northern Haleway’s stronghold was located up a steep foothill. Below, as far as the eye could see, lay craggily rocks and sharp jagged cliffs which would kill anyone upon impact.

You shudder at such natural magnificence, and force your feet to take you down the hallway, every step echoing softly behind you.

For such a big castle, there weren’t many around, and you supposed this wing where Cerena lived was explicitly ordered to be emptied for the sake of the princess’ unstable mood swings.

I wonder… where can I find the throne room…

You had only ever seen such regalia in picture books and movies. A part of you wanted to witness it in real time; to see if the sheer splendor matches your imagination. 

However, as you cross the threshold into an elaborate sitting room, you hear whispers and movement from the other end of a closed door. 

Curious and hesitant at the same time, you let your inquisitiveness get the best of you, taking one step closer to the elaborate doorway, pressing your ear to the wainscoted surface.

“... mhm… oh… Satoru…”

Your ears burn and you smother a gasp with your open palm. 

Muffled grunts could be heard from the other end of the door, and a sinking feeling rests heavily in your gut.

The lewd sounds were unmistakable. You could easily picture the ghastly, horrid man from before, with his towering height and broad shoulders, ramming the entirety of his cock inside the maid’s smaller, but willing body. 

Her cries echo feebly, laced with ecstasy and pleasure.

Without warning, you feel someone touching your elbow and nearly squeak, if it weren’t for Elara’s wide brown eyes dominating your vision. Catching your composure in time, you bite your lower lip hard enough to taste blood, hoping to every god above that the prince and his lover did not catch your slip up.

“Milady—” 

You shush her with a finger to your lips, shaking your head frantically. Elara takes your cue and quietens, those coffee hues widening when she picks up on the same sounds you were eavesdropping on.

Her mouth falls open wider, a scandalized look taking over her features. 

Satoru and Miri find respite in reaching their peak at the same time, their desperate gasps and moans twining as one. You hear them kiss passionately, and it makes your gut turn to think that the same man Cerena is engaged to is so blatantly flaunting his affair right in the very same castle she lived in.

Anger rises inside of you, dark and tarry like a bubbling vat of acid.

No matter how horrible a woman was painted to be, she did not deserve this treatment from someone claiming to be her fiancé. 

You were upset on Cerena’s behalf, especially when the heir himself chuckled, a low and disturbing sound. 

“I cannot believe she stalked away from you with such boldness,” Miri muttered huskily, obviously trying to further seed this divide between Satoru and Cerena.

The man in question hummed, as if the idea of insulting and sullying the name of his future wife and queen barely ruffled his composure.

“She will pay for what she has done. I will not tolerate such rudeness and discourtesy, especially since she knows you mean a lot more to me than she does.”

You shiver at the conviction and contempt in his tone. Glancing at Elara, you note that she too seems engrossed in the conversation, unable to peel her ear off the hardwood. 

Miri laughs, light and breezy, though what she says next chills you right to the bone.

“She seemed even more agitated today. I suppose she really is coming to her senses and is close to realizing that she has lost you, Your Highness. And as we all know, Princess Cerena can never lose.”

Her words drip with sarcasm and resentment, feeding the flames of Satoru’s vengefulness. 

“That idiotic woman. I despise her very being,” he mutters haughtily. “Every time she opens her mouth, I wish to never hear her voice again. To wipe her from my memories and remove her from my presence. It is not enough that I am to be wedded to her, but my father seems adamant on pushing Cerena onto me like an unwanted gift.” 

Miri hums. “And her attitude must not be very pleasant as well, isn’t it, my love?”

Satoru barks a laugh, like she’s just uttered the funniest thing his twisted mind could conjure.

“Pleasant? Cerena? Those two words can never exist in a singular sentence. No, she is not pleasant. In fact, she is the opposite of pleasant. She is an insolent, vicious and repulsive creature. If only I could, I will teach her a lesson so she will understand that this world is only tolerable to her because she is a princess. I wish to hurt her in ways she can never fathom and destroy her until no man would ever want her again.” 

Horror steals the last of your thoughts. A warm hand clasps around your fingers and you realize Elara is lending you her strength. 

You are suddenly aware of how badly your hands are shaking. 

Miri giggles, as if her lover’s words are music to her ears. 

“Have you given thought to the suggestion I raised before? To kill the princess?” 

Your breathing stops, and Elara flickers her gaze to you, eyes wide and wavering.

Kill… Cerena? 

He wouldn’t do that, would he? 

Your trembles become harder to control. You have no idea what this man is capable of, and for the first time in your life, you are terrified of the power he wields, indomitable compared to yours. 

The horrifying reminder comes to you in a flash. 

This was a different world, one where men ruled and women obeyed. 

You knew enough from the movies and books to understand that if a man wanted you dead in this era, it would be by his law and his alone. 

Satoru echoes her sentiments with a chuckle. 

“You really are hellbent on me getting rid of her, aren’t you?” 

You can almost imagine Miri’s pout. 

“She is the only thing standing in between the two of us from being together. Don’t you want to get rid of that?” 

You gape, astounded by her boldness. This… this bitch! 

You can’t believe the treason you’re hearing—for surely, it is treason to want a princess dead, especially for a commoner to speak such words. 

Elara seems to be of the same opinion, her quivering lips weighing into a downturn grimace. 

Satoru’s lazy laughter grates your ears, and you listen in for what he has to say next.

Please, you beg internally; hoping for someone to hear your desperate plea and prayer for this man to see reason and be merciful. Please, have a heart for this woman whose body I am inhabiting and do not harm her. 

Your flimsy hopes break upon impact, like a sandcastle succumbing to a wave in one fell swoop.

“I promise I will get rid of her,” Satoru’s conviction punches you right in the gut, leaving you breathless and in despair. “I promise that once she is dead, I will wed you and we will be together, my love. Forever. You have my word.” 

You stagger backwards, unable to listen anymore.

Tearing out of the room as quietly as your footsteps can take you, you hear Elara’s faint footfalls following behind. Her grip on your arm is steady, supporting your shaking knees.

“Milady—”

Out of earshot from the vile man and his wicked maid, you finally reveal the true fear corrupting your soul.

“Elara, please. You have to get me out of this castle.”

Her face pales, throwing her freckles into stark view. 

“Milady, I-I can’t. To hide a princess is considered high treason—”

“Please,” you choked, grasping her arms, your eyes wild with fright. “You heard what the prince said. You heard what he promised. If he fulfills it, I will die here. Please. You have to help me.”

You weren’t above getting on your knees to clutch at her skirt, begging and pleading for your life. Luckily, Elara would never make you commit such an atrocity.

Her thin hands grasp yours, her mousy face filled with a fiery determination you’ve never seen a woman possess.

“I may know a place to hide you. Follow me, princess.”

She leads you straight to the other end of the castle, pushing open a heavy wooden door. It’s the maids quarters and there, she fetches a plain cloak, throwing it on your shoulders and fastening it around your throat. 

“Make sure your hood is always pulled up,” she warned, beckoning you to follow her.

You pass rows upon rows of straw beds with crumpled linen sheets, aghast at the state of the help’s sleeping area. The squalor fills you with anger, especially when you compare it to the lavish beddings of Princess Cerena’s room.

Is this what the royal family allows? You seethe internally. Such pitiable states of living were reserved for animals, not humans who devoted their entire lives to serving the crown. 

But, you don’t have much time to ruminate on the anger bubbling inside of you, following Elara’s silhouette through another door. She brings you into a labyrinth-like hallway barely illuminated by greasy old sconces, gesturing for you to follow her. 

There is nothing you can do than to put your faith in this young, kind maid as she leads you from one winding path to another, her footsteps light and sure. 

A rat scampered somewhere to your left and you shriek, earning a timely glare from Elara who shushes you. 

Contrite, you swallow your unease and trail behind her like a ghostly woman of the night.

Eventually, the winding paths turn straighter, and there is another door in the distance.

This one is heavier than the last, as if meant to guard the inhabitants from something outside; or to keep them confined within.

It takes the both of you to push it wide, and when the door finally creaks open, you’re hit with a face full of cold, biting air.

Elara doesn’t waste any time, grabbing your wrist and tugging you forward. 

“Come on. I know a woman who will help you. She lives in a nearby forest.”

You huff, trying to keep up with her. 

All around you, standing like stalwart giants, towering pine trees press close, shrouding the behemothian castle from view, their sharp scent stinging your nostrils. Elara’s pulse is thudding against your fingers, a rapid fire rate that fills you with both determination and dread. 

“What was that?” You call above the rushing of your fleeing, sensing it was safe to speak now.

She glanced back at you, lips in a thin line.

“The castle tunnels. It’s barely functional, but we use it sometimes to receive bulkier goods without being seen on the main floors.” 

She guides you further into the forest, and you sense this isn’t the right time for questions. Elara makes you jump over a tiny, bubbling brook, and you were glad for swapping out your heels for these manageable slippers. 

Finally, after what feels like hours dashing through the thickening forest with nothing but foliage and the cold air whipping your hair into a disarray, Elara stops you shy of a clearing.

Inside the circle is a tiny hut, smoke spewing out of its brick red chimney.

She doesn’t hesitate to walk to the door, knocking on it. When there is no reply, she does it again, firmly this time, and you wait with bated breath for whoever is on the other side to reveal themselves.

The lock clicks and your heart constricts. 

An elderly woman with unruly, white hair, pries the door open, her crinkled face frowning when she sees Elara.

“Dear? Whatever are you doing here?”

Her wizened, rheumy eyes move to you, and her gaze becomes sharper.

“Who is this?” 

“Nana, this is a friend,” Elara muttered, grasping my elbow and tugging me forward. “Her name is—”

“Y/N,” you supply immediately, giving her a subtle shake of your head. You would rather the older woman did not know your true identity. “It is a pleasure to meet you…”

You trail off, waiting for her to introduce herself.

Elara’s grandmother purses her thin lips, and shifts her gaze from her granddaughter to this suspiciously noble looking woman.

“Aeva,” she finally answered. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

Once reassured that her grandmother would not react badly, Elara gives her a rundown of your situation. The older woman listens carefully, never once interrupting her granddaughter. 

After gathering her thoughts, she makes a swift decision, nodding and gesturing to you to come closer.

For a split second, she skims her gaze up and down your body, noting your pink curls, the clean look of your skin and nails. 

“If you are to stay here with me, no one can know your true identity… Princess.” 

Elara flinched, like a child caught in the middle of a lie. In reaction to her granddaughter’s flimsy attempt to hide the truth, Aeva shoots her a smug smile.

“Trying to fool an old woman who has tasted more salt of the earth than you—not a wise move, young lady.” 

But, she doesn’t prod or scold her any further. 

Her attention lands on you again, and her thin lips quirk downward into a heavy frown.

“If you want to stay here, you need to work, my dear. No slacking off, and definitely no people to attend to you at your beck and call. Can you bear that?” 

Bless her heart. She doesn’t sense the difference in you, thinking you’re nothing more than a spoiled, childish princess.

Eagerly and without a second thought, you nod. 

“Yes. I understand. I will help you with any chores you need. I am good at cooking and taking care of a hearth. You need not worry about my reliability.”

Aeva's expression wavers and she shoots Elara an amused look.

“Alright then, Princess. We shall see if your words ring true.”

Elara gives you a tight smile, one which you return. Recognizing the confidence and reassurance she was trying to instill in you.

“Take heart, Princess,” her words soothe you. 

“You will be safe here.”

Days had passed since Satoru had last seen you in the annex hallway, the memory of his confrontation with you still fresh in his mind. 

As hard as he tries to ignore the chiming in his head to check up on you, to seek you out and ensure you're not sulking or throwing another nasty fit, he's grateful for the quiet your absence gives him. 

Miri visits his chambers almost every day, giving her body to him and warming his sheets till the morning sun illuminates the red stone floors. As he watches the rays touch her face, he traces her features softly, wishing for nothing more in the world than to do this for the rest of his life.

His love for Miri came as an anchor, providing him a lifeline when he thought he had lost everything his heart had to offer.

Though he feels it unfair to indulge in her fantasies of some day getting rid of you, Satoru can’t deny that there’s a certain appeal to that idea.

Removing his brash and volatile fiancé, and replacing her with a woman far gentler, graceful and courteous—Satoru thinks it’s Miri who should bear his ring upon her finger. Be the woman he wakes up to every morning despite her lowly status and economic standing.

Some people were more suited for the life of a royalty, and he is of the opinion that compared to you, Miri far exceeds the idea of what it means to be a Princess while you, in all your snobbishness and arrogance, deserved to be at the bottom of the barrel. 

Encompassing his mindset as a whole, Satoru feels a certain fragile peace he hasn't encountered in a long while, though it all shatters one morning when his father, King Satoshi, calls him into the throne room.

Magnificent and intimidating in one breath, the great King Gojo Satoshi sits regally on his throne, the seat beside him stingingly empty. 

Satoru doesn’t let his gaze linger on where his mother used to sit, instead, bowing deeply when he catches his father’s eye, awaiting his next words. 

“Arise, son.”

The heir apparent to Northern Haleway straightens his back, azure eyes flinty and guarded.

“Father. You requested for me.”

Satoshi nods, his expression unreadable. 

“Son, I need to ask you a question.”

Satoru steels himself for an unexpected request or a test of his allegiance; both options having been given before by his rigid and non-permissive father.

But, what his father asks next renders him stupefied and breathless, thrown completely off kilter.

“Satoru… where is your Princess?”

The young man feels his palms dampening with sweat. In response, he scoffs, shaking his head.

“Cerena? I have not seen her, Father. Why do you inquire?” 

His affectionless response does not sit well with the older Gojo, who bristles and deepens his glare.

“You mean to tell me you do not care that your fiancé—who, by the way, hasn’t been seen for the past two days—has disappeared, and you’re questioning why I'm asking you about it?”

Anger drips from his accusing question, and Satoru schools his expression into neutrality, unwilling to give away his true emotions of mirth and relief. 

Cerena is missing… she hasn’t been seen for two whole days… is this the Gods answering my prayers? 

Satoshi, clearly angered and insulted by his son’s lack of haste and concern, sits back against his throne, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“Satoru, I am putting you in charge of the search party for the princess. If the kingdom of Kraith—Cerena’s parents—were to know that she is lost, there will be tragic repercussions for our country. You have to find her and bring her back. Am I making myself clear?” 

Satoru stiffened at the implications of what would happen should the neighboring country uncover this slight. 

Trade contracts will be affected, livelihoods will be destroyed and the monetary resources Kraith offered through their bountiful grain industry would be in jeopardy. 

But, that’s not all at stake.

“If you fail to find her before this week’s end,” Satoshi continues, his turquoise eyes boring deeply into his son’s ones. “I will revoke your ascension to the throne and give it to your cousin, Yuuta. Is that what you desire?” 

Stiffly, Satoru shakes his head, shame and anger burning inside him like a brewing storm.

“No, Your Majesty.”

Apparently satisfied that his threats have hit their mark, Satoshi reclines into the oversized chair, his large hands curling around the bejeweled lion’s head knobs adorning the end of the throne’s arms.

“Good. I expect to hear news from you by this week’s end, Satoru.”

Taking that as his cue for dismissal, the young heir bows stiffly to his father before stepping out of the throne room. As he rounds the corner, he’s caught off guard by his lover, who darts from an alcove to block his path.

“What did he want?” Miri asks breathlessly.

Satoru frowns but doesn’t push her away, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of the gleaming regalia and military awards pinned to his lapels. The heavy burden of his princely duties leaves him feeling hopeless and worn down.

“He wants me to find her—Cerena—and bring her back or else he will give my cousin, Yuuta, the rites of ascension.”

Miri gasps, her face blanching. 

“He cannot do that!” 

“He can,” Satoru runs a hand down his face, expelling a tired sigh. “He is the King and he can do whatever he wants. I have to search for her. Cerena. I need to find her or else everything I’ve worked for will be in vain.”

Miri glances over her shoulder before she wraps her arms around him. 

Satoru takes comfort in her embrace, inhaling the soft scent of musk and jasmine floating from her hair. 

They stay like this for a while, two lovers holding onto each other as the differences in their standing and burdens remain determined to keep them apart. 

“It’s the perfect timing,” Miri suddenly gushes, pulling back just far enough so he can see the opportunity twinkling in her eyes. 

Satoru’s confusion only makes her laugh and she leans in closer, as if to impart a juicy secret.

“I have received word of a woman in the village that nobody has ever seen before. She walks around town always clad in a robe and with a hood pulled over her head. She barely speaks to anyone and when asked where she is from, she claims she is not from here. Doesn’t that spark your curiosity?”

A woman who insists on being cloaked and hidden… now that is intriguing indeed. 

The young prince feels a grin growing across his face, one tainted with a dawning realization.

Could it be…?

“And you suggest I follow your lead to meet this woman?” Satoru rests his broad palm on her waist, his thumb gently stroking her hip. Miri grins smugly and, unconcerned with any onlookers, leans in to whisper in his ear. Her warm breath sends a shiver down his spine.

“If that woman happens to be our princess, it would be the best chance we have of ending her without arousing any suspicion.”

Satoru’s expression wavers with something akin to regret, though he hides it the second her sparkling green eyes meet his own hooded blue ones. 

“Are you sure? You want me to end Cerena’s life?” 

Miri is firm in her ambitions, giving him a curt nod.

“Is it not what you desire, too? Cerena’s demise? With her gone, we can finally be together, my love.” 

She intertwines her fingers together with his, squeezing his hands fondly. “We can be free to love, to show each other affection, to openly court and to meet each other in broad daylight. Wouldn’t that be a delight to experience?” 

The images she paints in his mind are irresistible, and Satoru quickly forgets his earlier hesitation, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close against his body.

“Oh, Miri,” he growls, desire lacing his tone as she responds with an adorable giggle. “My beautiful mastermind—you are right. We need to strike while the opportunity is ripe.”

Satoru’s hand glides down her body, gently caressing her backside.

“The moment I see Cerena, I will keep my word and end her life.”

mtt fun fact: satoru is partial to dressing in darker colors to bring out the contrast of his white hair. it's done partially for vain aesthetics but also because he loves how the stark visual contrast tends to strike fear in his enemies hearts

dawn says: dun dun DUN .... anyone wanna bet that yn will beat his ass if he tries her 😏

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

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

[fahbev]

Correct me if i’m wrong, but i feel like this is either Bruce or Talia—

What's your batfam hot take that will land you like this?

[okiedokrie]

INFERNO

Summary: The witch trials are in full swing, the church ordered for all witches to be burned at the stake. From morning until the night, you pray for those who turned their back against God. But a knock at your door startled you, the church, in desparation, accused you of witchcraft. Only then did you realize that your God has long forsaken you. Now, you make a deal with the Devil.

Characters/Pairing(s): Demon!Joshua X F!Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Horror

AUs/Trope info: Demon!AU, Contract Relationship

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: References to witch trials, religious terminologies, literally talking about giving birth to the anti-christ, killing everyone (im being serious), (smut warnings under the cut)

Rating: 18+

A/N: Dedicated to the ji to my han @nebulousbrainsoup

Smut Warnings: oral (f receiving), slight overstim, taking virginity, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie,

"Halt! You are being seized by the church. You will now confess all your transgressions to the light of the lord." The knights of the holy empire called out to you, that the one day you left the church to purchase food was the day you got accused of dark arts before your peers.

"Wretched witch, pay the price of your sins with blood and tears. Your crimes against our lord will not go unpunished. Come to the break of dawn in a fortnight, you shall burn at the stake as you will in hell."

The metal of the constraints dug into your skin, you aren't sure if the metallic scent in the air was rust, or blood, you couldn't hear the screams of those being tortured over the ringing of your own ears. You pray, this time for your own salvation; but seven days have passed and your god has not come to save you.

Whether it was desperation or disappointment, you couldn't tell. But something pulled you, so magnetic, the darkness that surrounded you was promising vengeance.

The sky grew dark as it was clouded in a tint of red as if the heavens bled for you, but your back is against them now, no god is here to save you.

"A soul most pure, intriguing, very intriguing." A layered voice said, it whispered, screamed, groaned, and moaned. You knew exactly who this was, the lord of darkness himself.

"Tell me, after devoting your life to your God, why have you come to beg for my mercy?" The shadows started to condense, each word was also a step towards you, the shadow now vaguely resembling the figure of a man.

"I beg of you, lord of darkness, spare me mercy for my God has forsaken me, give me salvation, and I will then devote my every hour to you, waking or not." You beg as you fall onto your knees, your skin breaking against the cold stone floor as your nails drag across the dirty floor, the grime building as filth under your nails.

He chuckles, "Let me make one thing clear, you call yourself a devotee, but when you are on the stage that is life, you are first and foremost, an actor." The voice echoed in the chamber you were a prisoner in, and the click of his heeled shoes ticked like a clock, "Good actors hone their craft, to captivate the audience. You may act like a devoted follower of the good lord, but you were promised to be mine. My mother of demons.”

He continued, voices condensing into a sound more fathomable, but still as sinister. “There is a seed of darkness in your purest of souls, feeding on the last of the purity in you. All I have to do is nurture it, and you will be mine.”

The darkness ripples and cracks around you, the air becoming hot, the smell of lightning invades your senses, overbearing, overpowering the reality you were accustomed to.

The voice speaks again, swirling into a deep masculine voice. His voice becoming more palatable to your much too human ears, you mind is no longer straining to comprehend the horror of his diction, “Which is why I will offer you a contract. Give what is most pure of you to me, and I shall protect you, give you the power to burn this earth to the ground, return them to me, and I will promise you a life of bliss by my side."

He steps into the dim red light, you see him now, a man dressed in a black suite that was much too modern for your time, his glowing amber eyes pierced your very heart as the smirk on his plump lips bared his fangs to you. His hand is outstretched to you, black lacquered nails and a glowing purple glyph etched onto the palm of his skin.

"Come now, won't you shake a poor sinner's hand?"

You jump from your place on the floor, grasping his hand, and with a firm shake, you say, "I do, I promise to answer your every beck and call, I will serve you, my lord."

You feel the mark on his palm burn onto yours, the pain was insurmountable, like all the ends of your nerves were burning, pain that you could feel in the very core of your being, but then, bliss.

The contract has been signed, the seal now is to take your purity.

Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper virgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis, quia peccavi nimis.

The cathedral bells ring ominously, and a dark red tint paints the sky to warn the people below the heavens that the devil has taken hold of another poor, unfortunate soul.

The choir sang as the church bells rang, another soul lost to the dark hands of the devil. A path of sin paved with blood, sweat, and tears. Solemn was the tone of the town, a young maiden of the nobility embraced the devil himself, lost in his sweet kiss.

You embraced him, your body, mind, and soul now his. In every sense of the word, you gave your life to him. The people mourned and wept for you, their hearts heavy with the weight of this stain, this sin you left for them to bear as you will live forever in the dark bliss of the devil's tongue.

He kissed you passionately, his black heart almost beating for you, cold hands held you delicately, as if the slightest touch would break you, he laid you on the sheet that acted as your bed in this cell.

He trailed his hands slowly, starting from your knees to your thighs, the way his palms ghosted over your skin made goosebumps rise, he hooks his fingers to your draws, pulling the garment from under your skirt and discarding it to an unknown corner of the cell.

He stares down at your heat, golden eyes in a heated stare with your wet pussy, a flower yet to be plucked, dripping with golden honey as the lord of darkness blew the cold air into it.

He placed a delicate kiss to your knee, he was much more delicate than what you’d expect the lord of darkness’s intimate manner would be, trailing equally soft kissed down the length of your thigh to the apex of them, your sex clenching in anticipation.

His forked, long tongue licked a stripe across your heat, collecting your sweet essence on his tongue, he groaned at the contact to your velvet flesh, reveling in the feeling of unbridled lust.

You throw your head back, a coil in your stomach was starting to form was the lord worked his tongue around your folds, stopping occasionally to suckle on your clit, you thread your fingers in his hair, pushing his head closer to your heat in a desperate attempt for more friction.

He continued this gentle but dizzying pace with one goal on his mind, to taste the first and last time this flower tasted so sweet. The coil in your stomach was tightening almost painfully, the pleasure was insurmountable, pressure was building in a way that you never experienced before.

Then the coil snapped.

You throw your head back in a silent scream, your body shivering from the impact of such a powerful orgasm, he continues his ministrations on your heat, only this time avoiding your clit.

He licked your essence off his lips, he discarded his pants somewhere along the time he was between your legs, his firm hands took your legs and threw them over his shoulder, you catch his shoulder,

"Wait!" You plead, "my lord, your name, please give me your name." you say, the dark lord stared at you, but only for a moment.

He stares into your eyes, his amber gaze burning into your memory before he speaks again. "Joshua. Joshua would be more suitable for your human tongue." He said, as he finally entered you.

"Joshua-!" you gasp out, the stretch of his girth deliciously burned, his hard cock dragging into your heat with just friction that it didn't matter how wet you already were.

He rolls his hips in a slow and steady pace, taking in every new expression on your face and sound that you make. He bit his lip, holding back his own noises to savor the sweet sounds falling freely from your lips.

He picks his pace up after he notices you relax more, the force that his hips meet yours made your body rock upwards, shaking from the pressure that was rubbing against your walls.

"I'll breed you, your body, mind, and soul, all mine for the rest of time. I'll plant my seed into you, you'll bare the devil's children, mother of demons. My whore for all eternity." He breathed out, ragged from the force he was thrusting into you, you could only feel the rapid thumping of your heart over the ringing in your ears, your head was pleasantly empty, the only thoughts in your head was the delicious drag of his cock into you.

"Oh- Joshua-! It feels so good, oh- I feel it-!" You moan out, although you aren't sure if that's exactly what you said, for all you know, it could've just been babbling noises.

"Yes, cum around my cock, cream on it and milk it for it for all it's worth." he groans out, clearly also close to his release, his grip on your hips, dark talons digging into the skin and drawing blood.

Another coil snaps in you, this time, much more powerful. You can fill a surge of dark power being absorbed into you at the same time Joshua spills his seed into you, this dark force was hot, it felt like you had the power of a god swirling inside of you.

Out of breathe, Joshua looks at you, "by the break of dawn, you will no longer be human. Let the sleep take you, my dear, for the next time you awaken, your final waking place will be all of the new world. I promise you that."

He said as he placed a searing kiss to your forehead.

By the time the sun rose again, all the strength you had lost from being imprisoned here had not only returned to you, but you were now stronger, the dark flame burning under your skin fueled your anger, and an unholy boiling boils beneath the surface.

The cell, the dungeon, all the king's men, all the king's subjects, and the king himself, will not escape your inferno.

The only throne left standing is the one where Joshua sits, ruling over the sinners of the old world with you by his side.

[markrosewater]

What people are trying to communicate to you is exactly that the way modern sets handle tropes HAS in fact gotten more heavy-handed than in the past. Twins of Maurer Estate references the same trope as Unsettling Twins — but the former does so obliquely, and in a way that's particular to the specific Magic setting; whereas the latter simply states the literal name of the trope outright. And if you look more broadly, you'll see the same trend throughout recent sets.

I'm not even making an assertion that this change is a bad thing. I'm just hoping for you to recognize that the change exists as an objective observable phenomenon.

But, it hasn't got more heavy-handed. We've done blunt naming since the game began in Alpha (Black/White Knight, Lightning Bolt, Castle, Animate Dead, etc.) For example, here are names from expansions set on Innistrad (where the Twins of Maurer Estate example comes from):

Aim for the Head, Army of the Damned, Black Cat, Blood Pact, Boarded Window, Bride’s Gown, Bump in the Night, Burn Down the House, Burning Oil, Butcher’s Cleaver, Brain in a Jar, Ceremonial Knife, Cellar Door, Convicted Killer, Creepy Doll, Evil Twin, Executioner’s Hood, Foul Play, Gone Missing, Graveyard Shovel, Identity Thief, Jack-o’-Lantern, Jar of Eyeballs, Laid to Rest, Lost in the Woods, Magnifying Glass, Night Terrors, Runaway Carriage, Sanctify, Séance, Shard of Broken Glass, Skeleton Key, Stuffed Bear, Unruly Mob, Vampire’s Kiss, Walking Corpse, Wooden Stake and Zombie Apocalypse.

I think the thing going on this year is that we are heaviest with blunt names the first time we visit a world, because we haven't mined a lot of the simple, blunt names yet. 2024 had *three* new worlds each with a new theme with lots of tropes to plumb, plus a revisited world as a backdrop with a brand new theme we hadn't done.

Should we have pulled back a bit on the volume of top-down naming? Should we have done less new worlds in a row? Should we have intertwined unique story elements more? All of that is fair to discuss. I'm not saying we did everything correctly, because obviously some players are unhappy.

My point is this isn't a case of us doing things any differently than we've done before (except maybe in volume, and set proximity) when it comes to bluntness of naming.

[thedgeoftheuniverse]

ROTTEN. | astarion

pairing: astarion x gn!reader

warnings: healthy dose of angst and self-loathing, mild sexual descriptions and references, wrote this in less than 2 hrs so give me a break, mainly astarion's pov idk it just happened that way

word count: 2.6k

For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love, and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

He's using you.

He knows he’s using you; since the moment he laid his eyes upon the weathered lines of your face, you were his newest target—the first one of his own choosing. He initially planned to kill you; you couldn't turn on him or drive a stake through his ribs if you were already dead, and he already had enough to worry about without adding additional fuel to the already burning fear he had for his life. Not to mention, he was hungry and getting worse by the minute. He planned to call for help—play the damsel like he did countless times before, catch your attention for only a moment, just long enough to get close enough, and slit your pretty little throat.

Every step played out perfectly. You approached him just like he knew you would—his pretty face has always granted him the illusion of being a safe person; you answered his calls for help, just like he knew you would. All you had to do was get close enough, and he would take care of the rest.

Though he was completely thrown off kilter when you offered to help him, rather than leaving him to the ‘things’ in the bush. In a split second, his plan changed. If you were willing to help a stranger in the mess that the pair of you found yourselves swept up in, what would you do for someone you thought was a friend? A lover? Perhaps the wizard of—at the time—unknown power, quite frankly threatening incineration, were his knife to continue its trajectory, did encourage a modicum of restraint and de-escalation on his part, though he will never give him such credit.

However, the most unexpected change in plans was the direct, albeit slightly painful, mental link shared between him and you. You were infected—same as him—by a Mind Flayer parasite, ready to take over your body and destroy your mind in an alarmingly short timeframe.

You were an ally—a useful one and tentatively worth sparing—so long as you could continue to benefit him.

So, he started with a simple introduction: “My name's Astarion.” Spoken with a dramatic flair and a sickeningly sweet undertone that could only be found after two hundred years of charming pretty faces and innocent minds. In the moments between his introduction and the offering of your name, while the words still clung to the empty air between, Astarion formulated a new plan. It was brilliantly simple and borderline foolproof. All he had to do was convince you to fall for it, and his safety was nearly guaranteed.

(He now knows that hindsight always paints a clearer portrait than the present, and he is a fool in more ways than any would dare to calculate.)

He started small, coated his words in honey, and never oversold the part—playing into the role of the mysterious charmer that he had perfected all those years ago. He was honest, reliable, and always came to your aid during battle; he made you believe he was someone that could be trusted, no matter what your instincts may have convinced you otherwise. He was charismatic. A stolen glance here, an accidental touch there, a subtle look in his eyes that betrayed far more debaucherous intentions than what a gentleman such as himself would ever dare voice in the presence of someone as pure as you.

Perhaps, though, he erred too close to the side of caution and played his part too carefully. Vampirism is no easy condition to conceal, and the lesser creatures he managed to feast on during the night were horribly unsuitable to sustain him in the midst of such a perilous—and quite frankly, exhausting—journey. He was in a rapidly deteriorating state and worsening by the minute; he needed an intelligent, thinking creature to sink his teeth into if he wished to be of any use. He could not imagine a universe in which he would be allowed to remain in the company if he could not pull his own weight in battle or the camp.

He obscenely and undeniably fucked up when he chose to attempt to sink his fangs into the supple skin of the pretty little neck he nearly mared just a few weeks prior. He could not identify exactly why he believed he could get away with such an act undetected; his extreme hunger could be to blame, though he could not deny that the sweetness of your blood caused an insatiable stirring in his gut—he could smell it from six feet away. It permeated the air around him, nearly making him dizzy with the want—no, the need—to taste you. If hunger had driven him mad once again, then you were to blame, and therefore you were responsible for paying.

All thoughts of your reparations, however, were thrown from his mind the moment your eyes opened and he remembered that you possessed the ability to end his unnaturally long “life.”

“Shit.” His mind was completely blank. “It- It’s not what it looks like. I swear.” He could only hope that his performance would award him a standing ovation and the momentary benefit of the doubt: “I wasn't going to hurt you. I just needed... well, blood.”

It was not the confession he hoped to perform for you. He was meant to come to you, fully conscious, and present the idea as his own—he would choose to come to and confide in you. (I feel as though you and I have a… strong bond. I believe I can trust you. I cannot bear to keep this from you a moment longer.) with pretty words and round eyes. Instead, he was on his back foot and practically begging you not to ram a stake through his ribs.

And that is where his brilliantly simple plan began to pay off…

For a time.

You offered your body to him in more ways than one, and he intended to take full advantage of them all.

The sex was easy; it came to him perhaps more naturally than his flirtatious demeanor. He gave you the performance of a lifetime—he fed you borderline godly pleasures on a silver spoon while you dug your nails into grassy forest beds and moaned his name into the treetops. He knew exactly what to do to your body; he hit every single pleasure point with beautiful precision, used his mouth in all of the right places, sprinkled in the perfect praises, and made you beg just enough to make you believe you had to work for the pleasure of being underneath him and you deserved to be rewarded for it. He made sure every little word from his mouth was almost as perfect as what his mouth could do to you.

(Gods, you're beautiful.)

(Tell me how you want it. Use your words.)

(It’s as if the Gods made you to ruin me.)

He did not mean a single moment of it…

He knows he didn't. He knows, without an unparalleled doubt, that he did not mean a single sugar-coated word when he spoke in those intimate moments. He knows how vile he felt before, during, and after; he knows the suffocating self-loathing that consumed him for days after your first late-night tryst and every single night after that. He knows that, deep down, he wants you to see him as more than a sexual being, though he is not sure what else he could possibly be if not this. He knows that his manipulation was calculated and intentional; you were meant to be nothing more than a means to an end. You would help him remove this cursed tadpole embedded in his brain; you would help him kill his former master; and you would help him grasp a power that has never before been held by another vampire. You would hand him the entire world because he convinced you that he deserved it, and then he would dispose of you, as he did with the rest of his victims.

It was a brilliantly simple plan, and yet it all managed to fall apart. He is sure he played out every step perfectly, and somehow, you managed to change his plans once more.

It was never more apparent to him than right now.

Right now, as he watches you saunter around the camp, offering various greetings and the most beautiful smile he believes he has ever seen in his two hundred years of life, he realizes that you are the most incredible being he has ever gazed upon. And never has it been more apparent to him that he is a rotten thing—nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster that pretends he can believably wear the mask of a man. He thinks this is the closest thing to love he has ever felt, and even now, he will never be able to show it to you in a way that means something.

How could he have been so stupid?

How could he not have anticipated this outcome?

How could he have been so ignorant of the pining in his heart and wound up in such a situation?

His inner turmoil must have been more obvious than he would have preferred, because when you approached him, your face screamed with worry. “Astarion?” You questioned, “You look... stressed.” He was unable to find the words to respond. Something about the light shining on the hard lines of your face, leaving a shadow that danced across your cheekbones, captivated him, and he lacked the strength to look away—he doesn't think he wants to. Perhaps he could spend one hundred years gazing on the wonderful imperfections and blemishes on your skin until he has memorized every detail through the end of time, so that when you are no longer breathing, he may breathe your life once again himself, so that when another one hundred years have passed and you are nothing more than ash in the ground, he will be able to recall every minute detail of your face.

“Are you okay?”

He is on another plane of existence until the sweetness of your voice walks him back into the present.

“I… I think we need to talk.” His voice betrays him, just as his face did moments before.

You respond as you always have—with care and concern and a compassion running so deeply through your veins, it would be impossible to fabricate: “Are you alright?”

And he realizes the answer is no. He realizes that no matter the intensity of his devotion (or perhaps, is this what love is supposed to feel like?), he can never undo the damage he has caused. He can never change the sweet little lies he whispered into your ear late at night as you exposed your body to him; he can never change the intentional manipulation behind his words as he told you of your beauty; and he can never remedy the fact that he took advantage of you. You—who is made of honeysuckle and mandarins, who he has grown to so deeply care for, who he will ruin in a heartbeat if he were to ever truly love you. And perhaps he will never be able to love you. Perhaps if you are not a target, then you will never truly be anything to him; he is far too damaged to ever love you in a way that is pure and without the promise of personal gain. Perhaps he has always been and always will be a monster and deserves such treatment. He will never be able to share your bed without feeling disgust and hatred for himself. He will never be your lover, no matter how desperately he now knows he wishes to be.

“No—Yes, I just… feel awful.” Your face tells him he owes more of an explanation. He knows you are owed it. “Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so that you would never turn on me. It was easy... instinctive.” For a moment, his voice tries to betray the weight of this confession, but he knows there is no softening the blow of this—of both a confession of love (is this what love is supposed to feel like? I think I would rather choose the stake.) and an admission of guilt, and he is unsure if one is enough to outweigh the other. He knows this is the end; he knows you will finally see him for the wretched thing he is, and he will once again find himself alone and lonely.

(He now realizes these are two very different states of being.)

“All you had to do was fall for it.” Your face is twisted into something resembling grief. “And all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Your eyebrows are furrowed together, and your face has morphed into something entirely unreadable, but you almost seem relieved.

“I…” Another sigh: “You deserve something real.” He cannot bring himself to look into your eyes.

A heavy sigh escapes your mouth as your eyebrows relax. “I only want you.”

“Why?”

“I don't believe you to be the monster you think you are.” If he had a heartbeat, he is confident that would have stopped it. He cannot fathom a universe where he is more than what his master made him to be.

“You don't know me.”

“Then show me who you are, Astarion.” He isn't sure when you managed to get so close to him. “Let me be here for you.”

“You don't know what you're asking for.” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He will never be able to give you what you’re asking for, yet you still seem to want him all the same. He knows that he is no good, that he will never be more than the image Cazador sculpted him in; he is capable of tenderness no more than the Gods are capable of answering his cries for help. And yet, here you stand—headstrong as ever, practically begging him to give this a chance, and he desperately wants it. “It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me.” Your hand reaches into the space between you to gently cup his face.

“I can't give you what you want. Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I… performed to lure people back for him. I know this is different; we’re different, but it still feels… tainted.”

“I already told you what I want.” His eyes met yours for the first time since you approached his tent. “You. Whatever it is you have to offer, I want it. It's not a dirty job; it's just you.”

For a brief moment, Astarion is able to lose himself in such a fantasy; your eyes shine as though galaxies were constructed in your irises, and he can spot no inkling of deception. Your hand is soft against his cheek as he leans into the warmth of your touch, and it does not go unnoticed that you choose to keep your hand placement modest—as though you were a gentleman dancing with a lady in a fancy ballroom while all the guests silently stared.

“I don't know what to do from here.” He places his hand over yours and leans into your touch even harder—he almost resembles a wounded dog, searching for any ounce of tenderness he can find in this midst of such an ugly world—”But I know that this... this is nice."

As you wrap your arms around his waist and nestle your head into the crook of his shoulder, Astarion believes that this is something he may be able to get used to. 

Thank u for reading !!! Prob making a part 2 that is more .... idk angsty and more "I'll take care of you" if yall want it

[bunnyboysrus]

Of Monsters and Omegas

I read this a/b/o thing a while ago, I don't even know who the original was by I can't find it again y-y

but it had a thing I'd never seen in a/b/o before, with an idea of an alpha, claim biting another alpha and turning them into an omega (talked to a friend and it turns out this is a thing that has been written about more than once, im just out of touch and its not even friday) and it was an amazing story, super well written, I just personally didn't like the ending cause I'm the #1 advocate for brat readers and not the biggest fan of crybabies or the total pheromone brainwashing that people write for omegas that make them do the complete opposite of what they would normally do, I'd like to think they have more resistance to the chemicals than that albeit at the cost of some physical and psychological pain. so im writing my own, thingy, with a different ending.

18+ Minors DNI - 6.3k words Content Warnings: stalking, obsession, death, fighting, violence, blood, torture(?), kidnapping, noncon touching, suggestive, gangs, some degradation, reader is referred to as 'princess' gender neutrally (im new to this so if theres anything i forgot pls let me know)

The heavy sounds of flesh hitting flesh echoed against the stone walls of the alleyway concealing the battered figures of the people fighting within it. One person lay dazed and immobile on the ground already, followed shortly by a second body, this one out cold before he even hit the ground. The last two fighters standing were locked in a desperate grapple, and despite having been beset upon by three assholes at once, the would-be victim who had been pulled into the alley on their way home from a long day of college classes gains the upper hand for the third and final time. Your muscles burn as you grunt and send the last assailant flying into the hard brick wall, one final crack ringing through the tight, dark space as they slide down the wall onto the dirty ground, right into an unfortunately placed puddle of dumpster juice. They leave a splatter of blood on the stone where the back of their head split on the stained grit.

Blood drips from the knuckles of the hand you run through the sweaty hair slicked to your forehead as you stoop and pick up your backpack from where it had been tossed to the side. You spot a wallet on the ground, knocked out of someone's pocket at some point during the fight, and pocket the cash from that too, for the inconvenience. These scumbags were lucky they weren't dead, yet, anyway. For this? They'd probably be killed within the week once you gave their ID's to your older sister.

You continue on your way back home, wiping the blood off your knuckles and face with the sleeve of your coat as you go.

Why those grunts had seemingly staked you out was beyond you, other than the obvious reason of being a member of their gang's most vicious and historied rival. Your family was a notorious one, a family business dealing mostly in drugs but with a few spare hands in money laundering and data gathering. You were fully aware that what your family did was illegal in a dozen different ways, but it was what you had grown up in, it was what paid for your lavish lifestyle, so who were you to be judgmental? Besides, to compromise within a morally gray area, you know your family prefers to keep things as bloodless as possible, less clean up and attention that way. As a fresh adult who was only in your second year of college however, you were ignorant to most of those details, and chose to be so. You understood why your family didn't want to involve you just yet, and you didn't care to dig into it, the longer you could go with less responsibilities, the better. So, for now, you were content to stay in the dark and live your carefree, well-funded life.

Of course, that didn't mean you were naive or anything. You know very well that you were in constant danger of being attacked or killed, even as you lived a perfectly normal college life. So, as any self-respecting alpha would, you worked out intensely and routinely, to the point of being intimidating even to other alphas. Running into a few punks here and there was nothing to you, even when they came in groups like they had today.

The remaining smears of blood on your knuckles have dried into a crust by the time you get home. Once you've kicked off your shoes at the door, you hide the gory evidence of your altercation in your coat pockets as you step into the living room of your family's manor. Your sisters, Nina, the youngest, and Esme, older than you but younger than your brothers, Leon and Silas, are sitting on the couch closest to the TV, a drama of some sort playing as they shared a bowl of strawberries. Nina beams at you from the couch.

"Hey! How was your day?"

Nina was still in high school, which in your opinion was way worse than college, so the fact that she still had the spunk and energy to greet you so enthusiastically warmed your heart. You smile back at her as you head for the stairs.

"It was pretty good, I finally finished that project so now I don't have to stay late at the library anymore."

"That's great! That means you'll be home early enough to watch Cats of Heaven with me!"

"I should have enough time for that, sure." You chuckle. You had no clue what that was, but if you had to guess, knowing your sister it was the newest silly cartoon that she had become infatuated with. At least she wasn't trying to get you to watch the insufferable dramas that she liked to watch with Leon and Esme, like what was on now, but you would never admit to your siblings how corny you thought those kinds of shows were. You could only hope Cats of Heaven was something more entertaining than the standard soap operas you'd observed.

"There's pizza in the kitchen." Esme calls to you as you start up the stairs.

Ah, so Leon isn't home yet. The oldest of your siblings was the one who normally cooked, more often than even your mother. You call back an acknowledgement before jogging up the stairs to your room. After cleaning yourself of the day's grime, and the blood of course, you change clothes and trot back downstairs, heading for the kitchen to obtain some of the aforementioned pizza. Getting past the group project you'd been working on for the past three months meant more free time after school for the immediate future, and you were all too keen to relax with your family, even if it meant slogging through a show that was potentially horrendous.

You pad back into the living room, already halfway through one of the five slices of cheesy divinity on your plate. You were just sitting down between Esme and Nina when the sound of keys in the front foyer made you all perk up.

"I thought they weren't coming back for another few days?" Esme voices the question on all of your minds, 'they' being your parents and oldest brother, who had left on a business trip a little under a week ago.

"Maybe they finished work early and wanted it to be a surprise." Nina suggests happily, as the sound of footsteps in the hallway grows closer. You're hit with a sudden wave of apprehension at the same time as Esme, both of you standing abruptly to move in front of your youngest sister as a crowd of strangers step into the room with shameless casualness. Leading them, is an imposing alpha man with ink black hair tied at the nape of his neck and burning red eyes so piercing it almost made you shiver to be caught in their gaze. Almost.

The only thing that overpowered the rising fear was anger.

You sprint directly for the leader, arm pulled back for a haymaker, but some beta grunt gets in your way and takes the blow. It's clear from the confidence with which he steps in that he was unprepared for the force behind the fist, and ends up on his face on the floor, dead to the world. The first swing immediately spurs the others into action, and they surge around their leader to subdue you. It turns out to be a much harder endeavor than any of them anticipate, even when one lackey throws themself onto your back to weigh down your movement, you move as though the weight wasn't there at all, ramming backwards and crushing the brave idiot and one other against the wall. You're about to make another lunge for the leader, who has so far been lounging in an insufferably smug manner against the wall, watching the fight but not bothering to get involved, when you hear a shrill scream behind you that stops you cold.

You turn back to see Nina trapped in the arms of a muscly thug, and Esme thrashing on the ground at her feet, held down by two others. Your rage surges and you move to attack their captors, but the momentary distraction caused by your little sister's distress is all the time that's needed for three more men to jump on you and drag you to the ground. It takes 5 people altogether to hold you down as you curse and struggle against their hold trying to reach your sisters.

The leader of the home invasion chuckles condescendingly as he finally moves from his spot against the wall and walks closer, kneeling down by your face, a tight smile on his face that holds no amusement.

"You're just as feisty as ever, second youngest. I've heard all about your track record in fights, your unbroken win streak was so intimidating that I thought for sure it'd take more than that to subdue you. I'm a little disappointed."

"Fuck you!!!" It's all you can manage to spit out amongst your fury and exhaustion; normally you'd be able to throw off even five people, at least enough to get an arm free to strike out, but you were already worn out from your earlier fight. That, and a literal glob of spit that lands splat dab against the side of the assault leader's nose; damn, so close to hitting him in the eye.

The room goes cold and still, the thugs surrounding you and your siblings seem to take in a collective breath of anxiety, looking nervously to their leader for his reaction. To their surprise, he simply stares down intensely at the struggling alpha on the floor as he wipes the spit off his cheek... and licks it off his thumb.

"Oh, are you sure that's smart? You might not care about your own compromised position... but you care about theirs, right?" He glances over to the men holding down your sisters and in response to an unspoken signal, they draw knives and hold them menacingly against their throats. Esme growls furiously, but Nina screams again in fear as tears pour down her cheeks.

"Stop! Stop it, don't terrorize them! You're here for me, right?! Then just take me outside and beat me to death if that's what you want but leave them alone!!!" You still sound enraged, but even you are aware of the fear that leaks into your voice.

"Aww, worried for your sisters? Me too." The faux amusement in the alpha leader's voice is gone now, replaced with a cold fury chilling enough to send a zing of worry into your spine. The leader grabs a fistful of your hair in a painfully tight grip as he pulls your head up, his other hand spinning a set of keys around his finger. Your blood runs cold when you zero in on the plastic pink dolphin hanging on the ring.

Those are your mother's keys.

"You seem to think I'm here because you put a few grunts into the hospital. You're mistaken." The alpha tilts his head as his eyes pierce into yours, searching, but for what, you don't know. "You aren't aware of what your brother's been up to, are you?"

"You'll have to be more specific; I have two." You huff, trying not to stare too obviously at the dolphin, trying desperately not to think of what it might mean of your mother's fate for this asshole to be holding those keys.

"Silas." The alpha says icily, speaking the name like a curse.

Warily, you shake your head, the clawed grip on your head barely allowing the movement. "No, I'm not aware of anything my brothers and parents are involved in."

"That's unfortunate... But I'm already aware of that. It's cute, honestly, did they think leaving you out of the loop would keep you safe and uninvolved?" He gives your hair a sharp tug, eliciting a hiss from the fuming alpha. "All it did was make you the perfect tool for revenge."

"What the fuck are you even talking about you piece of shi-" The leader slams your face into the ground, and although the floor is carpeted, it only buffers the brunt force so much. When the leader lifts your head back up, your nose is dripping blood.

"I'm talking now. Unless you want me to kill your sisters in front of you, you'll shut the fuck up and listen like a good little bitch."

A growl rumbles through you which is met with another face first kiss into the floor, but the alpha doesn't signal anything to the thugs holding your sisters.

"Listen well, as I won't repeat myself. Silas kidnapped my sister, and I can only assume he claimed her. That, or he killed her, but I doubt it. Your mother was helping him to keep them both hidden, and to her credit she refused to sell him out, no matter how much we hurt her." The spinning of the keys stops abruptly as the leader catches them in his palm before dangling them in front of you. "I guess she didn't stop to think about what that choice might mean for her other children, left so innocent and unaware at home, alone. Maybe she had a favorite?"

Your blood runs cold as you take in the intruder's words. You had never been particularly close with Silas, hell, none of your siblings were. He had always been very distant with his siblings, while the rest of you went on to be incredibly close with one another, leaving Silas as the odd one out. That wasn't to say you hadn't all at some point tried to get closer with him, he had simply always made it clear he had no interest. This was probably also fueled by the coddling you had all observed from your mother; Silas had always been her golden boy, incapable of wrongdoing.

"I had no idea... None of us did." You can only hope the sincerity is clear in your voice and face; you genuinely had no idea your brother had done such a thing or was even capable of doing such. If the kidnapping was fueled by anything other than the feud between your families... The thought made you sick.

The leader considers your words, his chilling gaze never wavering in the slightest from yours.

"I believe you. From what I gather, based on what we were able to discern from the phone we took from your mother, she and he were the only ones in on it."

Your relief is short lived when a cruel, mirthless smirk creeps over the leader's face. There's a sudden sting in the side of your neck, you barely have time to register the pinch of pain before darkness rushes into your vision from all sides.

"However... That doesn't alleviate you of the consequences."

A sudden splash of cold drags you unwillingly out of the darkness. You open your eyes, gasping, taking in the dirty, gray stone, the puddle surrounding you; you're no longer in your living room. You now find yourself somewhere dark and cemented on all sides, the cold dampness pervading the space the kind that only comes from being underground. The only illumination comes from a single bare bulb swinging on a frayed wire over your head, the light it casts only making the space feel more unnerving.

Looming over you, face cast eerily in the darkness clumping up around the edges of the bulb's dingy light, is the leader of the home invasion. His red eyes are black in the shadow, but still alight with something cruel and mocking. He has a bucket in his hand, empty save for the last few drops of water clinging to the lip, the rest of it covering you.

"Good morning, princess. Sleep well?"

It's just the two of you, alone. No guards, no thugs, no sign of your sisters. You process this information a split second before you register the weight clamped down around your arms and waist, metal rattling loudly through the small space when you try to lunge for him, only to be stopped short by a chain attached to the wall behind you. You twist your arms violently, feeling the bite of handcuffs digging into your wrists, chains pulling taught where they're wrapped around your waist. Your captor laughs at your efforts.

It's when you growl in response to the taunting laughter that you feel more metal on your face. A muzzle. You can't suppress the fury thrashing around in your chest like a wild animal, growing more and more violent the more humiliation is piled on. The abduction, the laughter, the restraints, the muzzle. You kick and pull and yank and spit and snarl, don't stop even when the metal bites and blood makes your skin slippery against the cuffs.

"Aww, throwing a tantrum now? Cute." The words are barely enough warning before you're shoved onto your back, arms grinding painfully between the restrains and the dirty floor.

Your captor straddles you, his weight keeping your body pressed flat to the ground while one hand settles into the curve of your throat and squeezes. His palm presses lightly into your airway at the same time that his thumb rubs slow, pensive circles in the dip between your neck and collar. You shiver apprehensively when it brushes over the scent gland in your neck.

"I already told you I don't know where your sister is. Fucking kill me already so you can get even, just don't hurt my sisters. They're not involved!"

"Second time you've asked me to kill you... you seem quite keen on it." He smirks. "Unfortunately, you're all involved by virtue of simply being a part of that family. I know none of you are stupid enough to be completely ignorant to your family's doings."

Another growl bubbles up in your throat, only to be choked into silence when your captor tightens his grip around your neck.

"You know, I've thought for a while now that the older you've gotten, the less happy you've looked. The worst time, was right after your high school graduation, it was like the last of your light had left your eyes." His smile softens into something pitying, bordering on sympathetic even, but all you feel is chills running up and down your spine. "You always used to be so carefree, and spirited, it was crushing to see you looking so worn down and sad. It took me a while to realize what was killing the happy you I love so much."

The hands around your neck loosen as the leader leans down, hips shifting against your crotch as he moves, completely unbothered by the water soaking into his pants. He brings his face to your ear, lips grazing against the shell of it.

"Don't you think trying so hard to posture around like a big tough alpha is exhausting? I know it is, I know intimately the sort of shit we go through to come out on top as the strongest, the worthiest... But that struggle never suited you, did it? You've always seemed too sweet for it to me, more like an omega than an alpha."

You can't help but take the opportunity to thrust your head forward and slam it into your captor's face, forcing him back into his upright position. Ignoring the stalker shit this guy was just babbling was difficult, but you decided to skip it for now since honestly you didn't really wanna hear the details...

"You've gotta be shitting me, I've sent hundreds of you losers to the hospital and the grave since I was a middle schooler. If you're seriously trying to compare me to an omega, then I know you're full of it and just trying to piss me off."

He raises an eyebrow, surprisingly not retaliating against the bonk to his head, not yet at least.

"So, what would you call the manicures you get monthly with your sister?"

"I call that self-care and spending time with my sister. Fighting off all your fuckin' grunts wears my hands out and I'm not fond of scars. I deserve a relaxing hand massage for the trouble of beating your thugs up every week."

"And the mall trips where you spend hundreds on clothes which you follow up with a trip to that quaint little bakery where you always get a strawberry cream cake? That doesn't strike you as omega-ish?"

"Go to hell. For one thing, it's insanely creepy that you know all that, and for another, you're stereotyping like a motherfucker. Alphas aren't all meatheads that do nothing but eat raw steak, jerk off and work out, and all omegas aren't valley preps that do nothing but shop and primp. People who think like you are what's wrong with society."

The leader's deep red eyes stare intensely into your face for an eerily long moment before the corners of his lips twitch. At first its imperceptible, and while he clearly fights to keep a straight face, he can't keep down the chuckles bubbling out of his throat for long. He throws his head back in a burst of full body laughter, the least cruel sound he's made since you met him. When he finally manages to calm himself, the leader beams down at you as he wipes a tear out of his eye.

"My god... You're so fucking cute. Do you even hear yourself? You're only proving my point. You're meant to be pampered and taken care of, sheltered and safe from petty street fights and laborious expectations of strength and intimidation. You look so much cuter and happier getting your nails done than you do working out and swaggering around trying to be impressive and domineering."

This conversation had already been creepy since it started, but this was starting to genuinely unnerve you. You try to lean your head further away from the alpha on top of you, but he grabs the front of your muzzle, dragging you closer.

"Don't run away now tough guy. I thought a big bad alpha like you wasn't scared. How's it feel to be the one on bottom? Feeling threatened by the idea of someone putting you in your place? Scared?" He drags his tongue across the thin bars of the muzzle, his breath ghosting over your lips.

"What do you want from me?" You finally manage to ask, despite the tightness in your throat. As much as you expect to dread the answer, you can't stand any more of the back and forth while you wait in suspense for torture, for death, for something. Something other than whatever it is about this whole exchange that is making this guy so rock hard. You're trying to ignore it but, you've been feeling the unmistakable prod of this weirdo's boner against your crotch for almost the whole time you've been speaking.

"Still waiting on me to kill you? Knowing how proud you are, I bet you'd prefer death over what I have planned for you." The freak on top of you chuckles, his voice lowering to a husk as he leans down and nuzzles his nose into the crook between your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. "You smell so sweet even now, for an alpha...~ You'll smell even better soon."

Before you can ask what the hell he's talking about, you feel a kitten lick against your neck that makes you freeze. It's light at first, but quickly turns into broad strokes of his tongue and open mouth kisses from shoulder to jaw, wet and insistent.

No way. Nowaynowaynowaynoway. Obviously, no one is incapable of being sexually assaulted but it rarely ever happened to alphas, they weren't exactly the cute, easy targets creeps normally went for. It had never even been a passing concern for you up until now.

"Hey! Are you fucking-gh...!" You choke on your words when a sharp sting pulses through your neck. A heartbeat later, a deep and agonizing burning sensation starts to spread through your veins, up into your head where the white-hot burn is so blaring that it clouds your vision with spots, and down into your chest where your heart starts pounding against your ribs like it's trying to claw its way out. You can only gasp soundlessly as pain like you've never experienced rips through you, tearing screams from your lungs that die before they can even leave your throat, coming out only as gasping whimpers. It's after you feel a second bite and the pain is redoubled that you finally manage to shriek out loud, a sound so visceral and so unlike any sound or scream you've ever made that it doesn't even sound like you.

When he bites into your scent gland for a third time, the pressure building behind your eyes from the pain and the lightheadedness of screaming without pause for breath snaps. You can feel yourself losing consciousness again, and this time you couldn't be more grateful for it.

Your return to the waking world is much slower this time. Whereas before you were yanked out of the darkness with a splash of cold water, this time you find yourself wading through it, a lake of sludge thicker than cold syrup, and it was just as sticky and unpleasant as you imagine such a thing would be. Despite what feels like physical pounds of exhaustion weighing them down, you manage to drag your eyes open.

You feel cold and damp all over, a fresh drop of sweat rolling down your neck. A full body ache that sinks deep into your bones covers you; you feel like you're made of glass, fragile, weak and sore.

A strip of dim, greyed light is shining on the ceiling over your head; its all you can focus on as your awareness swims to the surface and clambers out of the heavy lake still trying to drag it down. You shift and lift one of your arms out from under the thick blanket covering you and notice gauze wrapped around your wrist. A small, delicate gasp to your side makes you turn your head. Nina is sitting in a chair by your bedside, clutching your other hand tightly between hers.

"You're awake! Y-You were sleeping so long I thought you'd never..." She sniffles, holding your hand to her cheek as hot tears drip onto your wrist. You slowly turn your hand to press your palm against her cheek, smiling softly.

"It's okay Nina, I'm alive, it's alright." Your voice is barely more than a croak, scratching painfully out of your throat. Nina grabs a cup of water from a bedside table and gently helps you take a few sips. When you've managed to drain the whole cup, you lay back in the bed with a wearied sigh.

"What happened? I thought for sure I was dying, I..." You trail off, thinking back to the odd conversation you'd had with the alpha who had led your home's invasion. Your head is pounding, and you feel so weak, like you're just waking up from the worst part of a flu, still feeling traces of a fever in the heat trapped in your blankets and the sweat clinging to your skin. A growl from the window pulls your attention away from your condition.

"That motherfucker... He did something to you." Esme is leaning against the frame of the large window casting the gray light over the ceiling a few feet away from where you and Nina are sitting, a cigarette crushed in half in her hand. You can't help but be faintly alarmed at the sight of it; Nina had expressly forbidden Esme from smoking, and she hadn't been caught with a cigarette in over a year. To see her with one in front of Nina, and for Nina to not be making any fuss over it, means something is seriously wrong. A distant rumble punctuates the tense silence that falls over you all, and you notice that the slim strip of sky visible through the partially parted curtains over the window is blotted out with storm gray.

"Did what to me?" You press. Your sisters exchange a look that is far too loaded to discern anything from other than Nina's palpable concern and Esme's frustration. You quickly get tired of waiting for one of them to tell you what is going on.

"Will one of you please tell me what is making you both look at me like I've caught some kind of fatal disease?" You huff, anxiety bleeding into your words. Nina glances one more time to Esme, who adamantly refuses to look away from the window as she throws down her ruined cigarette and retrieves a new one.

"You... Er, well you were... claimed. By Emil." Nina says quietly, staring down at her hands in her lap rather than you.

You stare at her blankly. What she's saying makes sense objectively, but you can't make sense of what it could have to do with you. Claiming was something exclusively done between alphas and omegas. You almost want to laugh and call it absurd, when you remember the sharp, burning pain of something piercing your neck. You shiver as you recall that the pain had been sourced in the same area as your scent gland. Your hand slowly, shakily, reaches up to press two probing fingers to your neck. Pain pulses faintly through you again when the tips of your fingers find gauze wrapped around it.

The weakness pervading your entire body, the nervousness underlying all of the other emotions swirling in your gut, the foreign sensation settled in your lower abdomen... Somehow, you know instinctively what it all means before your sister even says it.

"He bitched you. You're an omega now." Esme's voice has dropped to a low, hard to hear octave. You almost want to believe you imagined what you just heard, but you know deep down that what she says is true. The despair must show on your face, as Nina grabs your hand again, squeezing it tightly between both of hers.

"I-It'll be okay...! Emil is actually very nice, and he's genuinely-" She's cut off by the sharp slam of Esme's fist against the wall.

"Bullshit! Don't even start Nina. He bitched you and he expects you to roll over and be happy about it, but I say fuck that!" She snarls, her new cigarette meeting the same fate as its predecessor as she crushes it in her fist and throws it to the ground. "He's gone on and on at us trying to prove that this is all somehow what's best for you, but he just sounds deranged! He's a sick, obsessive freak, and he wants you to-!"

The sound of a door opening stops her short, and all three siblings jerk around to look at the newcomer entering through the door on the far side of the room from the bed. A woman in scrub pants and a sweater glowers down at all three siblings, looking supremely exhausted.

"You two, you were told you would only be allowed in if you didn't cause trouble. Are you distressing the patient right after they wake up?" She asks in a cold, droning voice.

Nina and Esme exchange defeated, worried glances before Nina speaks up.

"N-No ma'am, we weren't trying to be disruptive we were just-"

"Overwhelming someone coming out of a physically taxing ordeal that left them comatose for almost two weeks." She interjects dryly. "Come on, visitation's over, both of you out."

You expect your sisters to argue, to tell her off for expecting them to leave you alone and insist on staying with you, but to your shock your sisters resignedly stand up and head for the door. Once they've both shuffled out, the nurse (?) shuts the door behind them and trudges over to you. You flinch away from her touch, but she grabs you in firm but gentle hands, holding you still as she looks you over.

"I expected you to stay out for a few more days, but you're one tough little cookie. How are you feeling?"

Bewildered but too shell shocked to question, you answer the questions she asks you as she goes about taking your temperature and blood pressure. One impromptu physical later, she steps away from your bed with a satisfied nod.

"Alright, it looks like your recovery is progressing better than expected. You'll probably be up and about like nothing happened within a few days." You listen to her ramble about your condition before you can bring yourself to ask.

"What happened to me? Is... Is what my sister said true? Am I an omega?"

The nurse goes silent. The pitying look she gives you is all the confirmation you need.

"You should go back to sleep for now. Your body probably still feels very weak. Food will be brought to you shortly but try not to stress yourself out in the meantime." It's all she says before she hurries to the door, shutting your questions down with a firm slam. You scramble to your feet, swaying violently as soon as you try to stand. You power through it, holding down a lurching sensation akin to being on the verge of throwing up as you stagger to the door and wrench at the knob. Locked.

Fear and worry overtake you as you start slamming your hands and body into the door, though what you're trying to accomplish, not even you know. You're too weak to even stand, let alone break down a door, and before long, cold rushes into your limbs and you find yourself sliding down onto the floor, trembling and barely keeping down the bile crawling up your throat. You curl up into a ball and close your eyes.

When you awake for the third time, you don't feel nearly as ill. The ache in your limbs is still there, a mild constant, but it doesn't feel as debilitating as it did before. As you are in the middle of waking, you feel a cool hand brushing through your hair, and smell a sweet scent around you that puts you at ease. You can't help but lean your face into the hand petting you as your eyes slowly open. Snuggled against you, both arms wrapped securely around you... is that fucking freak.

You jerk away from the home invasion leader's hand, pulling him out of what looks like a deep reverie as you scramble to the side of the bed farthest from him. He smiles at you in amusement as he sits up, leaning his cheek against a fist propped on his knee.

"Good morning, princess. How are you feeling?"

You rub your hand over your neck, now free of gauze, feeling the bite marks in your skin in hyper-detail.

"You fucking... y-you, what did you do...?!" You demand, your voice a slightly higher pitch than you recall it being and shaking.

He chuckles like this was exactly what he was expecting, looking at you with a coy condescension that makes your skin crawl.

"I helped you; the first step to setting up our beautiful romance was making you an omega so I could care for you without any power struggles getting in the way. I'm not saying I look down on alphas having relationships with other alphas, but it just wasn't for me." His grin broadens as he crawls closer to you, closing the distance you'd put between you. You try to back up further, but he corners you against the headboard, arms caging you in on either side. He leans his head down, you shrink into yourself as he does but its not far enough, and his cheek brushes yours as he licks up the side of your neck. When his tongue glides over the bites on your neck, a shudder runs through you unbidden. A sudden rush of wetness between your legs shocks you to a frozen standstill. The freak looming over you takes a deep inhale, shuddering in ecstasy.

"I was right... You smell so much sweeter like this!" He presses against you, one knee parting your legs as one of his hands rubs the burning heat between your thighs. You reach to grab his wrist and pull it away, but his free hand catches yours and holds it down. The uncomfortable wetness gets worse as a heat purrs through your core, goaded by his touching.

You feel a foreign sensation crawling through your brain, sickeningly warm and disorienting. It urges you to pull your hands away, spread yourself open willingly before the alpha in front of you. It promises bliss in submission, ecstasy in relinquishing control to someone bigger and stronger than you, someone who could protect and ravish you-

A jolt runs through you as your captor's hand drifts up to dip underneath the waistband of your pants, his face lifting up from your neck to direct his affections to your lips. His attempt to take a kiss is stopped short violently by a fist slamming into his nose. He falls backwards off the side of the bed with an undignified yelp, curling up on the floor for an agonizing moment to hold his face as blood rushes between his fingers.

"W-What the hell... Aren't you...?"

"GO TO HELL YOU UGLY FREAK!!!" The panic you feel is pushed down, rage swallowing it entirely. The alpha on the floor quickly backs up as you get to your feet, fists clenched and shaking in fury.

"But I claimed you...! You can't-"

"I don't give a shit what you did! Did you seriously think I'd tolerate you touching me?! Get the hell OUT!!!!!" You scream loud enough to make your voice hoarse in your already aching throat, grabbing anything you can to hurl at him. Pillows and plastic cups chase him out as he scrambles back to the door, muttering a promise to visit again once you're in a better mood. A pillow smacks into the door with alarming force in the spot where his head had been just a split second earlier. As for the idea of you ever being in any mood that would make you tolerate being in his presence...

Fat chance of that.

[dustysalmon]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 1

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 4.5k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Next chapter

It is not the first time your unit has been called to assist at the borders, although it’s been years since topside ordered a complete blockade.

The panic had been evident on the councillors faces during the meeting that preceded your affectation. They fear the escalation of violence after the bombing in the city center as well as the murder of several enforcers earlier this week. There have even been rumours of an organised rebellion rising from the undercity, ready to strike multiple strategic places in Piltover. But those are just that, rumours. You have heard other rumours. Apparently, whoever killed those enforcers also decided to drop by the safe holds of the Council and steal something. The authorities have been suspiciously secretive about the ordeal, but you have a feeling it has to do with hextech. And the Council, usually quick to shy away from firm countermeasures, has made the decision to take a stand a little too rashly for your taste. This, plus the sudden removal of Heimerdinger’s seat at the table… No, there is something else at stake here, something bigger and perhaps more preoccupying than they are letting on.

And so here you are, on the south east bridge, among dozens of other enforcers. They don’t seem too aware or concerned about the actual reason for their presence, but they certainly appear to enjoy roughing up a couple Zaunites just for the thrill of it. Within the span of two days, you have already sent eight of your officers home. Young hot shots, mostly here to see some action and prove themselves in front of their comrades. People who shouldn’t be in the force to begin with, but the enforcers’ body always has and will continue to accept just about anybody within their ranks. It was a cesspool of violent and morally lacking folks long before you arrived and will remain exactly that for years to come. 

The majority of the officers mobilised for the Council’s big display of power aren’t trained to handle riots anyway, that much is obvious, and the entire situation is bound to turn to shit eventually. Regardless, you have traded your rifle for a good old baton, and encouraged your men to do the same. The firearm is tightly secured at your back— you’re lenient, not stupid—but the rioters have been fairly docile since the first barricades were installed, armed with nothing more than cardboard signs and harmless smoke bombs. Hardly a challenge at all, not to mention, you would like to avoid needless mayhem if you can help it. Your superior, Warren, strongly disagrees. Well, superior in name only; the man barely has any field experience, hardly ever steps out of the comfort of Piltover; a textbook office rat. If you had to guess, you would say this is the first time he’s actually come face to face with Zaunites. He has never hidden his utter repulsion for the latter— he usually refers to them as trenchers— and this new assignment is a godsend. He would drown them all in the gutter if he had his way. Halas, the Sheriff’s position was swept right from under his nose by Marcus, equally hateful and ambitious at the time. The years have tamed him for sure, although you still find it hard to explain his complete one-eighty when it comes to dealing with the undercity. Once, he was determined to give them hell, back when he was just a rookie, always babbling on about how he would handle the "Zaunite problem", and offering solutions (if you can call them that) that would have met quite the success among the most monstrous tyrants. 

When his impromptu promotion was announced, you had expected him to take full advantage of his new position and act on his threats. In fact, you had expected something very much like the events unfolding before you right now: blockades, raids, random inspections, an obnoxious display of strength—the whole circus. But instead, most of the troops had retreated completely from Zaun, leaving the undercity in a situation reminiscent of when Vander was in charge. The streets had been left completely unmonitored, allowing numerous gangs to rise and breed terror in the underground. Any sense of community ceased to exist in the blink of an eye, quickly replaced with defiance, greed and violence. Funny thing, that it took one man, one figure to hold a whole city together. Take him out of the equation, and an entire city is lost. And then came Shimmer, the final step that made all hell break loose. 

You had often wondered whether a complete occupation would have made a difference. In a way, you had your answer now. It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. The economy down there was frozen, leaving the poorest Zaunites in even worse conditions than before, if that was possible. Controlled chaos, that’s all this is. And the Council is probably looking at the current state of things and congratulating themselves on their good work. It has become routine lately, but once more you wonder what it is you’re doing here exactly.

In the cacophony you hear your name being called from the crowd and recognise a familiar face. Without a second thought, you strut towards the noisy crowd.

"I wouldn’t get too close if I were you." Warren says from behind you, eyeing the mob suspiciously. You offer him a snarky grin.

"What’s the matter, Warren, afraid of a couple sticks and stones?" You relish in the laughter that emanates from the group of enforcers surrounding him before Warren silences them with a death glare, his face red with both anger and embarrassment. When he turns back, probably to reprimand you, you’re already on the other side of the bridge. 

You walk past the last line of enforcers, the big ones, hidden behind their goggles and masks. Not necessarily the best intermediary for parlay or negotiations. You come face to face with an elder man, a fisherman’s hat screwed low on his head, just above his tired blue eyes. He hunches over the barricade towards you.

"How long is this gonna last? They just suspended all exportation of goods. We’re suffocating down here." He shouts, hands gesticulating in the air, but you can barely hear him over the racket.

"I know that, but my hands are tied here, Lou." You say apologetically. 

The economies of the upper and undercity are very much interdependent, even if that is mostly true one way more than the other, of course. Numerous Zaunites work on the other side of the stream, some fortunate and gifted kids have the opportunity to study in the University district. And while it is true that Piltovians prefer to rely on their own supplies and food, they import daily from the undercity, whether it be fish, brews, or local foodstuffs. 

Contrary to popular belief, it is not rare for topsiders to stoop to undercity level, although it is usually for more illicit activities. Shimmer consumption, human trafficking, money laundering, you name it. Needless to say that the blockade doesn’t impact topside nearly as much as it does Zaun. It makes no difference to Piltovians if it lasts for weeks, months, or possibly even years. But the undercity’s days would soon become numbered if the situation doesn’t evolve. 

A huge detonation is heard on the far side of the bridge and leaves your ears whistling for a few seconds. When you come to, there is a thick cloud of smoke rising from the same spot, but you can still make out the enforcers’ silhouettes as they charge into the protesters. Idiots. You barely have the time to turn back to Lou when another loud boom erupts. Then another. It’s really on now. You grab at the old man’s shoulder, a grave look on your face. 

"Go home, Lou. Now!" He doesn’t need to be told twice, still, you follow him with your eyes until he disappears from view. You realise only too late the tear gas canisters that have been thrown all around you. You reach for your mask but the gas is already stinging your nose and  assaulting your senses, it feels like your entire face is burning. Tears start to fall down your cheeks as you struggle to pull out your goggles. The gas has settled in your eyes now, and the  eyewear obviously won’t change that, but you can’t think clearly at the moment and put them on regardless as you start to pull back to your squad. In the distance, you can hear Warren shouting hysterically, asking for more gas, more pressure on the line, always more. He calls to you once you are back in the safe perimeter.

"Sticks and stones, huh?" He taunts you, and you can clearly imagine his stupid face mocking you behind the mask. 

"All of this for a bit of smoke?!" You refrain from calling him a dumbass in front of everyone else, although just barely, but you don’t even try to hide the anger and exasperation in your voice. He can launch disciplinary actions if he likes, this whole operation is already a complete disaster, and he will suffer the consequences too. You throw a quick look at the mess happening all around you. Utter panic among the protesters, untrained enforcers, and an incompetent chief. And people will wonder what could possibly have gone wrong. You sigh. On second thought, let Warren drag you in front of the Council if he wishes, you will have a lot of things to say.

You blink the last of the gas from your eyes and gather your thoughts. So the protests have gone up a notch after all, that much is true. But you remain convinced that the blockade is bad news for everyone. You grab the megaphone and clear your irritated throat as best as you can while your colleagues prepare to launch another charge. This will not be a quiet night after all.

Two hours, that’s all the time you get before you are unexpectedly called back for duty. You gulp down a can of hot soup, hop into a fresh blue uniform, and you’re out the door. For the first time, you are stationed on the main bridge, where you’ve heard things tend to be more heated. It is a last minute change, and very little information is given to you about your purpose here tonight, but it must be important if the Sheriff’s presence is any indication. Typically, back-up is hardly ever needed at night fall, most of the protesters leave at around 7 p.m. and come back at midday. So it is without surprise that you find the bridge perfectly calm and silent, with a large group of enforcers standing by. They seem to be waiting for something, or someone. You rapidly go over some procedures with your squad and dispatch them at key locations around the area before finding Marcus. 

"So, what’s this all about, Sheriff?" You truly loathe to call him that, but the man likes having his ego stroked every now and then. Might as well play the good cop card in order to squeeze what you can out of him. You’re met with a suspicious and frankly condescending look. Whatever information it is you’re asking for, it would seem it is above your pay grade.

"We’re meeting someone. Your team is here to make sure it all goes smoothly."

Not much to go with, but the gears are already spinning in your head. Could it be that the person responsible for the attacks and the break-in in Piltover had requested a face to face in order to calm things down; seeing as the situation had escalated today. A request for parlay, perhaps, or a negotiation. You lower your tone as your address Marcus again.

"This whole thing," you gesture at the barricades on the bridge, "it’s about Hextech, isn’t it.?" His eyes grow wide, and the way he freezes all but confirms your suspicions. For all his ability to play the Council like a fiddle, the man had always had always been terrible at concealing his emotions. 

"How’d you figure that out?" He asks seriously. You snort.

"A raid in the Council’s stronghold? Let’s just say I seriously doubt that whoever broke in came for Heimerdinger’s book collection." You say sarcastically.

Suddenly, the spotlights come to life, and a masked enforcer joins the two of you.

"They’re here, sir." Marcus nods and turns to you.

"Get behind the second line, and stay there unless ordered otherwise." You are about to protest but he is already moving forward with a small squad. The audacity, to call you here during your off-hours only to have you hang back and away from the main event. Regardless, you start to back up slowly, keeping attentive eyes fixed before you. In the distance, two figures emerge from the evening mist, progressing towards the roadblock. The enforcers take aim and start walking too, meeting them in the middle with Marcus flanking them. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he seems awfully relaxed despite the nagging tension in the air. 

You end up much further away than you would like, but orders are orders. You squint painfully in order to catch whatever you can from the exchange. The two silhouettes are clearer now, thanks to the powerful lights; a young boy and a woman, unarmed and without backup, at least none that you can see from your position. Your eyes focus on the boy, on his outfit more specifically, and it takes you about a second to connect the dots. The mask dangling from his hip, the bandana tied around his neck, the big flying board strapped to his back. A Firelight. And not just any member of the controversial gang, this one is none other than the leader, Ekko. And next to him is— no, that makes no sense—Kiramman? You blink a few times. Surely your sleep-depraved mind is playing tricks on you. But it is her, Caitlyn Kiramman, daughter of senior councillor Cassandra Kiramman, and a very promising enforcer who suddenly went rogue not even a week ago, or so the Sheriff insisted. 

An enforcer and a Firelight, quite the odd pairing indeed, especially since the latter have recently been designated as the prime suspects of the recent attacks that shook Piltover at the core. Even though as far as you are concerned, the accusation makes no sense. You have yet to see the so-called irrefutable evidence that has been found against them, evidence which has never been officially presented, but led to the blockade of the entire city regardless. 

It had always been your belief that the Enforcement body put too much effort in fighting the Firelights. The only trouble they cause is against the Eye of Zaun’s production of Shimmer, which topside should be grateful for; if anything, the Firelights are doing most of the work for them. True, they had attacked a shipment over the city not that long ago, but it was clear that Piltover was not their target. It is something you have been thinking about for a while now, this obsession with the Firelights, when crime and Shimmer are the true plagues and spreading like never before.

From the distance you see Marcus ordering his men to stand back as he moves forward to meet with Kiramman and Ekko. No matter how many times you turn the problem over in your head, you can’t make head or tail out of this alliance. Although you have a feeling this little night encounter will clarify a few points. The young boy pulls some sort of protective cylinder from behind him, although he seems reluctant to show what hides inside. He opens it eventually, leading Marcus to inch closer in order to inspect the goods. There’s a pause, the party gauges each other out in apparent uncomfortable silence. Whatever the Firelight boy revealed has definitely caught the Sheriff’s interest, although not enough to conclude a bargain it would seem. Marcus just stands there motionless, as if weighing his options. Kiramman is talking to him now, you can only assume she is pushing for some sort of deal, an exchange perhaps, intel for intel. Money? Surely Marcus wouldn’t… You suddenly stop all speculation and watch in complete shock as he pulls out his pistol and fires a single shot, square in the boy’s stomach. The latter collapses, forcefully projected backwards with the power of the point blank shot. 

Silence reigns on the bridge, save for a few crows cawing and flying away, the rest suspended in time, waiting. What the hell. 

Marcus is now aiming at a discomfited Caitlyn, a rare sight, and his men have started to move forward, getting in formation around the woman. They exchange words, but Marcus does most of the talking as Caitlyn looks too petrified to speak. Orders be damned, you leave the line of enforcers who are currently staring incredulously at each other, as shocked as you are. There’s a figure running towards the meeting point, it appears to be a woman, but you can barely make her out through the fog. What you can clearly see, however, is the swarm of small green lights flying at a rapid pace alongside her. Firelights. Hundreds of them, merging to the same location as if they had been summoned there. Then, the cloud of insects lingers above Marcus, Caitlyn and the group of enforcers before descending upon them. A small number reach past the center of the bridge, to you, and you reflexively bat them away. You’ve never liked insects, not from this close anyway, and certainly not in great numbers. Some enforcers hold out their gloved hands to allow the firelights to land, seemingly amused by the situation. Admittedly, it’s quite a pleasant distraction from what usually happens up there— or doesn’t happen. 

A tiny clicking sound emanates from all the bugs at once, like a detonation, and next thing you know, you are violently projected against the bridge’s bannister.

For the next minute or two, the only sound you hear is a numbing and constant whistling in your eardrum. You feel a hot liquid running slowly down the side of your temple, and your head is pounding like a jackhammer. Around you, bodies of enforcers lie limp on the ground in puddles of thick blood. You have seen your share of gruesome and violence, but can’t help the nausea that overtakes you as you scrawl through a sea of freshly detached limbs, the smell of copper filling your lungs. You reach an enforcer, one of the few still conscious. He is moaning in pain, mumbling incoherently as he holds up his arms, both severed at the wrist and forearm. Moans turn to screams as the realisation sinks in, you wonder if he knows his right leg is missing too.

As your hearing gradually comes back, you realise there is something going on at the centre of the bridge, where the explosions did the most damage. Gathering your strength and balance, you rise to your feet and progress towards it. More fighting it would seem. A shot rings in the air and lodges itself in a stone pillar just a couple feet away from you. You march on, unphased, a trembling hand hovering above your holster. You recognise the Firelight leader, who seems to have been untouched by the explosions, and facing him… Those long blue braids, that slender figure. Jinx. And the bombs all make sense now. There’s only one person in this city who would be capable of manufacturing such a weapon, and nobody makes anything go boom like Jinx does, all Enforcers learn that the hard way.

The two teens throw themselves at each other with a speed that makes the fight difficult to follow. Ekko quickly takes the upper hand, pinning the girl down with all his might. One, two, three hard punches square in the face, most people would have been knocked out cold by now, but Jinx struggles as best she can, until her body has nothing left to give. Ekko hovers over her, fist in the air, ready to strike one final blow to her blood-smeared face. But his hand hangs in the air, suspended in time, petrified. 

Your heart sinks at the disturbing spectacle unfolding before you. What leads two children to fight to the death and show such a level of animosity? You don’t have time to answer that question as another large detonation erupts at the exact place where Ekko and Jinx were fighting. 

The boy is the first to emerge, and it appears that the weapon got him good this time. He limps towards you and collapses in your arms. But the second he acknowledges your uniform, he starts struggling weakly against you, moaning in pain against your shoulder. The cries, however, have nothing to do with the physical pain. The stir from utter distress and despair. You don’t insist, and let him go gently, supporting him all the way. 

"You should go." You say as you hear the cavalry starting to make progress from the other side of the bridge. Took them long enough. Ekko, although his head is still pounding, manages a frown.

"Why?" 

"Your work is far from done, kid. Now get going." Your tone is firm enough to get the message across, but warm enough to convey that you care at least a little bit, and Ekko simply nods, peers at you one last time in mild confusion, before limping away through the fog.

A couple feet away, Jinx lies unmoving on the ground, and you pray that she isn’t dead as you approach and crouch beside her. Who knows what King of the underground would do if his protégé was to be taken away from him. The question is what would be obliterated first, Zaun or Piltover. Either way, there would be only ashes left on both sides. You let a sigh of relief escape as you feel a light pulse against the girl’s wrist. However, she needs medical attention, sooner rather than later. Her injuries look severe even to your untrained eyes and she has lost a lot of blood. As you let her arm down, her fingers relax, and a glowing round object rolls from her grasp. You do a double-take as you gape at it. It can’t be. The gemstone. The source of so many turmoils this past month just inches away from you, so shiny and out of place among the debris, as if daring you to take it. 

"Are you alright? Where’s the Sheriff?" You were so taken by the object that you completely missed the hurried footsteps behind you. As quickly and discreetly as possible, you shove the gemstone inside a compartment of your utility belt and turn to face the small group of enforcers gathered at the scene, Warren among them. A sigh of relief escapes you as there’s no trace of the Firelight leader. He had slipped away just in time.

"He did not make it." You say, rising to your feet. The men in uniform exchange incredulous looks. "Help me with the body." They must have missed the urgency in your tone because they remain unmoving, their eyes still taking in the bloodbath. "Come on, Teebo, put those big arms of yours to use." 

"She’s right, boys," Warren jumps in, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We’ve been after her for weeks, and now we finally got somethin’ to show for. The Council will be pleased." He stands proudly, hands on his hips as two enforcers work to lift Jinx’s inert body of the ground. "Let’s see how the son of a bitch can manage without his prized pupil—" the sentence dies in his throat and he freezes, shoulders stiffening. He might as well have seen a ghost. "Speaking of the devil."

You've never actually met the Eye of Zaun. You've seen the murals of course, heard the stories, and encountered his goons more times than you can count. But most of all, you've witnessed the damage and destruction he’s caused in the undercity over the past few years— shimmer, gang violence, oppression of the chembarons, child labour. Now, he may not be directly responsible for that last one, but the man has hardly done anything to stop it. It's rampant. Spreading like a disease with no cure in sight. You are all too familiar with it.

As you stand a couple paces away from Silco himself, you finally understand the fear and dread he inspires in both zaunites and pilties alike. His entrance feels almost theatrical and dramatic in the mist. It is just him and two large henchmen…against dozens of armed enforcers. There's no chance, no world in which a fight would go his way. And yet, there isn’t a trace of doubt in his one good eye. He's ready to pounce, to fight to the death like a raging animal to retrieve the girl with blue hair. No one has ever looked at you this way before—with such pure, unfiltered hatred. And you’ve just met the guy.

You take one tentative step forward, but that’s as far as you. Silco’s gaze freezes you in place, and whatever you were about to say gets stuck in your throat.

"Let’s grab him too" Warren urges right from behind you, restless. 

"Those aren’t our orders," you say absently, your attention fixed on the one-eyed man.

"Are you kidding me? We could hit two big fucking birds with one stone. Right here! This could be huge for us."

"Don’t push your luck, Warren. We’ve got the girl. That’s the best bargaining chip we could hope for." That seems to get the point across, and Warren backs down.

"Get her back to the truck. This is a good day, gentlemen, a very good day!" He triumphs as he retreats with the rest of the squad. 

Silco takes a step forward, fists clenched at his side. One of his men grips Jinx’s makeshift mini-gun, finger on the trigger, odds be damned. You advance as well, hanging your rifle on your shoulder, hoping so erase any sign of hostility. If a gunfight was to break out now, Zaun would have to find itself a new leader, and the blue-haired girl would no doubt be caught in the crossfire. Silco, despite his anger and desire to kill everyone in sight to get to Jinx, seems to understand that. His shoulders relax, slowly lowering, and he motions for his men to step back. He remains firmly planted there, challenging you with a look—silent, but deadly. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can hear it in your head. As you watch Silco disappear into the fog, just as he had emerged, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve just signed your own death warrant.

Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed this chapter <3

Chapter 2 ⎜ Chapter 3

[welcometohellfilm]

Hi! I recently saw W2H2 part 1 and I must say it’s pretty amazing! Even better then the first one (which I loved btw), I know you anticipated that it wouldn’t have been full done, but I still wished the animation and the coloring were completed, like the first short. Nevertheless It has its charm anyway so good job, still amazing as always ! I just wanted to ask a few questions about Mephistopheles:

1) Is Mephistopheles actually capable of being evil and doing evil things as well ? Is he the type of guy that is usually pretty chill but can get REALLY angry if you piss him off? At the end of the first act, he said to Sock that he would fired him if he didn’t complete the job… did he mean literally “to fire him” (like burn or hurt him), or just meant “fired from the job” without causing him any harm? I am very curious about this character, I find him pretty charming and interesting! (I also love his character design)

2) How long will it be before the second and third parts of W2H2 release more or less (Months, years…)? And how long each part will be? Don’t wanna put preassure on you ofc , I’m just curious but I will be patient if that’s the case!

Thank you for this amazing little cartoon! I really love the plot and the characters and I look foward to see more! I hope you’ll reply soon and thank u again <33 (also sorry for my bad english but I am Italian eheh)

haha... yeah I'm getting that comment from a lot of people. But idk, when I look at the first short it looks pretty incomplete to me! Like to me, I think having better animation and less color is a decent trade-off, but I guess for a lot of people the color really did a lot of heavy-lifting. Anyway, I know it's a little disappointing, but my options were "call it good enough and post it", or "drive myself crazy working on it until I die", I know that sounds dramatic, and maybe I could've forced myself to finish at least throwing color on it, but I don't know, I didn't want to start resenting the thing I'm supposed to be passionate about. I kinda put myself between a rock and a hard place, didn't I? Sorry for the rant! I'm glad you enjoyed it anyway, haha. UHHH on to questions! 1. Mephistopheles is complicated. Or at least, I think he is, and I'm trying to figure out what that balance is. (I have an entire wordpad file full of notes/thoughts on Mephistopheles from one of my friends who's given a surprising amount of thought to the morality of the character that I'm gonna have to reference moving forward, haha). But as for my original thoughts on the character--- I don't consider him evil, but I think he's capable of doing things we would call 'evil', just like any human is. And like humans, he can be motivated by flawed, negative thoughts and feelings; spite, revenge, jealousy, whatever. But unlike humans he exists outside of space and time, and he's not a human himself, so his perception of morality is just different. The "you're fired" comment is meant to be a little confusing... like, you come to expect these stupid hell jokes from him, but then he clarifies "that wasn't a pun". And he's the devil, so maybe he's not joking. He COULD condemn Sock to hell. So that's the stakes of the story! If Meph is serious, Sock could be in a lot of trouble. We're not sure exactly how lenient he's going to be, or how trust-worthy he is. He's the devil! Toying with people is kind of his whole thing! haha. 2. It's not gonna' be another 10 years, that's for sure!!! Most of Part 2 is already rough animated (at least as much as Part 1 has been). There's still... one or two scenes that need more animation, and pretty much every shot of Shadow!Jonathan still needs to be done. It also needs more backgrounds, but there's FEWER backgrounds in Part 2 (Hell is just a re-usable Shadow-Realmy-y void), and a lot of the stuff from Jonathan's house can be re-used with different lighting. I'll have a better idea of the timeline once I sit down and crack it open again... and it's about to get kind of busy with the holidays and all, but it should be finished some time next year! Hopefully in the first half of 2025! I'll try to keep everyone posted. Anyway thanks for your questions! Hope this helped!