#so how am i doing in our reblogging war ……
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#oh great woke up at 5 am cause of back pain#made a mistake of trying to distract myself scrolling through the hellsite#and stumbled at yet another post using Ukraine as 'not genocided enough genocide' compared to Palestine#cause the number of death is 'lower'#reblogged by a person who at least used to be supportive#if you reblog such stuff don't fucking pretend you ever gave a fuck about Ukraine#cause if you did you would know that we gave those figures based on different calculations#I'm sure that Palestinian numbers unfortunately reflect the reality#our do NOT cause they are ONLY the number officially counted and verified by the UN#that does NOT cover the occupied territories cause it's impossible to monitor those and russia is trying to hide their war crimes#according to the local authorities (that's what we take with Palestine) around 25 000 were killed in Mariupol alone#that's ONE city#that's 5% of its population#but I also have a question#why the fuck you're daring to compare the numbers of killed in the war#when the number of your murdered civilians is literally zero#cause your country is not being invaded#shut the fuck up#so here I am crying out of anger in the middle of the night#oh and Kahovka we have no idea how many drowned#russians weren't letting people evacuate
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Sometimes just from someone's username you know they would reblog a post that's like omg Trump will do genocide and Harris will do genocide but with emojis and memes!!
And then you see that they did in fact reblog the post and you're like ohhh can we stop pretending this is any kind of leftism.
#like- part of leftism is actually talking about things#e.g. the fact is that governments have all these complicated alliances with other countries#that each administration inherits- and in global wars this affects how they act towards each country#and yeah its fucking shitty! that all our world leaders will participate in wars! personally im anti war!#but this whole bleakism both sides are the same on foreign policy so we shouldnt fuckin bother voting#its not activism or care for human rights its nihilism#you can tell its not care for human rights because so many people like this idolise countries who#also are doing war crimes and terrorism and human rights abuse#and they dont really have a justification or argument for their admiration of these countries other than#'well this country is no different to [x western country] and you think that is ok riiight?'#i mean...if by ok you mean 'the country exists and will continue to exist and i live there and also vote there'#like...damning with faint praise#anyway look i have to admit i don't understand the social media aspect of us elections#the meme-y stuff that comes directly from the campaign trail- dont get it thats not a thing in the uk#but one thing i am absolutely certain of is that both sides do it!#anyway also dont reblog weird 'genocide- yaaas queen!' memes about kamala harris when you're white/non-black it makes you look racist.#also to continue the train of thought i abandoned (sorry)- i personally believe countries need leaders and anarchy will never happen#and the 'revolution' will not happen in our lifetime- its not a real revolution they are talking about anyway its some sort of internet one#where nothing goes awry and it all works out for the goodies (us tumblr leftists)#so given that someone is going to lead the us as president and no amount of not voting will change that- i say grow up#ur genocide memes are boring- to be quite frank on a site so focused on the day to day struggles of marginalised people#who live in western countries- no matter what the government does abroad you STILL should vote for the day to day#yeah some people online say voting makes you impure and complicit in genocide but the secret is you have to ignore thrm#youre just a fucking random you cant tell the president what to do about international conflict- give yourself a break yeesh
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this, plu, oh my god. this beautiful story you have woven together is just absolutely breathtaking. the best way i can describe it as someone who embroiders, each piece of thread needled with precision. just like each word and line created by your wonderful mind. each better than the last. honestly, each time i'm in awe. not to mention the love i have for greek mythology just increases my love for this by a mile. in my brain, it’s like you choose everything so carefully, every word perfectly placed to convey exactly what you want. there’s something so incredibly creative and just mind blowing about it to me. leaves me out of sorts in an incredibly addicting way.
i was so excited for this one and you certainly did not disappoint in anyway shape or form. fully, i stand by this — angels cheer when plu posts. i’m definitely gonna read this many, many, many more times. the way you’ve gotten me, a loyal and faithful abby stan to be fully obsessed and enamored with ellie fics is beyond me but when it’s this good i can’t help but let my brain sink into it.
also, the way you wrote the action, the imagery in this is actually insane. itching my brain in the most delicious way possible. impossible for me not to love anything you write. and enjoy more of my plu praising yaps …. impossible for me not to divulge in this masterpiece you have created and blessed us with.
Soon after you sat down though, unexpectedly, Ellie began with a wobbly voice, tears welling up in her eyes, “I love you so much, can't stand to be apart from you. This is torture, sometimes I can’t bear to wait for the sun to set, I need to rip it out of the sky myself. What did we even do to deserve this?”
okay, let me talk about this for a second. i’m such a lover girl to my core. i love love. and this? punched me in the heart with full force. there’s just something so intimate about crying to the one you love about how much you care for them. and ‘i need to rip it out of the sky myself’ oh. i’m unwell. gutted my soul to the point i’m not sure there’s anything left there.
PURE GOLD. convinced the gods themselves wrote this bc it’s too perfect for us mere mortals. don’t ever tell me your dialogue isn’t anything but perfection because … lies !!! in just a few lines, you conveyed everything that’s needed and it makes me feel absolutely feral with love. knowing it shall all be ripped away shortly makes it even more just ….. scrumptious.
She was holding your hands gingerly, ghosting the pads of her fingers over your knuckles. For the first time in so many years, you felt a strange warmth brew in your chest, what was it, you had forgotten. Could it be hope?
hope. ugh i am a hopewhore, if you will. when the odds are stacked against you, it’s all you have sometimes. yet again, displayed perfectly because what is more hopeful than a love you want to believe is forever and long lasting? maybe you were going for something else but this is what i picked up on, personally. sometimes it’s all we have, the thing we have to cling onto. the one person who makes us feel it, the safest and most frightening feeling. hope and love. we’ll do anything to keep it for ourselves but sometimes it has a a way of slipping. this fic did such a good job in representing it. such a kick to the fucking gut, knowing what’s to come. knowing it will be fleeting, winding you until there’s so air left to breathe. okay now i’m just yapping away but seriously this is just wonderful, plu. your writing provokes such an emotional side of me, i don’t know how you do it. every sentence is like you know the inner markings of my heart. INSANITYYYYYYYYYY. THE TALENT. INCREDIBLE.
The pain was indescribable, so painful she couldn't even scream, but it was thankfully short-lived—she lost consciousness almost immediately after coughing up some blood. It splattered all over the mulberry tree, dyeing the previously white fruits to a shade mimicking that of wine. What followed was never ending blackness, but finally peace, and she left the world with a smile on her face, her last thought was that of you.
okay okay okAY OKAY. THATS ENOUGH ANGST. HEAVY WITH THE ANGSTSHSHSYS. okay meme brain shut up this instant, actually i love angst, to my core. such a lover of crippling, soul-crushing endings that make me question my existence. give to me, all of it. in this you certainly did bc HELP?????? need some god go save me now bc this is such a merciless serve.
and the added thought of dying for the one you love, thinking of them as you wither away, the last piece you have is the love you have before becoming, well, nothing but that. all of it so meaningless too, because they are still there and could be tangible if only she had waited and not jumped to conclusions. but alas, love is never logical and ensues the dramatics of greek mythology. you’ve really represent it in such an exceptional manner.
okay, i’m done, for now. i love u and your magnificent brain. #1 plu stan for life. sorry if some of this makes no sense my mind is jumbled with my love for this inside and out. the mythology loving beast has been awoke within me and SHE IS LOUDUUDUDDDDD. yeah, anyways love you and your writing. always.
Where the Mulberry Tree Stands
before you read ▪︎ my masterlist
☆: my rewrite of the myth of pyramus and thisbe. ♡ but with ellie as pyramus, & reader as thisbe. i realize this is very niche, but i wanted to try something new! absolutely adore mythology of all kinds, so basically wrote this for myself. if you do read, hope you enjoy! well, as much as you're able to...photomode creds—astralnymphh on pinterest.
◇: reader discretion is advised!! please do not read if sensitive to heavy angst with a tragic end, descriptions of suicide & brief mentions of parental abuse. also contains flowery writing and references to figures/things in ancient greece (which i pray are accurate...) ++ 4k wc
“The gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.��� — Homer, The Iliad.
Tap tap tap, three raps on the plaster wall in double time signaled to her on the other side that your meeting time had arrived. Tap tap tap, and she returned it with a flourish at the end, a new arrangement every day, so you knew to escape into the night.
Ellie—who was named after and nothing short of the embodiment of light itself—your lover, your soulmate, your other half lived just there. But generations upon generations of family tension forbade you two from living your dreams. Decades of battles for who had better quality fruit, sweeter honey, more drachmae, which family was favored by the citizens in the area—it all felt trivial, and frankly silly, when you thought about how much she meant to you in comparison to all that.
You had memories of early childhood, kneeling on the scratchy straw of the floor, while your mother berated you for spending time with the girl. “What were you thinking? I will not have my child associating with dishonorable likes such as them, you have disappointed me greatly. If I catch you over there one more time, by gods I will feed you to the wolves with my own two hands. Try it, one more time and you'll see what will fall upon you.” The way her voice shook with emotion was harrowing, you've never seen your mother in such a rageful, infuriated state, you could have sworn she was emulating the anger of a gorgon, and you remember the slap across your face that quickly followed her outburst, how it burned.
Yet through all the lectures and beatings, you never understood where she was coming from. Shouldn't bonds—strong and robust as if they were forged on Hephaestus’ anvil—come above all material things? You thought so at least. And she agreed. When you matured, you pitied your family for missing out on such experiences. “They will never know how lucky we are.” You would whisper in your lover's ear, whenever she fell asleep on you during your beloved nightly outings.
Every time you laid eyes on her, it was like you fell in love all over again. Her olive eyes shining, grin lighting up her entire face, husky giggles filling the air as she bolted to tackle you in a tight embrace. You two spun in each other's arms, nearly tripping over the low wooden fence marking your shared property. It only earned a laugh—when you were with her, any negativity was completely erased, as if it never existed in the first place. All stresses, worries, cares in the world simply vaporized into the air, and the only emotion you knew was adoration.
You two skipped hand-in-hand to your favorite spot by the river, where the air cooled and the grass was dotted with baby blue flowers. You toppled over, falling to a heap on the ground. Moist smacks of her lips all over your face while she cradled your jaw tenderly, every reunion with her felt like it was multiple lifetimes apart. Your breathing synced as you sat together in silence, enjoying each other's company.
Soon after you sat down though, unexpectedly, Ellie began with a wobbly voice, tears welling up in her eyes, “I love you so much, can't stand to be apart from you. This is torture, sometimes I can’t bear to wait for the sun to set, I need to rip it out of the sky myself. What did we even do to deserve this?” You pulled her in and cuddled her close to your chest, letting her listen to the rhythm of your heart and wrap her arms around you to rub your back. You felt the way her hands trembled, you couldn't remember the last time you saw the tough Ellie break down like this, it was tearing you apart.
Kissing the top of her head, you interjected, “But observe it positively, at least we are able to see each other at all, and we live so close, only separated by one thin wall.” Her shoulders began to shake, sticky tears quickly soaking through the linens you were wearing. Feeling your own heart shatter into countless pieces, you just stroked her hair and let her cry as much as she needed.
She clutched you tighter and wailed, “I just wish to spend every hour by your side, every hour awake and every hour asleep, without any separation. I wish I could cook for you in our house, with vegetables grown from our soil, bring you flowers from our garden, and tend to the animals you and I named, instead of waiting until sunset after a day of listening to my father talk badly of you. When I hear him spout all that nonsense, it hurts me so deeply, because all he's saying are lies…this is so unfair.”
You tried your best to console her, “Shh, my love, don't cry. That is the most beautiful dream and I wish it all the same, but don't despair.” You moved her face so she looked up at you, sparkly tears streaming down her sun-kissed cheeks, her beauty was blinding—even when she was sad. “Don't lament, for I am right here, look!” You tried to cheer her up, “I'm holding you now while we rest, while we breathe in the crisp air and feel the soft blades of grass beneath us, all will be well. Don't dwell on those thoughts, let them go.”
Swaying gently from side to side and humming a calming melody, you succeeded in soothing her, feeling her relax in your arms and her shudders slow to a stop. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. You continued the sweet reassurances, kissing away her tears. “One day, whether it be soon, or when we're old and fragile, struggling to stand or wipe our own asses,” you pause to share a chuckle with her, “We won't have to meet like this. Just trust, there is a plan for us in the stars, trust in our gods.”
She nodded, turning to gaze off in the distance, and watch a white crane drink from the water. She snapped to look at you with surprise blazing in her eyes, more round than your mother's prized ceramic dishes. “I have a thought, what if we wed? In secret, with our families never knowing a thing. Or even better we go to the spot over there,” she stopped to point across the river, at the large mulberry tree standing tall in the middle of a yellow-green field. She continues, “And we run away together. We could hitch a ride on a ship and sail over to Lesbos, perhaps we can meet Sappho herself! I've always wanted to. But first we must profess our love for each other, properly, tomorrow night's time, under the tree, to ensure we're blessed. What do you think?”
She was holding your hands gingerly, ghosting the pads of her fingers over your knuckles. For the first time in so many years, you felt a strange warmth brew in your chest, what was it, you had forgotten. Could it be hope? You felt your mouth stretch into a smile so wide it ached, and you burst forward to throw your arms around her neck again, mumbling into the side of her neck, “Yes, yes, Ellie, a thousand times, yes. Oh, I can't wait, I will swipe one of my mother’s silk veils, cook us a celebratory meal, it will be so wonderful.”
Mellow belly laughs, delightful as those spilling from a leader being crowned, tore themselves from her chapped lips, and she squeezed you so tight against her, like she was never planning to let go. “And I will bring my spear, gifted by my grandfather, so I have it to protect my wife from anything that dares harm her.” Hearing her refer to you as her wife, it was a feeling like none other. The butterflies in your stomach swarmed like they became a flock of swallows, their excited tittering heard all the way across the ocean.
You squealed, “Ah I love you, I love you, I love you, my dearest, we will have such a wondrous life together.”
“Yes, that we will, but let's rest until then, I look forward to it. I will write a song just for you as well, bring my lyre and sing to you so we dance from evening until dawn arrives. As soon as night falls, I will be by the spot waiting, that is a promise. Now rest, we have big plans ahead of us, have the sweetest dreams, love.”
The next day spent waiting was as torturous as Ellie describes, only worse. Because all you could think about was her. Running away with her, never looking back at your old lives, getting joyously joined in matrimony—albeit informally—your mind was plagued. After your mother left for her daily errands in the town, you dug through her things, practically overturned her whole space to find the veil. You put it on, feeling so exquisite. It appeared as if it was weaved on an angel's loom, the fibers soft and vibrant.
When all that was over, you resorted solely to watching the sun move in the sky. You were feeling impatient and antsy, and briskly grew tired of waiting so you decided to get started on the trek. You have not been over to that spot in some time, but were interested to see how the tree had grown, and if it had reared fruit. You observed the clouds and the sky during your stroll—the sun had not set fully, the sky still as orange as freshly pressed juice.
Luckily the river was shallow, so you just hiked up your clothes to your waist and crossed without a hitch. You scurried through the tall grass and made it to the tree, sitting down underneath it. You took a deep breath in, smelling the clean air and observing the lively nature around you, still bored but glad to be away from your house—nothing good ever occurred there.
Looking up, you're pleasantly shocked to see the tree is full of fruits, clusters of pale baubles brightly contrasting the green leaves. You reached up and took one from the stem, biting into it, but you recoiled at the taste—tart and bitter, it was horrendous. Like you were eating something utterly inedible. You threw it on the ground, grinding it to a pulp with the bottom of your sandal, that's how offended you were at the assault it performed in your mouth. “Ugh, gross, these are meant to be ripe…do we really eat them like this? What a waste of a fruit.” You muttered to yourself, resuming a cross-legged sitting position by the tree's roots.
After some more time of uneventful waiting, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, at attention, primal alarm bells going off inside you—something wasn't right.
You scan your surroundings with haste, noticing movement in the tall grass in front of you, you're transfixed and stay staring at it, ripping a branch off of the tree to use as a weapon, because your warrior wasn't here yet to protect you from harm.
You heard her before you saw her, a low guttural rumbling rang through the air that could only belong to one thing. Out of the grass emerged a golden lioness, slinking towards you with hushed aggression, her teeth bared and dripping with the remains of a kill.
Your instincts to run away kicked in with full force, and you screamed out for help, running as fast as your legs would carry you. Unfortunately, the speed at which you sat up caused the veil to fall from your head and to the ground—but you didn't care, you didn't think it was possible for your mother to hate you more than she already does. You ran as far as you could, briefly glancing behind you to see what the situation was, what the lioness was doing.
You were able to make out her tearing the fabric apart so voraciously, bloodstained jaws ripping it into shreds, bits of dyed fabric flying to all sides. You still ran as far away as you could, you did not want to be the next victim of those canines, that would be anything but pleasant.
Once the adrenaline wore off you collapsed, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath with difficulty. The tall plants hid you well from any threats, so you laid down, and closed your eyes to recuperate before it was time to meet with Ellie.
When night fell, Ellie made her way to the spot, spear and lyre in hand. She was so excited, and had spent the whole day practicing her act happily, making sure every note she played was perfect. She wanted to make this the best one-woman show you've ever seen.
She couldn't contain her glee, and resorted to sprinting to the designated meeting place, calling out to you, her voice light as a birdsong, “Lovely! I've arrived!” But she stopped short in her tracks when she didn't see you jogging over to greet her with a hug, or really anywhere at all.
“Where could you be?” She asked the world in bewilderment, casting glances all around her to see if you were playing a trick on her. She didn't think you were, but didn't wish to jump to worst case scenarios right away.
Her heartbeat sped up slightly, suffocating fear bubbling up in her throat at your absence. Scampering closer to where she thought you were going to be, she still saw you were nowhere to be found. That is, until something colorful caught her eye.
Hanging from a branch, a piece of torn fabric, stained with dark, still-wet blood. Her line of sight dropped, and she saw more pieces strewn across the dirt, next to glaring claw marks in the soil, and decorating the tree's bark.
She suddenly felt winded, as if somebody had thrown her from a height and she landed flat on her back, full panic setting in. “Oh gods, oh no, what-” She gasped, teetering backwards, overwhelmed by the realization that had taken hold of her. “No, no, no, no, she's right over there. This is from before…” she muttered under her breath, her inhales labored, head pounding as if she was struck by a hammer, and hands shaking so intensely the pieces of fabric she was still holding slipped from her fingers.
“Love! Come out!” She yelled again, her voice cracking, her vision tunneling and chest seizing—this couldn't be happening.
The blood roared in her ears, tears pouring out of her eyes while she pawed at her hair and fell to her knees, hyperventilating. Her spear and lyre clattered noisily as they fell, lyre shattering to bits. She yanked on her locks, unable to believe what was happening to her—where was her love?
She picked up the pieces of the veil, frantically trying to rejoin them, the blood coating her uncontrolled fingers and staining her skin, the hideous color making her stomach turn.
Then the sobs came, she had never cried harder in her life, her whole body heaving with each quake, the pain in her soul worsening as seconds flew by. She kneeled before the tree, pleading to the sky, “Someone…anyone…please. I need her with me.” She felt light-headed, consumed by otherworldly anguish as if it was bestowed by Hades’ hand. It began to morph into numb hopelessness the longer she stayed there, praying, weeping into the ground.
She had to do something, escape from her body, thoughts were swarming her mind, the idea that you were dead ridding her of balance, taking everything from her.
She pleaded until her throat hurt, until crows had perched at the top of the tree to watch her exhibition. They cawed mockery at her, as if they were saying, measly human!
She howled, “What is this life, just give her back to me! Give me back my love, give her back to me, I can't be without her. I can't, no I couldn't. It's too—no—uh. Gods, anyone? Why, why, why?”
Cacophonous, animalistic, cries fell from her lips until she couldn't produce a croak—voice dry and hoarse, waves of grief clawing their way out of her, eating her from the inside out. Her tone barely above a whisper, she was still mumbling, “Give her back, give her back to me. I haven't done any wrong in my life, we can't help where we come from! Just give her back.” In the furthest recesses of her mind there remained a glimpse of hope that she could bring you back, if she willed it hard enough.
She was flooded with memories, memories of your scent, your warmth in her arms, your sing-song voice and the love-filled looks and caresses she was so blessed to be the recipient of. All of that, was she never to experience it again?
She attempted to stand up, but her legs could not hold her, she fell on the hard ground with a grunt, even having cried out all her tears. Every passing moment made it more difficult to breathe, made her chest hurt worse—she needed to do something to ease it.
Her spear. The glint of the metal alloy caught her eye from where it was, any sense of judgment she had before was gone, replaced by pure darkness, the wish to leave the world.
She picked it up, and almost couldn't hold it, the handle feeling twenty times heavier than usual, the blade shaking in her unsteady hands. Was she doing this? She had to, there was nothing else left for her, she thought.
She found her voice, slowly angling the glimmering edge of the blade towards her heart, and said a word. “My love, we'll meet again. We'll meet in the flowering fields of Elysium, where I will get to hold your hand once more, and we'll have our own house, attached to a garden full of vegetables to cook delicious meals with. We'll play with the animals we named, and spend every hour together—awake and asleep. I must do this, for life isn't possible without you.”
She took a deep breath and stabilized her hands, bringing the spear tip to touch her sternum. Her voice steadying, she said three words for the very last time, “I love you.” Before plunging the blade in her heart with all the strength she had left.
The pain was indescribable, so painful she couldn't even scream, but it was thankfully short-lived—she lost consciousness almost immediately after coughing up some blood. It splattered all over the mulberry tree, dyeing the previously white fruits to a shade mimicking that of wine. What followed was never ending blackness, but finally peace, and she left the world with a smile on her face, her last thought was that of you.
Over in the grass, the breeze flying through the tall stalks lulled you to a sleep, and you awoke with a start, confused as to what had happened and where you were.
You blinked the bleariness away and sat up, remembering the lioness that tried to attack you. What a story you had to tell Ellie. She wouldn't believe you, in your mind's eye you could see the way she'd nod, the teasing tone to her voice, “Yes, that happened. No, no, of course I believe you, when have I not?”
At the thought of her, you remembered why you were out here in the first place—to meet with your future wife and profess your love, then run away to live the life you dreamed of. Oh how you couldn't wait.
You jumped up and dusted yourself off, then ran to the tree, eager to tell Ellie about the encounter you had.
But the sight that befell you was the worst thing you could've ever imagined to see. Something only written in the most famous tragedies, something no one ever wished on another person, even their worst enemies.
Ellie, your love, laying on the ground in a pool of maroon blood, with no color in her features, and her spear sticking out of her chest.
You gasped in horror and rushed to her side, madly shaking her body, patting her cheeks, pressing on her arms—but alas, she was completely limp.
“Ellie! No! Wake up!” Thunderous shrieks, begs and pleads for her to wake up shook the Earth, you stroked her face, the ugly feel of her cold skin only adding to the devastation.
When she wasn't moving, you held her body protectively, didn't ever wish to let go, tried to find any signs of life, tears of mourning streaming down your face in bucketfuls.
You stayed there by her as long as you could, silently praying to whatever was out there for her to move a muscle, to open her eyes and assure you everything was alright—she was just joking around, the blood was juice she nabbed, thickened with starch she got from the kitchen, the spear tip was broken and actually just resting against her skin, held in place by a base she crafted and secured under her robe, her lifeless complexion produced by powder—likely flour—to give the chalky effect.
But no, this was reality. Your love had left you. She left you the worst way, by taking her life herself. But why? After all you had planned together?
Thinking like that pained you, the wretched feeling of grief spreading throughout your whole being, thinking of anything at all felt impossible. Did she do it because of you? That thought sent a wave of nausea through you, there was no way that was true.
There was only one thing left to do, you thought. You made up your mind, pulled the spear from her chest, wincing at the sight of her wound, and held it in your hand. You leaned forward and pressed one more kiss to the middle of her forehead, forced a smile against her, and whispered, “It's okay, I'll be with you soon, my love. We'll meet again.”
You took a few breaths in and out, braced yourself for the piercing pain, lined up the sharp tip with your own heart, and thrust with all your might.
Sweet mulberries, succulent and luscious—ended up ripening to a deep mauve hue, similar to that of blood and wine, and became the most adored fruit of them all. A plentiful treat for the masses, deemed compensation for the sacrifice of two love-sick mortals. It was the least the gods could do after all they witnessed before them today. As they watched the spectacle, their understanding of the human species only increased in wonder, in curiosity about their motivations. “That was so strange, they did not know the other was alright—merely jumping to conclusions. Fascinating. Humans are so emotional, where's the rationale?” They debated amongst themselves until the sun rose once more, the only agreement they came to was increased sympathy for humanity, even going as far as to pity.
“Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight. For the greatest tragedy of them all is never to feel the burning light.” — Oscar Wilde
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#so how am i doing in our reblogging war ……#IGNORE SLL MY ERRORS IM TOO LAZYYYYY TO FIXJXJX#BUT PLUBEAR?????????? THIS. FUCKS. HARD.#YALL BETTER RESD THIS.#A FUCKING MUST!#okay now time for my crying session bc HELPPPPPP#when pluto writes the most amazing things ever … sorry guys they are slowly converting me into an ellie lover#𖥔 ࣪ 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐲’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐬 ⋆。˚
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To Those Who Still Hold Onto a Shred of Morality and Humanity - Stand with Us and Don’t Forget Us.
Over 40,000 lives have been lost, with 70% of them being children and women. Among these numbers are my own family members—many of whom I’ve already lost.
My family, my cousin, aunt, their children, and grandchildren were all directly targeted by Israeli airstrikes. I’m sharing a video of my aunt and cousin to reveal the harsh reality we are facing in Gaza. In this video, my aunt bravely shares her story about how the Israeli army airstruck them along with their children and grandchildren. Even if you don’t understand Arabic, just watching her speak will help you grasp the immense suffering we are enduring in Gaza. You can see the vedeo in this post.
The few family members who remain are in grave danger, and I’m terrified of losing them too. We have a chance to make a real difference and give my 24 surviving family members a chance to live.
In Gaza, jobs are non-existent, and nonprofit organizations like the UN have drastically reduced their work on the ground. Basic necessities such as milk, food, and medicine are almost as expensive as gold. My family is struggling to afford even the essentials, and my mother urgently needs medication that we simply cannot afford.
I’m also sharing another video that shows the daily struggle people face just to get clean water. The suffering here extends far beyond my family; it’s a genocide affecting every aspect of life in Gaza.
Thanks to the generosity of those who have already donated, we’ve raised $535 toward our goal of $190,363- august 17th. I’m deeply grateful to each of you, but we still have a long way to go, and I need your help more than ever. Imagine if it were your family—how would you feel if they were in this situation?
For those who have created special posts or reblogged to amplify my voice, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your support means everything to me and to my family. If you haven’t yet shared our story, please take just one minute to do so. Your voice could be the lifeline my family desperately needs.
You cannot continue to treat human lives as mere numbers. This is a genocide that demands immediate action. How many more should be killed before you all wake up? Will 40,000 lives be enough to stir us to action? 50,000? 100,000? 150,000?
Asking for donations and charity is something we never imagined having to do in Gaza before the war, and it’s heartbreaking that it has come to this. But if everyone who saw my last post donated just $10 or $20, we could reach our goal in no time. If you’re looking for a way to contribute, consider giving up your coffee, tea, or other “cup” for one day, one week, one month, or anything in between. Then, donate what you would have spent to help me. Please help us and donate now!
This is about more than just donations—it’s about preserving human lives and upholding our shared moral values. Your contribution can make a world of difference in our survival and ensure I don’t lose more of the people I love.
Demanding an end to this suffering is a matter of basic humanity. You cannot remain neutral in the face of such genocide. Please, let’s stand together. Enough is enough.
Every donation, no matter how small, brings us closer to hope and healing. Thank you again for your kindness and support. I will never forget it.
Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.
Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link
Listed even as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link
Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link
Important note: ** 105 Swedish kr is just 10$ ** 1050 Swedish kr is just 100$ ** 10500 Swedish kr is just 1000$
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✅Vetted by @gazavetters my number verified on the list is ( #1)✅️
Mom, is it possible for us to stay alive?
Mom, help us escape the war.
This is what my children say every night, and with the rising sounds of bombing,🧨✈️💥
Mom, please hide me in a safe, far place.
I don’t want to die. 😭
Helplessness is a very difficult feeling for children who are not to blame for the deprivation they are experiencing.
Now there is news about the reopening of the crossings and allowing travel outside the war zone.
But there is a big problem. The amount we have collected is not enough for all my family members to travel.
I ask for urgent help to help us escape from the danger zone and the war to a safe place.
My children have the right to live in safety and peace.
They have the right to complete their education.📚🖊️
They have the right to eat the food they desire.
Did you know that for months my child has been saying, “Mama,
I want to eat an apple,”🍏🍏
and I cannot fulfill what my child desires? Do you know the amount of pain and oppression
Your donation of just 20€ can be a lifeline that protects my children and husband from the nightmare we are living through. Every day here is a tough struggle against , hunger and fear and I do everything I can to keep them safe. The travel date is approaching January 12, 2025, but we fear that we will not be able to do so until then without your support.
Dear Palestine supporter... I have seen your great interest in the Palestinian campaigns, and this is a great honor for us. I am happy to get to know you and talk to you
🛠️ How You Can Help:
💶 Donate – No matter how small, every euro helps.
https://chuffed.org/project/117668-help-my-family-get-out-gaza
🔄 Reblog – Share this post with your followers. Every reblog increases the chance of reaching someone who can help.
📢 Spread the Word – Talk about our story with your friends and family. Awareness is a powerful tool.
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Dear, free world: Apathy No More!
Note 1: Resharing my post from my terminated Tumblr account (@mahmoudkhalafff).
Note 2: Short-term goal of 30k for evacuation has been thankfully achieved. I am consulting with the Irish Refugee Council and Doras in Ireland regarding the procedures and requirements for issuing reunification visas once the crossing is operational and my family can evacuate for Egypt. We are a big family of many brothers and sisters who have so many children. They are scattered in different areas in the Gaza Strip including the North of Gaza where they can be very hard contact sometimes.
Many other Gazans in Limerick are working hard and reaching out to Irish politicians and MPs to facilitate a safe passage for their families out of Gaza to Ireland.
When piles and piles of people are apathetic when it comes to the genocide unfolding in Gaza, be the source of relief, hope, and support for the stranded helpless besieged people there. Astonishingly, our life in Gaza turned upside down in an instant?! We woke up one day to realize that a massive-scale war was to be launched against more than 2 million people in Gaza. My Facebook timeline was filled with countless posts in which Gazans publicly asked for forgiveness before their expected imminent mass murder. Can you imagine what it feels like reading all these scary posts and wondering if you should say a final 'Goodbye'?!
Then, Gazans ventured on their own version of Via Dolorosa (Way of Suffering) which included multiple forced displacements, acute life-threatening shortages of water and food, lost jobs, humiliation, mass destruction, injuries, and murder.
It is beyond shocking and sickening how desensitized our world has become to see all the horrifying images of children's body parts scattered everywhere and not lift a finger to stop this ruthless and inhumane genocide. I can say with all certitude on behalf of my people in Gaza that we have lost hope in all the vile desensitized regimes and politicians of the world.
However, we still have strong faith in the lovers and supporters of our just cause who never cease to shower us with their heartwarming words of support and uplifting wishes. Our belief in your humanity and support for our just cause drives us to ask you for help in this worst crisis in our history since the Nakba.
Please do consider donating, reblogging, and sharing.
Note: Vetted by:
1. @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi # 151 on the spreadsheet of Vetted Gaza Fundraisers List]
2. @riding-with-the-wild-hunt Here .
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devotion. l General Marcus Acacius
Summary: he returned to Rome in glory, he returned to you
Warnings: smut, angst, unprotected sex (don't do it!), fingering, mention of pregnancy, a few nasty words
A/N: that was a quick shot. i hope you'll be gentle with me. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes
You saw perfectly how his brown eyes widened when he saw you in the crowd of guests in the Emperor's palace. The golden wreath on his curly dark hair, the sun-kissed body dressed in white and gold - he looked like one of the Gods you could worship in a temple.
And wasn't he one of them? One of those legendary heroes? The one who brought glory to the Roman Empire. One of your Emperor's favorites.
Wasn't he the man you had loved for so long?
When he crossed the threshold of your home late in the evening, you could finally fall into each other's arms. In that moment, he was your Marcus, the man you loved more than life, to whom you had promised loyalty, to whom you had promised eternal devotion and faithfulness.
His warm, plush lips crushed against yours in a kiss full of longing and love that you had to keep so far from each other. Strong arms wrapped around you like vines, but you clung to him with your whole body, yearning for his closeness so much.
"Almost four years..." he sighed as he rested his forehead against yours "I counted every day, my love. And every day was unimaginable torture."
Your hand stroked his bearded cheek "I knew you would return. The Gods promised to give you back to me, and here you are. Safe and sound." Your fingers tenderly stroked the scar on his cheek, slipping into his hair interwoven with silver threads "I can't believe you're finally here."
Marcus' hands tightened around your waist "Tell me you're not just a beautiful dream..."
"I'm here, my love." You whispered, tenderly touching his lips "All yours." He pressed his lips to yours as if he had to make sure that you weren't a dream, laughing, you pulled away from him slightly "Marcus, we need to talk, so much has happened..."
"We have the whole next day, our whole lives for this. Please... Let's not talk tonight. I want to love you, adore you, caress your body." He sounded like a man possessed, hungry for your body "I need to remind myself of every curve of your body. I want to taste you and immerse myself in your sweetness. I beg you, my beloved..."
You couldn't refuse him, you didn't want to. The dream of the warmth and closeness of his body had haunted you almost since he left for that cursed war. You couldn't wait any longer.
The heavy door of your chamber closed, and after a moment you were both taking off your robes. Hands craving a familiar touch, lips searching for each other. Hot lips wandered around your neck when you felt the cool sheet under your fingers. Marcus raised himself on his shoulders, his dark as night eyes roaming your body.
"Give me a moment..." he said as you tried to pull him closer to you. "You're more beautiful than I remember you."
You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed by his confession. "I'm definitely older."
"As am I. But to me you'll always be equal to the goddesses."
"Don't say that, Marcus. Don't incur the wrath of the Gods, they can be jealous."
A mocking smile appeared on his face. "I'm not afraid! The earth could open up beneath me and swallow me alive, but I won't stop repeating it. You are a goddess, my love. I dedicate my life to serving you. Only you."
"Then do it. Use your body and all your strength to do it."
You didn't have to repeat it twice. Your lips connected again in a strong and deep kiss. His tongue invaded between your lips, extracting from you those sweet moans that returned to him during sleepless nights.
His hard cock rested on your thigh, and you felt excitement and fear, it had been so long since you felt him inside but you wanted him so much.
Marcus' lips slid down to your sternum, then your breast. He kissed it and bit it lightly, despite the time he still remembered everything that made your body tremble. When the nipple disappeared in his mouth you felt your walls tighten slightly, giving you a signal that you couldn't wait any longer. But it was Marcus who dominated you, doing whatever he wanted with your body.
When his long fingers moved over your slippery folds you moaned shamelessly.
"So thirsty..." he whispered, his lips brushing your belly "Let me prepare you first, love. Let me..." two fingers slid inside you with incredible ease, all the way to his knuckles "I've got you."
Your body arched like a string, the stretch felt so good. Marcus pulled his fingers out and after a moment he pushed them back in, watching your reaction with great pleasure.
"If you could see it." he kissed the inside of your thigh tenderly "So hungry, so greedy."
"Harder..." you moaned, grabbing his wrist and trying to take control, but he wouldn't let you.
He grabbed yours with his other hand, quickly brushed it with his lips, and then his fingers started moving faster and harder. You heard that lewd sound that showed how wet you were and how your body reacted to his caresses.
"Give me everything. Cum on my fingers, love." Marcus panted, feeling his hard cock throb at the sight of your body. "Don't torture yourself like that, love. Cum."
And you did. Your thighs clenched as a shiver of pleasure ran through your body, and a sweet moan escaped your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling your head buzzing, but suddenly Marcus took control again.
His strong arms spread your thighs, and his hard cock slid inside you without warning. You lost your breath. Your eyes rolled back under your eyelids, and when his strong body pinned you to the bed, you knew there was no escape.
"Fuck..." he moaned loudly, dazed by the feeling. "You're so tight, so warm..."
"Marcus... I feel like you're going to tear me apart..." you moaned, taking his face in your hands and kissing him. "Gods!"
"Don't summon them, love." he mumbled quietly, brushing your lips "They'll be jealous of us."
His hand grabbed your leg under the knee and he lifted it slightly, thrusting into you even deeper. You didn't know how on earth it was possible, but his cock seemed to dig into you even more with each thrust.
His body, his strength intoxicated you. Your beloved transformed under your fingers into a barbarian who came to your bed just to fuck you and use your body as he wished.
You felt another orgasm building inside you and you wanted to tell him that, but in an instant Marcus lifted himself up. Without leaving you he pulled you with him and sat on his heels, you fell onto his thighs, impaling yourself on him even more.
Your arms wrapped around his neck tighter, fingers entangled in his hair as he lifted your body and used it as he wanted to, to get what he came for.
"I'm so close, so close." he breathed into your ear. "I want to feel you again, give it to me. Give it to me!"
As if on command, your body gave in. Your walls trembled and squeezed around his manhood, you clung to him tighter as he now pressed you hard and violently against his cock. But Marcus was close too and soon you felt his body tense up and he poured into you, filling you up with his warm seed.
You were both panting, your bodies still sweaty and hot. His heartbeat mixed with yours and no matter how many breaths you took, it still wasn't enough.
"You're definitely not a dream." he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently.
"How can you be so sure?" you giggled, looking fondly at his blissful face.
"The Gods would have to be incredibly cruel if they let me experience immortality with you and then ordered me to return to mortal life." his fingers tenderly stroked your back "You have to be real."
You kissed him tenderly feeling indescribable love for this man. At the same time, however, a small flame of anxiety rose in your heart thinking about the upcoming day.
He was torn from his sleep by the quiet sound of the door closing, and then your footsteps on the stone floor. He lazily rubbed his eyelids and opened them, noticing you pouring yourself a glass of water.
"Why did you get dressed?" His voice was hoarse, and it gave you shivers "I didn't say I was done with you."
You smiled, walking over to the bed and sitting on its edge "You were done with me at least three times last night, General." you noticed, leaning down and kissing his soft lips "You should rest your loins."
"I'll rest after death. Right now, I just want to keep my cock between your thighs, where it belongs." he replied "I've been thinking about it for almost four years and I have no intention of giving you up now."
Marcus noticed the smile disappearing from your face, and your gaze wandered to the window open to the garden. He knew that look. Something was worrying you and occupying your mind.
He sat down on the bed, his hand tenderly stroking your arm. "What's wrong, my dear? Something's on your mind."
"Marcus... So much has happened since you left." You said quietly. "I don't even know where to start... It all scares me so much."
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Tell me, because I can see how much you're struggling."
He saw you nervously squeezing your fingers, and your eyes avoiding his gaze. Finally, you stood up and took a few steps. Marcus watched you carefully as he put on his robe, a strange fear growing in his heart.
What if this was all just a dream? What if you tell him to wake up now?
You were already opening your mouth to say something when a commotion in the hallway and quick footsteps tore your attention away. The door opened wide and a small boy rushed into the room.
"Mommy!" he called, running up to you and wrapping his small arms around your legs.
Right behind him, a woman in a servant's robe ran in, apologizing from the entrance. "My lady, he wanted to see you so much. I told him you had a guest, but he..."
"Nothing happened, Tullia." You replied, smiling faintly, clearly embarrassed. "Please, take him to the garden." You ran your fingers through the boy's dark, curly hair. "I'll see you in a moment, okay, little bug?"
The boy smiled and grabbed the servant's hand, gave Marcus a quick glance with his brown eyes, and left the room, leaving you in complete silence.
You could clearly feel the tension that had grown between you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you wanted to hide, and looked up at Marcus. Surprise was written on his face. His dark eyebrows furrowed, and his jaw clenched. He stared at the door, and only your voice made him look at you.
"I didn't know how to tell you this..." you whispered "I've been planning this in my head for almost four years, and now I'm standing in front of you and I'm speechless."
"You're a mother." His voice was low, you nodded "All this time I thought you were waiting for me, and you..."
"Marcus, let me explain, please." You wanted to approach him, but he just raised his hand, and you froze.
He swallowed, and his dark eyes were fixed on you like daggers ready to attack "Before I left we promised each other... You promised me that you would wait for me. That you would be faithful to me."
"And I was." You groaned.
"Don't lie to me!" he roared, and you stepped back, scared "For four years I lived only thanks to the thought that you were waiting for me, that you loved me despite everything. And now? You promised me!"
"Let me explain, Marcus." Your eyes stung from the tears that were seeping into your eyelids. "You don't understand..."
He was like a beast locked in a cage. His eyes darkened and his hands clenched into fists. It was the first time he looked at you with such contempt and disappointment, and your heart was breaking with every passing second.
"I thought you were devoted to me. That you committed to waiting for me, if I knew you were just a whore..."
These words were the last straw that broke the camel's back. You suddenly straightened up and raised your head, looking at Marcus defiantly.
"Don't talk to me about commitment, devotion and loyalty when that's what I've been doing for four years." you said sharply, you saw that he opened his mouth, but this time you didn't let him get a word in. "I was pregnant when you left Rome with the army. For many months I hid it from my surroundings, but I still heard the whispers and gossip. I carried him under my heart, gave birth to him and I raised him alone, despite everything. Despite the lack of guarantee that you'll come back. So you have no right to talk to me about commitment and loyalty, or judge me without knowing everything! Julius is your son. You can either accept it or leave."
Marcus looked as if you had stabbed him at that moment. There was silence and only the laughter coming from the garden tore you out of this freeze. The General approached the door leading to the garden. Between the bushes and flowers he saw the silhouettes of a few boys playing, including the one who called you mother.
"I didn't know..." he said quietly, his eyes following the boy carefully.
"How were you supposed to know?"
"Call him."
"Marcus, please..." you whispered, a cold shiver running down your spine.
He looked at you, but you couldn't read anything on his face. "Call him, please. Or I will." He could see, however, that you were unable to utter a word. "Julius! Come here, boy."
The sounds of fun faded away and after a moment you heard the shuffling of sandals as the boy approached you, dragging a wooden sword behind him. He stopped in front of Marcus, but his frightened gaze went straight to you, afraid that he had done something wrong.
Marcus looked at him carefully, towering over the boy. Finally, he spoke.
"Do you know who I am?"
Julius's eyes went to the man's face. He nodded.
"A general. Mom told me." he said quietly. "A soldier. Like my dad."
You saw Marcus give you a quick look, but he couldn't resist asking another question. "Where's your father, boy?"
"At war. Far away." He looked down and shuffled his shoes. "Mom says he's brave."
"And are you brave?"
You covered your mouth with your hand to hold back a sob as Julius shook his head.
"I'm not. Sometimes I'm scared, so then I go to mom."
Marcus crouched down in front of the boy so that their faces were at the same height. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of the resemblance between them.
"Where did you get that sword?" Marcus continued.
Julius visibly perked up. "Mom gave it to me. To make me brave."
"Will you show it to me?"
The boy handed him his wooden sword and Marcus looked at it. "It's a very good sword." Julius' face lit up with a smile.
He accepted the sword back from the General and you had the impression that he stood more straight and proud. Marcus looked at him for a moment longer, then ruffled his hair asking him to go back to playing.
"I didn't know what to tell him when he started asking about his father." You started quietly as Marcus watched the boy who had already run after his friends. "I didn't know if you'd ever come back... I wanted to believe it, but he needed answers. That's all I could give him."
"He is..."
"Perfect." You finished for him. "He's smart, empathetic, sensitive and not at all as cowardly as he says. He's afraid of storms, so he comes to me at night."
Marcus turned around looking at you with tenderness. You noticed tears in his eyes and after a moment they ran down your cheeks.
"I wanted him to be safe." You sobbed. "I thought that when you came back and saw him... Every day I saw you in his eyes."
Warm hands grabbed your face as Marcus put his forehead to yours. You placed your hands on his, trying to calm your breathing.
"I'm sorry..." he whispered "I beg you, forgive me for doubting you. I didn't expect this. The thought that you could marry someone else, give him children..."
"How could I do that? I gave my heart to you, Marcus. For eternity."
Warm lips brushed yours.
"You gave me a son. You're so brave. Too good for me... I don’t deserve you and him." he whispered "I'm sorry I doubted you, my love."
"Please, don't talk about it anymore. Just get to know him, and you'll surely love him too."
"But will he love me?" doubt sounded in his voice "Julius doesn't know his father."
You tenderly stroked his face, wanting to erase all worries from him.
"Julius knows his father is brave, strong, and that he loved me more than anything in his life. He will welcome you with open arms, Marcus. Just give yourself a chance. Give us all a chance."
He nodded and snuggled up to you with all his might. When he returned to Rome in glory, his greatest dream was to see you again. And you gave him so much more. You gave him more than the Emperor could.
You gave him life.
☆☆☆
Thank you for your time.
#pedro pascal#marcus acacius x female reader#marcus acacius x reader#general marcus acacius x fem!reader#general acacius#general marcus acacius#gladiator 2#gladiator ii#marcus acacius
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regrets
a/n: I cannot seem to stop myself from taking these amazing requests and going on a rampage because Marcus Acacius is my literal muse at this point. I bought my tickets for the movie and I am not going to know how to fucking act in that theatre. I sort of ran with this request, and inevitably it turned into feelings! This un-beta'd, barely edited request. All mistakes and errors are mine! Hope you enjoy what I came up with! (this is before the last chapter)
Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, talk of war, Marcus is a soft boi at heart and he has some regrets about being a hoe in his younger days, *feelings*, also he takes a lil tumble but he's fine! Marcus gets wine-drunk, but he's still in control of his faculties, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance), Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus - let me know if I missed any!
Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader
word count: 2.2k (😅)
reblogs are appreciated
Masterlist series masterlist
His face lit up, brighter and happier than you’d seen him, maybe ever.
You smile to yourself from your place behind him, basking in the warmth of his mirth. The visitor had come unannounced but more welcome than any before him. An old, dear friend from his days as a mere footsoldier in the Roman army. Marcus opened his arms to the man, ushering him into his home with an almost uncharacteristic warmth–to anyone who didn’t truly know him.
“Gods, but it has been years has it not Marcus? Since our days on the march?” The man asks him, a tired sigh on his breath.
“Indeed it has. An age, we were mere boys then.” Marcus drains his wine and holds the cup out, you are already there, pouring just as it reaches you.
“Troublesome boys, wicked things were we not? We seemed to attract all kinds of mischief.” The man laughs, and Marcus joins, although his laughter is laced with a groan, peppered with shame.
“Do not remind me, we were terrors.” Marcus hides his face behind his cup, drinking with his eyes downcast and it’s that aversion that piques your interest. Visions of a younger, wilder Marcus fill your mind's eye, what had he done? The man laughs, and you keep your vigil behind your Dominus.
“I hold the memories dear, even the unsavoury ones.” The man raises his cup, and Marcus bows his head, agreeing. “Wish I had kept the looks of my youth as you have old friend.” They laugh together, clinking their cups and remembering things they do not say out loud.
The night wears on, and they drink until the hour grows late. When they begin to yawn, Marcus insists the man stays.
“Girl, see to the preparations of a room and then come tend to me.” He speaks slowly, carefully.
“Yes Dominus.” You smile, despite yourself.
-
When you walk into his room, he sits on his bed, staring at nothing.
“Dominus, are you well?” His eyes lock on you, he sways a little, only a little.
“Too much wine, I will feel this in the morning.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as you approach. “I should have known.” There is no anger in him, only a resigned acceptance.
“If I may be so bold Dominus, it seemed you were enjoying yourself.” You bring the basin over and dip a fresh piece of linen, his eyes track your movements.
“I saw a happiness in you that I have not seen before, I would see it more often if I had any say.” He tilts his face up to yours, and you cleanse it softly, smiling at the way his eyes close.
“Would you now, Girl, do you think me unhappy?” His voice is soft, but gravelly. It awakens the parts of your body that always awaken for him. It worsens when his hands land on your hips, pulling you to stand between his spread legs.
“No Dominus, well, at times yes. Not unhappy per say, but not the way I saw you tonight.”
“I am happy, Girl. I am happier than I have been in ages.” His hands rub at your hips, sliding down to grab at your ass.
“It fills my heart with joy to hear that.” You run your fingers through his hair, admiring the flush in his cheeks, the sparkle of candlelight in his eyes.
“And you? Are you happy, Girl?” He holds onto you, eyes locking onto yours and it feels bigger than it should, the question on his tongue.
“Yes Dominus, I am.” A long, pregnant moment passes and the tension rises, swelling bigger and bigger. Your heart races and then he rises, or, he tries to.
Water from the basin had splashed onto the floor, and he slips. His eyes widen with shock as he lands on his backside on the floor at your feet.
He sits in shock, his tunic pooling high on his thighs and it’s almost like someone else’s voice comes out of your mouth, a sharp bark of laughter comes out before you clap your hands to your mouth.
He stares up at you, the shock of the fall, the shock of your laughter, the wine, the moment—he laughs; you both laugh. Deep, loud belly laughs fill the room until tears fall from your eyes, until he holds his stomach. Any fear, any tension is gone with the crinkle of his eyes and the rare glimpse of his dimple.
“Oh Gods, I am of a form.” He gets it out eventually, smiling wide from his place on the floor.
“Apologies Dominus—“ the ache in your belly is so great you hold onto his bed. He waves away your apology, and carefully rises. “I did not mean to laugh—“
“Peace girl, it was something to laugh at.” He stands, careful of the offending spill and removes his tunic. “The sound of your laughter is welcome, always. I do not think you cruel.”
You don’t know how to respond, the wine has brought down his guard and made him something open, something honest and human–nothing like he is when he is too long away from the battlefield, nothing like he is when his station in this life pulls at him.
“I have not seen my friend in many years, it was nice to speak to him, to bask in the memories of my younger days. Even the ones I’d rather forget.” You let him speak, the novelty of his reminiscing making you smile as you prepare his bed for sleep.
“It was worth the price I will pay in the morning.” You bite your lip, the questions–the curiosity eat away at you as you move around the room, blowing out a few of the candles.
“I can see the turmoil, Girl, ask and I will alleviate.” He smiles, sitting on his bed.
“Apologies Dominus, I wish to know what mischief you sought out, or rather, sought you out? I cannot picture you a terror.” You take the basin away and he lets out a huff of laughter.
“Do not lie to me, Girl. You have seen my dark moods, I am a terror often.” He waves away the expression of shock, “You know my meaning. In truth I can be brutal, I know this, but it is in battle. In my younger days, on the march I was unruly. I found it hard to follow commands, so sure of myself–to my detriment–that I knew better, that I was wiser than those above my station. I paid for it and learned, grew wise but in those early days, we were rebellious.” He smiles, fondness and the ghosts of his past fresh in his mind.
You finish your duties as he speaks but are loathe to leave him, so you come closer, feigning at straightening out his sheets and fussing at his bed as he speaks.
“I was also cruel.” The smile morphs then, into something ashamed.
“Cruel? I do not believe it Dominus–” He raises a hand and your speech dies.
“I was, Girl. Exceedingly cruel, to women. I broke many a heart, took the virginity offered without a care and left them without so much as a word.” He shuts his eyes tight then and the playful, cheerful mood is lost. “I was not concerned with their feelings, I cared not about their honour, I simply took, and left like the thief I was.” He stares at his hands and although it was true, it had been cruel of him, it was the way most soldiers were. No right, no wrong, just the way of this world.
“Do you regret it, Dominus?” You stand before him again, the same tableau as before.
“Yes, I do, Girl. I regret the hurt I caused, the selfishness of youth.”
“That is enough then, I think. That you feel it this deeply, that you would change it if you could, that is enough. You need torture yourself no more, Dominus.” Your palm cups his face and he leans into it with a pained expression for a moment before his arms wrap around your waist. His face nuzzles against the valley between your breasts and you feel the way he breathes in your scent.
“Stay with me.” He pulls at your tunic, lifting it up and off in one swift motion before pressing kisses to your skin. There is a desire shining in his eyes. For your body, yes, but there are memories he is rewriting with you now, something kinder, something infused with more want, with love—the thought pops up and you brush it away.
“Do you not desire sleep Dominus? You had said the wine–oh–” His mouth takes your nipple in a steady suck, pulling a soft moan from your lips, and any and all concerns about his state out of your head.
He pulls away, flattening his tongue against the bud before moving to the next.
“No amount of wine could dampen my desire for you, Girl. Shall I stop?” He watches you, eyes locked as he takes the other nipple in his mouth and you shake your head no. His teeth bite, the little shock of pain heightens the pleasure and your fingers grip his hair harder than you mean to but it only makes him moan into your skin as he soothes with his tongue.
Slick pools at the mouth of your cunt, the desire for him so great it makes you ache. A sharp, hollow pain, like hunger pangs for his gift, for his body, for his love something whispers again, and again you ignore it.
“God’s Girl, you bring out a madness in me–” He pulls you down, his kiss so feral it almost hurts. Teeth clicking while you taste his wine-drenched tongue. You move to straddle him but you barely manage to sit before you find yourself on your back in the bed you’d just prepared.
His kiss is all-consuming, it is contagious–it pulls you into the depths of his madness. When he pulls away, you’re almost disoriented.
“Spread those pretty thighs for me, Girl, let me see what’s mine.” You bite your lip, skin on fire as you obey. He kneels between your spread legs, hand slipping down to palm himself as he watches you slip your hand down towards the silky hair at the juncture of your thighs. “Spread it open, I would see how wet you are.” he strokes himself slowly, eyes glazed as you follow his instructions, spreading yourself wide for his gaze.
It feels depraved in the best way, to have him watch you while he pleasures himself. There is a power flowing through your veins, something sweet and wicked and a boldness grabs hold of you. You dip your fingers low to spread the arousal onto your fingers, scoop some of it up to swirl against your clit.
���This is what I do when you do not call for me, Dominus. I touch myself like this, and think of you.” His hand lands on your knee, holding your leg up as he moans, wantonly at your admission.
“What do you think of Girl? Tell me–” He squeezes at his cock, brow furrowed while his eyes rake over you.
“I think of you taking me Dominus, I think of how good you feel, how big you are, how I can feel you for days, how I want nothing more than for you to come into my chamber and make me yours.” Your fingers speed up, the pleasure heightened by the depravity of it.
“Do you flutter at the thought of me giving you this?” He presses the tip of himself to your entrance, not pushing inside but letting you feel him there.
“Yes–” It’s a pained moan. The blunt tip of him spreads you just enough to tease, it’s an exquisite torture, one that could make you cry with arousal.
“Tell me you want it, tell me you’ll die without it, tell me you want me, Girl.” He leans forward a little, enough to make you chase the relief of him but his grip at your knee moves down to your hip, holding you there. Your fingers almost lose their rhythm. You let out a pitiful whine.
“Tell me, and I’ll give it to you, tell me you want me, tell me–” He begs now, and you nod frantically.
“I need you Dominus, I need you, I will die without you, I beg of you, give me the relief of your body.” Your tone is high, something frantic, something pathetic, something desperate but it soothes something in him.
It’s a tidal wave when he shoves himself inside to the hilt. The climax spreads through every vein, through your fingers and toes through his steady strokes. He falls to cover your body with his, his tongue licking into your mouth, every nerve alight as he moans into your mouth, his cock spilling his own passion deep into your womb within a few seconds.
“God’s above, I, that was–” He breathes hard against your mouth, his eyes darting about your face as you both pulse in and around one another, “I–” He seems a little lost for words. The euphoria is still bright in your body, and so you save him from himself. You pull him down for a kiss, soft and languid as you run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
“Shall I return to my chambers Dominus? Or shall I stay?” You push his hair back. The wine has made him forget himself, has made him forget that you are just his Girl, you have to remind him.
For the sake of your poor heart on the morrow.
“Stay.” You nod.
–
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I’ve been messaging with Mohammed (@ahmed0khalil) and he told me they feel as if this world has abandoned them. Every night his 6-year-old brother Ahmed asks him “Will we become numbers? Will we be just a number that appears on the TV screen in the evening?” Mohammed has no answer to that question. He has seen people being blown into pieces, he has witnessed no fewer than 6 massacres during his displacement. He wants to help, but knows he would be killed if he does. How does anyone fight against bombs that drop without warning? Mohammed lives in fear that he will fail to save his family. He had thought of killing himself, but he knows that his family, his younger siblings, need him. So he keeps on fighting daily, standing in line for 10 hours just to get bread for his family, begging for our attention on Tumblr to try to raise funds for his family’s evacuation. Mohammed is only 19 years old.
He tells me that the Internet is often bad and they are often cut off from the world. Sometimes when massacres occur and people are bleeding out around them, they cannot even call the ambulance because there is no connection. He describes to me how he would sometimes see ambulances moving under heavy shelling, his helplessness in not knowing if it will come towards them, if the bombs will hit the ambulance. He tells me a lot of his friends who worked in the emergency department had been murdered under attacks against medical personnel. He fears that he will be killed, he fears for the lives of his family.
Mohammed is only 19 but he has lived through more than 8 wars. When he was 9, his house was bombed when they were inside it. He was a small child then and he was so scared and he could not breathe. They managed to escape, but soon after the whole area where their house was located was blown up.
Mohammed is only 19, how much more must he bear? How much more must his 6-year-old brother Ahmed bear? Another question: what were you doing when you were 19? Were you at school, preparing for uni, hanging out with friends, getting your first job? At 19 Mohammed is trying to survive a genocide, he is witnessing massacre after massacre, dead bodies after dead bodies, trying to raise funds so his family can survive, trying to convince his younger siblings that they will live to see another day. He is telling me piece after piece of his suffering under an unstable connection, and here I’m writing and thinking how can I get your attention, how can I convince you that he and his siblings and his family deserve to live?
Mohammed’s campaign has been shared by 90-ghost and I’ve also been talking extensively with him. He has 5 siblings, including a brother who is blind, another who is severely autistic, and young 6-year-old Ahmed. How much more must they suffer? How many more massacres must they live through?
Low Funds! Only €1,685 raised of €50,000 goal!!
Donations have been coming in slowly for Mohammed's campaign. Your donation will help a family of 8 people reach safety. Please don't turn a blind eye to these children calling out for your help! Please share and reblog, and please, please donate if you can!
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BLUE PART II
Paring: Azriel x reader, Lucien x platonic!reader
Series summary: After Azriel and Elain‘s courtship is revealed, their mates, Lucien and Y/N, are left to deal with the consequences. While fighting against Koschei and for Prythian‘s freedom, Y/N has to navigate her emotions and learn how to live with the heartbreak of a one sided mating bond. But what happens when secrets are revealed and everything turns out differently than they thought?
Warnings: unrequited love, death, detailed descriptions of fights and blood, angst, characters being idiots
A/N: my last azrielxreader post won’t appear in the tags so reblogs are very much appreciated.
Word count: 3.3k
It’s a beautiful, crisp spring morning. The sun is shining, birds are singing, and the wind carries the lovely scent of freshly baked pies. I sigh at the prospect of leaving this peaceful place and trading it for the Autumn Court.
As I push the heavy oak doors of the River House open, I can feel anxiety coursing through my veins. After fleeing Autumn seventy-three years ago, I didn’t expect to return there so soon, even if only temporarily. It was difficult for me to leave. I couldn’t risk telling anyone about my plans, so I never had the chance to say goodbye.
Knowing my father, he had probably been more concerned about how me leaving would affect his standing with the High Lord and the other noble families. But my mother and sister… I would give a lot to see them again.
All those years, I have missed the familiarity of my home court, the traditions, and the celebrations I cherished so much as a child.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I step into the foyer. Rhysand, Amren, Azriel, and Lucien are already there, waiting for me.
Except for Lucien and me, who are wearing traditional Autumn Court attire, everyone else is dressed in midnight black.
Lucien looks up as I enter, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You look… convincing,” he says.
I let out a breathy laugh at that. The last time he saw me in Autumn colors was at a ball my family hosted, which ended with me puking my guts out, most of it landing on Lucien’s shoes.
Judging by the face he is making, he hasn’t forgotten either.
Azriel, standing beside him, nods in agreement. “It suits you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.
His shadows peek over his shoulder as if they want to take a look too.
I try to ignore the flutter of emotions his words stir within me. Instead, I focus on the mission ahead, on the role I must play. The safety of Prythian depends on our success, and I can’t afford to let myself get distracted.
Rhysand steps forward, a mischievous smile on his face. “I have to say, you both pull off Autumn Court fashion far better than I expected. Maybe we should visit the Autumn Court more often.”
Amren, her eyes assessing our disguises, retorts, “If you spent as much time on strategy as you do on fashion critiques, we’d have won the war by now.”
I have to cover my mouth to not laugh out loud and accidentally anger the century-old creature that’s lurking beneath that Fae body.
Rhys just rolls his eyes, clearly undeterred by her sharp tone. “I’ll have you know that looking good is part of the strategy.”
With one last look at me, he stretches out his hand and asks, “Ready?”
I nod, take his hand, and let him winnow me away.
———————————————————
Arriving at the southern border of the Autumn Court, I am immediately struck by the beauty of the landscape. The trees here are taller than I remember, their leaves a riot of red, orange, and gold, perpetually caught in the peak of autumn. The air carries the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the smoke of distant fires burning in hearths.
As we step onto the moss-covered ground, bittersweet memories flood my mind. I find myself thinking of the simpler days of my youth, the carefree ones.
I feel dark talons gently scraping at the shields in my mind and lwt Rhys in. So lost in the beautiful nature, I barely realize him wishing us good luck and winnowing back to Velaris.
Right after Rhys leaves, Azriel begins to scout the area for any magical traps or shields set by Koschei, leaving us to wait for his return. As the minutes stretch into an hour, my anxiety starts to build.
I pace restlessly, my mind conjuring all sorts of terrible scenarios.
Lucien tries to reassure me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“He’ll be fine,” Lucien says softly. “Azriel knows what he’s doing.”
But his words do little to calm me.
“How can you be so sure? He could be injured… or worse. We don’t know what Koschei is capable of!” I snap.
I begin to ramble, listing every possible way Azriel could have gotten hurt. “What if he’s caught in a trap? What if there’s a magical barrier he can’t break?”
Just thinking about him being in trouble makes me want to vomit. “That’s it. He’s taken long enough. I’m going to find him and—”
Amren steps in, her voice cutting through my panic. “Enough. Get your shit together. We don’t have time for this.”
Her bluntness shocks me into silence, and I sulk, feeling chastised.
But Amren isn’t finished. “Oh, quit acting like a child. Maybe if you told him about your feelings and the mating bond, you wouldn’t be so anxious, girl.”
My mouth drops open and I look to Lucien, his face also morphed into shock. When I look back to Amren, she just lifts an eyebrow.
“How do you know about the bond?”
Amren lets out a long sigh. “Only someone stupid wouldn’t have picked up on that. And Azriel being the stupidest of all.”
She rolls her eyes and starts picking at her nails. “We all suspected it. For a while we thought it snapped for Azriel too. The way he followed you around like a love sick fool, we were sure of it. But I guess it didn’t.”
I don’t say anything else after that, my mind not coming up with a response.
——————————————————
Another hour passes, and my worry only deepens. I can’t stop imagining Azriel injured or trapped, his shadows unable to find a way back to us. Every rustle of the leaves makes me jump, hoping it’s him returning.
Lucien tries to keep me distracted, but my thoughts are a whirl of dread. He tells me stories of his own missions, but I can’t focus on his words. My mind is entirely on Azriel.
Finally, just as the sun reaches its peak, Azriel returns. He looks slightly worse for wear, his clothes torn in some places and his face smeared with dirt, but otherwise unharmed. He notices the tension immediately, his eyes narrowing in concern.
“What happened?” Azriel asks, looking between us.
I step toward him, my relief overwhelming. “Are you okay? What took you so long?”
Azriel nods, his expression serious. “There were more traps than I anticipated. It took a while to disable them all, but the path should be clear now.”
Amren crosses her arms. “Good. We don’t have time for any more delays.”
Lucien places a hand on my shoulder again, this time with a reassuring squeeze. “See? I told you he’d be fine.”
I manage a weak smile, still shaken by the fear that gripped me. Azriel’s eyes soften as he looks at me.
“We should move quickly,” Azriel says, breaking the moment. “It won’t be long till they notice that their shields and traps were destroyed. Amren and I will accompany you to the Forrest House, then we’ll separate and follow the original plan. It’s too dangerous otherwise. We can’t risk you.”
Lucien nods and gestures for me to go first. “Let’s get moving then. The sooner we’re done here, the better.”
We begin to move deeper into the forest, leading to Beron’s residence. The beauty of the surroundings contrasts sharply with the danger I know lurks nearby.
As we walk, I steal glances at Azriel, wondering how he can be so calm and collected all the time.
Gods, I nearly lost my mind over him doing his job. I am a hypocrite for snapping at him the other day. Yes, I am mad at him for courting Elain, but I also can’t expect him to be loyal to me when he doesn’t even know that we’re mates.
How different things would be if it had just snapped for him the second it did for me...
It happened three years ago. Unbeknownst to us, we were just celebrating the last winter solstice without Rhys when it snapped into place.
One moment I was admiring him from afar, the next I was connected to him for the rest of my immortal life.
He had still been in love with Mor back then, so I chose not to say anything. A huge mistake, because soon after, Elain came into the picture.
Truthfully, I never thought they were anything more than friends until I overheard Rhysand ordering Azriel to stay away from her. It wasn’t until then that I realized I had lost him forever. He wasn’t going to stay away from her, so I accepted my fate and kept silent.
———————————————————
After five hours of hiking through bushes, stepping in rabbit holes, and nearly getting killed by a boar, I can feel the exhaustion creeping into my bones.
“Can we please take a break? My legs are going to fall off,” I ask.
Amren smirks, not breaking her stride. “And here I thought you were tougher than this.”
Only Rhysand’s plea to behave and work together holds me back from strangling her. Gods, she really is a cranky hag.
Lucien chuckles softly and turns to me. “We’re only a few minutes away. Hang in there.”
I groan but press on. As we finally crest a hill, the sight of Beron’s castle comes into view, exactly as I remembered it. The imposing structure looms against the deep orange sky, its dark stone walls lined with creeping ivy. Tall, narrow windows glint in the dawning light.
“It’s just like I remember,” I whisper, a mixture of awe and dread washing over me.
Lucien glances at me, his expression unreadable. “Let’s get ready. We need to find a way to get in there.” He points to the entrance of the castle, where nobles are lined up to enter the masquerade ball hosted by the High Lord himself.
We slip through the dense forest that surrounds the castle, our movements silent and precise. Azriel scouts ahead, his shadows cloaking him in near invisibility. After what feels like an eternity, we find a secluded spot to prepare for our infiltration.
“Here,” Amren hands both Lucien and me a stack of clothes. “These are your disguises. You will pose as Lord and Lady Hawthorn. The late Lord Hawthorn died three months ago. You are recently married with no offspring or heir yet. This is your first outing as Lord and Lady. Some might recognize your name, though they should not look twice your way. Be discreet and don’t draw attention.”
“What about the real Lord and Lady Hawthorn? What if they decide to turn up and out us as imposters?” I ask.
Azriel shifts on his feet and answers a bit sheepishly, “Don’t worry, they have already been dealt with.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “What do you—” realization dawns over me. “Oh… oh, okay. I guess that makes this a lot easier.”
I grab the clothes Amren gave me and head for the nearest bush to change. When I look back, Azriel has his head tilted sideways and smiles at me.
The dress I change into is a deep burgundy, adorned with delicate golden embroidery.
The fabric is soft and luxurious and fits me like a second skin. The mask is made of similar fabric, with intricate golden lace around the edge of it.
As I step out from behind the bush, my eyes find Azriel’s immediately.
His eyes, usually so guarded, widen slightly as they take in my appearance, his gaze lingering on the details of my dress and the way it clings to my form.
“You look… stunning,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere.
I feel a blush rise to my cheeks and look away, focusing on Lucien. Lucien is similarly attired, his outfit complementing mine with its dark tones and subtle elegance.
He grins at me. “Shall we, Lady Hawthorn?”
I bark out a laugh. “We shall, Lord Hawthorn.”
———————————————————
Getting inside the Forrest House was easier than expected. We just walked right up to the entrance, stated our names, handed them our fake invites, and were ushered in.
As we step into the grand ballroom, the sheer opulence of the scene takes my breath away.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow over the sea of elegantly dressed nobles. Musicians play softly in one corner, their melodies mingling with the murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
At the far end of the room, atop a raised dais, sits Beron, his cold gaze sweeping over the crowd. To his right stands Eris. Our eyes meet briefly, and I give a subtle nod, which he returns.
Lucien and I mingle with the guests, keeping our eyes and ears open, waiting for Eris to give us our signal.
As Beron rises from his throne, a hush falls over the grand ballroom. The guests turn their attention to him. He begins to address the crowd, his voice echoing through the vast space.
“Welcome, esteemed guests, to this celebration of our enduring legacy and power,” Beron proclaims, his tone laced with self-satisfaction.
Just as he is about to continue, the heavy doors of the ballroom burst open. A squadron of Eris’s soldiers rushes in, their armor clanking loudly. The crowd parts like a tide, murmurs of confusion and fear rippling through the room.
Beron’s confident façade falters, replaced by one of anger and panic. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands, his voice rising in pitch as he glares at the soldiers.
Eris steps forward, his demeanor calm and resolute. “Father,” he begins, his voice carrying a chilling edge, “it is time. Your reign has been marked by tyranny and cruelty, and I will no longer stand by and watch my people suffer under your rule.”
Beron’s eyes narrow, a sneer curling his lips. “You think you can overthrow me, Eris? It takes more than a few soldiers to claim this throne.”
Eris begins to smile. “Oh, I know. A noble to swear me in and an heir to secure the lineage, right? Well, here they are.” He gestures to Lucien and me.
My eyes widen as I whisper-shout in Lucien’s ear, “He cannot be serious? THIS is his plan?!”
Lucien replies, equally as quiet. “I have learned a long time ago not to question my brother’s way of handling things.”
“You are truly deluded, Eris.” Beron laughs, a harsh, mocking sound. “They won’t accept a random noble as your heir.”
Eris stands his ground, his gaze unwavering. “But they will. Take off your masks,” he says to Lucien and me.
And so we do. Nobles everywhere are gawking at us. Some eyes fixed on me, most on Lucien.
Beron steps down from the dais. “What a surprise. The lost son finally returns home.” He turns his gaze to me. “And you, you’re Lord Yarrow’s daughter, no?”
I don’t answer. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could. I’m rooted in place, not taking my eyes off Beron.
Beron turns to Eris again. “Well, it seems you really are full of surprises. But you’re forgetting one important thing. You would have to kilI me to claim the throne. And you���ve always been weak, Eris. You’re not strong enough, but you shall try.”
In that moment, I realize what Eris was doing. He was provoking his father into accepting his challenge, and Beron just did exactly that.
“I’ve had a long time to prepare.”
And with that, all hell breaks loose.
———————————————————
Chaos erupts as Beron and Eris clash, their swords flashing in the bright light of the ballroom. Beron's strikes are powerful, but Eris is swift and precise, his fire magic flaring up with every swing.
Lucien and I are quickly surrounded by Beron's soldiers. The nobles' screams fill the air as they flee the room in terror. I manage to grab a blade as the first soldier aims right for my neck.
My heart races as I parry another soldier's blow, my muscles straining with each clash of steel. Lucien fights beside me, his own fire magic scorching the air around us, incinerating our enemies with fiery blasts.
The ballroom is a whirlwind of chaos.
As we cut through the soldiers, our eyes are locked on the fight between Eris and Beron. We try to reach them, but more and more of Beron’s soldiers are streaming in.
Eris and his father fight with brutal intensity, their swords ringing out as they meet. Eris dodges and strikes with a precision that keeps Beron on his toes, but his experience gives him the upper hand, forcing Eris back step by step.
Just as Lucien and I are within seconds of reaching Eris and Beron, the ballroom doors burst open again. Five of Koschei's soldiers, dark magic radiating from them, storm in. They immediately begin slaughtering nobles, women, and children alike. Their dark magic tears through Eris's soldiers as if they were paper.
Lucien and I have no choice but to turn away from Eris and Beron and face Koschei’s magic wielders.
I take several hits to the gut, and a sword slices across my cheek, but I fight on, managing to take down one of the dark soldiers. Lucien, with his fire magic, kills two more, but before the third soldier is turned into ash, he drives a sword straight through Lucien’s chest.
Lucien collapses to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. I rush to his side, my heart pounding in my chest. Lucien's eyes flutter, and he tries to speak, but I stop him. "Save your energy," I beg.
He begins to close his eyes, the loss of blood making him weaker and weaker. "Lucien, stay with me!" I cry, trying to stem the flow of blood with my hands.
I have to get him to a healer fast; otherwise, he will bleed out. So I do the only thing I can think of.
Desperate, I tug on the bond with Azriel, praying that he will sense my distress.
A moment later, Azriel bursts into the room, Amren in tow. Azriel’s eyes widen with panic as he spots me and Lucien. He rushes to us, dropping to his knees beside Lucien.
"Azriel, you have to winnow him back to Velaris," I plead. "Find Madja , now!"
Azriel looks torn. "I can't leave you," he says, his voice tight with fear. “I— not like this. Not with you being my—”
"Amren is here, I’ll be fine," I insist, glancing at Amren, who is finishing off the last two of Koschei’s soldiers. "Please, Azriel! I can’t watch him die. I am begging you, just go, please!"
Azriel nods reluctantly, wrapping his arms around Lucien. With a final, desperate look at me, he winnows away, leaving me behind in the chaos.
With Azriel and Lucien gone, I feel a pang of anxiety, but I have no time to dwell on it. I turn back to the fight, watching as Eris and the High Lord continue their deadly duel.
Around me, the battle rages on. I join Amren, who is ruthlessly dispatching the remaining dark soldiers with a ferocity that belies her small stature.
Together, we fight our way through the chaos, our movements synchronized from years of fighting side by side.
We are fighting for what feels like hours. My arms ache from dealing blow after blow, and my eyes are getting blurry from the lack of sleep.
I steal a glance at Eris and Beron, watching as they exchange hits. Eris manages to land a few blows, but Beron shrugs them off.
The two of them are evenly matched, but the High Lord’s power coursing through Beron's veins gives him a slight edge.
Suddenly, Beron lunges forward, his sword aimed at Eris's heart. Eris barely manages to block the strike, their blades locking together. Fire erupts between them, and for a moment, it looks like Eris might be overpowered.
But Eris digs deep, summoning a burst of strength. He pushes Beron back, their swords disengaging with a loud clang. Eris's flames burn brighter, and he steps forward, pressing the attack.
The next moment, everything is quiet. No swords clashing, no screaming, just utter quiet.
As the flames subside, there, in the middle of the ballroom, not moving, is Beron.
The High Lord of the Autumn Court is dead.
#acotar fanfiction#azriel x reader#azriel#a court of thorns and roses#lucien x reader#azriel x you#writers on tumblr#eris acotar#rhysand#amren acotar#azriel shadowsinger#acotar x reader#azriel imagine
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The person I reblogged that from is also in a similar place to me where she has dogs from a breed that originally did belong in Indigenous hands and ultimately the reason the breed exists as it is today is a long and uncomfortable history of genocide and cultural warfare.
I love and adore my chihuahuas and they are everything to me and they were once feral dogs found in the ruins of a civilization flattened by others who were willing to carry out an extermination of entire people groups in the name of bloody war. And when the dust settled and all that was left was the significantly reduced population (or perhaps even total annihilation, with certain groups across south and Central america) and the animals they left behind... some of these animals were also completely obliterated, and others were forever changed into Something Else.
Chihuahuas were changed into Something Else. And I love my girls. I do.
Often when genocide is being discussed, what is missed is how our relationship with the animals of that people group changes with it. Killing or stealing their animals is an oft-overlooked act of genocide, we saw this with the Buffalo, we see this with the rez dogs.
It is so important to me- as the owner of a breed that at one point was Indigenous in origin, that changed and changed and changed until it became Other- to point it out when I see it. Especially when I am *not* part of the ethnic group that created these amazing little dogs, it is important to me to show as much respect as I can to those whose hands crafted them into existence.
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I'm gonna be honest here: one of the more exhausting parts of the online discourse is how much of a tightrope I am always on, that those of us who care about human rights for all human beings are always on, because any statement made in favor of the "other" side is ripe for tokenism.
I, as a Jew, care about the safety and human rights of Palestinians and Arab Israelis. You will never convince me that there is an ethical way to kill civilians, especially children. You will never convince me that police brutality against citizens marching for their civil rights is necessary. You just can't. And yet I have to be so careful when/where I say that and how I say that, because too often this simple acknowledgement that all people are created in the image of Hashem and should be treated accordingly is ripped out of context and placed between a deluge of other posts denying my people that very same acknowledgement. The number of times I have said these things, only to go into the reblogs and see my words surrounded on all sides with violent antisemitism? I've lost count.
And guess what? It's made me less effective as an advocate, it has actively silenced me from speaking up sometimes, because I refuse to be your "good Jew," your token, somebody whose words can be misconstrued to kasher your vile hatred of my people. And to be very clear: Jewish Israelis are my people just as much as fellow diaspora yidden are, and they deserve better from both goyim and diaspora Jews alike.
And I've seen this go the other way, too: I've seen Palestinian activists and journalists who are trying very hard to balance the values of respecting other people (including Israelis and/or Jews writ large) as fellow human beings with the pain that their people are currently suffering. And I've seen their words ripped out of context and used to excuse more violence against them and their people.
And then there are lots of other people - genuinely well-intentioned people who are trying to learn from me - who keep treating me like I'm some paragon of nuance. I'm trying, truly, but I'm Just Some Guy. You know what I do? It's extremely simple and I promise you can do it too, any of you, if you slow down long enough to think before putting anything out there: "Would I say this about my brother? My mom? My daughter? My people? Would I be happy if the person I loved most on this earth was living under these circumstances and being talked about in whatever way I'm about to speak? Would it feel victim-blaming? Would it feel disrespectful of their struggle or dishonest? Does it ignore their history or trauma? Is it actually helping?" These are the types of questions I try very hard to ask myself every time I post about the conflict, about both sides. I try to talk about this as if the people on both sides were my family. Because truthfully? They are. Am Yisrael is a family, before anything else. Palestinians are our closest cousins. This war is a bloodbath and a tragedy, and everyone is suffering. For those of us who are not living there, please remember this and have some respect.
#המצב#i/p#t-minus 60 minutes before someone l i t e r a l l y does the exact thing I'm on about here
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❝Ask me, my prince. What a storm is to a dragon.❞
[ Aemond can only breathe through your lungs, through your adoration and love. But when betrayal is nigh, what does it truly beget? ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 6,935 ] | Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader, minor, sort of (not really) Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers.
THIS IS A DARK FIC. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
contains— angsty, smut - DD:DNE: kidnapping, coercion, manipulation, possessive & obsessive behaviour, power imbalance, violence (not to reader) (a little bit to reader... i wrote this too close to book canon!aemond), murder, death, massacre, war - canon typical targcest, canon character deaths, canon divergence - dark!aemy - pregnancy, child, allusions to infidelity, mentions of bastard - i took liberties with canon (as i usually do) - #ripellyn you (sorta) will be missed shshs - the only specific reader descript. i did is the baratheon dark hair ok? ok - nsfw: male masturbation, dubcon/noncon, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— there was this villain playlist on yt that was slowed and sexy, and my brain just. clicked. here it is if you wanna check. the real reason this is long is cos i can't help but add backstory ok? ok. lol. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!
Storms have always been your favourite view in any window.
It is cliche to say, a proud daughter of the Stormlands, of course she enjoys the dark skies! But you do. There is nothing short of comforting in the rolling, fat clouds darkened in shadows. Occasionally, if the weather moved to your whim, lightning danced between plumes before you hear the boom and crack of it striking.
"It is a privilege to enjoy weathers such as these," your father once said, a hand on your darkened hair, a bluer tint to it, but Baratheon through and through. "It is our might that holds us at paramount, and thus, our privilege beckons warm fires and strong, stone fortresses to watch it all in comfort. To find enjoyment in the dark skies."
"Ours is the Fury," you replied immediately. Your father smiled.
"That, precisely. The paramount of our might and power is one we have taken and given with fury. Never forget."
"Even better than the Targaryens?" Your father's displeasure crumpled his face, and you were at an old enough age to understand his displeasure was not something you enjoy. But you had been learning all day, and the topic that day with your septa had been House Targaryen. You had learned the King's name, that he had a Queen that died, and that his heir is a girl.
His hold on your shoulders was heavy, but you do not flinch. Eyes bore into your own as if he was speaking the words into existence.
"We are the blood of the Kings too, my daughter. The White Hart proves our mark in the world, long before the dragonlords ever whispered in these lands. And what are dragons against the dance of storms?"
You had been little then, no more than six. The smallest of your sisters; Floris, though short in stature, looked elongated. A beauty. A fawn in the making. And your father is not the cleverest of men, but his words shelved itself in the corners of your brain. It eased and assuaged your fears like a quick spell.
Your spine straightens and your chin tilts upward. You are made of fury and storms, the blood of kings of old and solid, impenetrable fortresses.
You fury is your own, and 'neathe your fingers, under your very being, is a storm.
A good reminder, as when you had exchanged childhood for girlhood, a missive had been sent by the Queen Alicent Hightower, requesting for a daughter from Lord Baratheon's Four Storms, as companion for the Princess Helaena.
"Cassandra would do well."
"She hungers, husband. I am afraid of what might happen if we send her to the courts at her age. I do not yearn for a scandal."
"She would not shame her family so, do you reckon?"
"She is the eldest. You know how she is."
A sigh. "If she had a cock, she would be a good heir for my seat."
"Borros!"
"Apologies. Very well, mayhaps a good husband with no grit to him would do her well. She will lead the Stormlands by the hold of his— er, well, yes. Maris? She is clever."
"Far too clever. Even her tongue irks you, no. Definitely not. Her brain works too fast for her mouth. She will say the wrong thing and end us in war."
"You exaggerate, surely."
"I bore them, Borros, but they are your daughters. They live and breathe with your name and your House's banner under their own. What do you think? Bad enough they take so much of your heritage with them, and their looks, but they also plucked and chosen parts of you I'd rather not have for lady daughters."
Your father grumbles incoherently, you laugh under your breath.
"... Floris is too young. So..." The last one. You. You press your ear harder against the wood of your father's study, heart in your throat.
"She will be best," she says softly, insistently. She knows in her heart of hearts that though her husband is a hard, proud man, he has a softened heart for you. "Though she is clever, she minds herself well. Polite. Kind. She will do well with the Princess and her, er, eccentricities."
"Bloody weirdoes, the lot of them." A sigh. Another chastise from your mother, but she too, sounds exhausted. It has almost been a moon since the missive has been sent. Another one is bound to arrive, more order than request. It is all a political game. Princess Rhaenyra had no Baratheon ward under her court when she still resided in Kings Landing, for you and your sisters had been too young and your father had no sister. It is by chance that gives the Green Queen advantage to take a ward under your father's banner now, with a daughter she seeks to be Queen Consort.
"Send her then," your father announces. Though defeat clouds his voice, the Lord in him speaks each vowel clearly. "She will do best to represent the House out of them all. We might have a betrothal in our hands soon enough."
"She is pretty enough for a prince."
An angry snort. "She is more than pretty enough for a prince. Far better than the lot of them."
Softly, "That is because you like her best."
"Why would I not?" your father replies gruffly, making you smile. "A storm grinds and brews inside of her, wife. Even Maestre Loes, the old gnat that he is, sees my bloodline thick in her. Even if the King asks for her hand at this very moment, I would refuse. I would throw him off Storm's End with a smile on my face and a boot on his back."
You fight off a snort as your mother grumbles about treason and Maris.
"She is far better than the best of them." Another sigh. Heavier. "Why are we sending her?"
Your mother sighs. "Because as she is the best of them, she is the best of us. She will survive far better in that cesspit they call a keep than any of our daughters. Her storm can tame dragons."
You would argue that that too is treasonous given the context, but your father merely laughs. His laughter is a crackle and a boom.
"I would upheave our coffers to witness that."
Though you find her odd, you enjoy spending your time with the Princess Helaena. Mostly, she is quiet, in her own little world. Though it took time to get used to her many-legged friends, you soon realised the best times you spend with her are when shipments and gifts of pinned butterflies and books that have reached as far as Yi-Ti, to get to Kings Landing about bugs, and undeniable excitement unfurls in the Princess' face. More like a girl, a sweet one.
It makes her already cherub features appear more child-like, and she grasps your hand voluntarily as she points at each and every critter she recognises. It is so very rare to see true happiness in the princess' visage, and in her enjoyment, you see your sisters.
That is how you meet him, the Prince Aemond.
Princess Helaena had gone for tea with the Queen. It had not been planned. Though she often spent tea with family, either the Queen or the Lord Hand, or either of the Princes. Something had occurred, so now that Princess was having tea with her Queen Mother and her husband. If you had to guess, it was likely that Prince Aegon was being punished in some way.
Though there is no love lost between siblings, it makes you sniff at how blatant the prince's obscene indulgent for vices are. Princess Helaena didn't mind, rather, she didn't care unless they needed to spend time together, a clockwork patch of routine, and that was when you usually came in— you later realised, your primary job — soothing her nerves and distracting her thoughts before she had to enter her marriage chambers.
There is a resigned defeat in her, a woman's duty bearing down, looming like the Mother, and it makes you want to soothe her harder. Make her laugh.
With the change of plans, it was up to you to check for the new shipments of the Princess' things. A dictated note in your hand of the princess' handwriting, you were going through her boxes when a hand, gloved, rests on your shoulder.
"Do not move," a cool voice says behind you. Far too close for propriety.
You freeze. "Pardon?"
"I do not want to scare you, my lady, but there is a critter atop your head." The cool, calm voice waves off a steady rhythm to your heart, calming it further from the earlier panic of someone laying a hand on you (although this, is still not better. You are a lady and unmarried after all). "I will rid of it immedi—"
"No."
"... Pardon?"
"Where is it? Just atop my head?"
"... Yes?"
"It maybe poisonous, pease do not touch it." Before the owner of the hand and the calm voice could react, you pat your head until you touch a hairy, small thing with many legs. Relief spreads. "There you are."
"There you are?" The voice says, almost mocking, incredulously.
You huff, taking the spider in both of your hands, before you tilt your chin behind you, only seeing the gloved hand. "Please take your hand away from me."
The hand retreats. You turn.
Valyrian features are most uncommon than your own, and the jolt of recognising the pale, white hair is a strike to your being, a gasp falling from your lips. It is the one-eyed mask that tells you immediately who it is, but you string everything else you know of the prince.
Prince Aemond had been travelling to Oldtown, a visit requested by the Queen in the guise of seeing family, his brother. But there had been whispers of something more, as the chatter of the maids who cleaned up in the King's quarters talked about how ill he got day by day.
You had seen flashes of him before this, but fate had kept you two apart. You were not there when he visited the princess— on another errand or two, and he starkly ever looked at the ladies surrounding his sister with a vehement light as their voices, high pitched and dreary, tire him so on a good day, increasingly irritating on a bad one, and anyway, the silence that falls in a stone room just from his arrival is enough to irk him.
But here is he now, with one eyebrow rose, a good eye of icy blue iris, and the very visage of a warrior in black leathers, a braided hair pulled to one side, and pursed lips in both amusement and annoyance.
He hums. The sound kicks back your manners, blushing lightly at having gaped at him for far longer than pleasantry dictates, and you pull yourself into a bow.
"My apologies, my prince, I didn't know it was you. I was scared you were going to hurt the Princess' new friend."
"They are bugs," he says steadily. "Not her friends."
"Like so, but just because they have many a legs do not mean we cannot befriend them." A small smile plays on your lips before you place back the spider in the cage he got out of. It is something you had once said to the princess to make her laugh. You feel his stare burn at the side of your face. "Is there a matter, my prince?"
"You are the Lady Baratheon, are you not?"
"I am." A small, ironic smirk tugs at your lips. "Is it the hair?"
He makes a soft sound that exhales like a laugh out of closed lips. He's still quite close, you can feel his warmth and idly wonder if all Targaryens truly do have the blood of the dragons in them for you can feel the contours of him, burning at the edges of his being. Like a comforting little furnace.
"Hm. And the princess has taken quite the liking to you. You are all she talks about during sup."
You can't help it, you're smiling. So many rumours concerning the young prince, not all of them good, but there is a certain novelty in basking under the attention of a prince of the realm. A Valyrian beauty that brought an ethereal glow to him. As so intently stares, catching pieces and niches as if you are the most fascinating creature.
The attention makes you feel like a blushing lady.
"My apologies then, my prince."
He cocks his head, the braid dipping and you catch the movement in your peripheral. "Whatever for my lady?"
You turn to him, unable to curb the cheek to your smile. "For interrupting better conversations with the topic of my name plaguing your sups so."
His mouth twists into a smirk. In Aemond's mind, it is not oft that ladies, especially Helaena's ladies, would care to... flirt with him. Because this is you flirting, is it not? The coy gaze, the curl at the edge of your lips? Aemond has seen these faces in ladies and maids alike, but directed at others. At Aegon.
Directed at Aemond... bereave to keep their conversations to themselves, and though it is not always a fault of theirs for his stoicism is his most valued armour, one would resign oneself of an arranged marriage that will take long moons before his lady wife would see the truest him, that he would not be able to experience such... coy conversations with the opposite sex.
Yet here you are, a light dust of red in your cheeks, a quirk in your mouth, and the playful joust in your eyes, daring him into a swords' dance.
It is thrilling.
"Plaguing is too harsh of a word to say so about a lady of your stature, Lady Baratheon." He steps closer, aware of propriety standards of how close two unwedded people should be, but he feels intoxicated of the whiff of life exhuming from your visage. A light citrus, oranges? Lemons? Tart and sweet, with a powdery finish. It is so very ladylike.
Addicting.
The perfect smell for a lady wife, a musing thought.
"Is that so?"
"Intriguing, I would say, would be the better word."
You laugh, low and sweet. It sends a pleasant warm to his centre. "I'm afraid my memory is failing for I do not remember any wily adventure or conversation the princess and I had for a prince of the realm to say I intrigue him so."
"It is less... about wily adventures or interesting conversations that pique my interest, but the lady herself." His eye, though lone, the other remaining hidden behind an eyepatch with hints of scarred, twisted skin underneath, bore against yours as if he wished to gather all your strings and see what each would give him. What you would show him.
"I'm afraid to disappoint you, my prince, but I still fail to see how I can ever so pique your interest." You meet his gaze, smirking. "I am just me."
Before he can answer, step forward— whatever, he is staring at the curve of your lips so, at the enchanting shimmer of your eyes, and Aemond Targaryen felt breathless — your named is called, and the spell is broken. The prince steps back, taking more space between you that is more appropriate.
His hand flexes.
But that is not the last you see of the prince, nor the last time you are able to hold a conversation with him. It seems that since then, you find yourselves orbiting each other in the fringes before one steps forward and engages. There seems to be a band that tightens either of you so obsessed with seeing the other in the periphery, the topic whatever may came, even as inane as the weather.
It is a dance of swords, kissing blades of sharp quips and interesting parry. You are interesting. Beguiling. Devouring. Aemond searches for you in most places now, unable to stop himself from asking his dearest sister about you— even his mother and grandsire have taken notice, eyebrows rose between shared looks.
"House Baratheon is of a Great House," his mother hesitantly brought up, too focused on her soup for it to just be idle chatter above sup.
"It is." His forced passivity is not as apathetic as he can make it. For any mention of you and your origins thrums his heart in a dance.
"And the Lady Baratheon has many admirers, a kind and dutiful lady, and Helaena likes her so."
He turned to his mother then, humming. At the barest hint of a smile in her son's face, Alicent beamed.
But others from court also soon took notice, and when Aemond realises the wagging tongues had come to note your name— unkind whispers besmirching your person, he disappears from you altogether.
The differences become stark to him; realising what a foolish endeavour it is to want you. Though he is a prince, he is mutilated, a monster that will ruin you. You are too good for him, a warmth he had forgone in the face of misery, apathy, and hatred. The urge to conquer your every thought and sound, from your fingertips to the top of your hair... it is a gasping thought, one he shamefully sins at the blackest hours, tugging at his cock desperately to the thought of what you had looked like that day. The sound of your laughter, the pull of your lips when you smiled, the gasp you let out when you touched water that had been too cold— his mind bends and moves, and images of you, images that he will have to pray for the in morrow but cannot stop—
Moves him to completion, a strangle grunt of your name from his lips.
And yet, every night since, it happens again and again.
The more he pulled away from you, the more he wanted you. It is a debase urge, one more fit for his drunken cur of a brother than he, more creature than man.
But he cannot stop, so the torturous cycle continues.
Until you've had enough.
You know that during hours of inky night, the prince prefers the sanctum of the library. Not always, and lately, not often, but if there are a few things you learned in the hunting trips your father brought you that your mother never approved of, is that lying in wait, patient, deals a hand much better.
And on the fourth day of your waiting, your hair in a braid, a book on your lap, and a small candlelit close by as to not alert any spooked princes— the door opens at the Hour of Eel, the familiar and sorely missed footfalls of a quiet but sure-footed prince enters.
You admire him for a moment, hidden as you are, your stare drinks in the ever smooth of his twilight-spun hair, those pursed lips and straight lines. He's lithe but you know, having been offered his arm on every walk, he is made of hard muscle. Aemond always walks so smoothly, like a panther, or a gazelle, with the barest hint of austre he can never hide.
It's the prince in him, you giggle to yourself.
A sweet pang in your chest is the reminder of how much you missed his presence. And that ends tonight.
With his back turned, perusing a shelf, you shuffle and make yourself known with a soft, almost admonishing voice.
"Good eve, my prince."
He stiffens, hand poised against a spine of a tome. He barely turns, only his head to the floor, in the general direction of you. "My lady. I did not expect you to be here."
Frustrated, you sigh loudly. "Have I offended you so horribly? Dishonoured you in some way?"
"What?"
"Why can't you even look at me, Aemond?"
A sharp intake of breath. When he speaks again,his voice is changed. "You forget yourself, my lady."
There is an ache to your being, pursuing your lips. "You had given me permission with your given name, my prince, or have you forgotten?" Anger overcomes propriety. Fuck propriety. You charge toward him, heavy, angered steps until you're close enough. "Can't you at least look at me, look at me as you push me away as if I amnothing—"
He turns abruptly, one eye flashing as he grasps your elbows in a grip. His eyes zero in on your lips as a gasp falls, eyes widen— if you could see better, you'd notice the darkened gaze drinking you in. Your widened eyes, your open lips— and Sevens, only a robe hides your nightgown, the smooth expanse of your skin is more bare to him than ever before.
His beautiful, beloved stag.
"You have never been nothing to me, nēdenka riña brave girl," he hisses. "Konir sagon se drīve That is the reason."
"Prince A-Aemond?" you say. He is against the shadows of the moonlight, only his hands holding your own is illuminated.
A wrangled exhale falls from his lips. You follow the sound, worried.
"Are you? Injured? Are you okay?"
"I have not been okay for the moment I met you," he rasps, hands bruising in his hold.
"Well. Gods. I'm sorry. If it's such a offense—"
"It is an offence!" he growls, pulling you abruptly that you yelp, bathed in shadows and darkness together, your eyes adjust as you scramble to have thoughts apart from just being this close to him. Hearing a voice you had never heard of him before, untethered from his princely visage, from manners and proper, and it makes you burn.
The thoughts of wanting him close, of taking more of that space until you are chest to chest are blushing thoughts.
But there is honour still, for he holds you at least an arm's away.
"I have wanted you the moment I have laid eyes on you," he whispers, voice rough, exhausted. "And each day I spend with you, each hour— my honour stands in shambles, in ruins at my feet for I want you as a man wants a woman. Honourably and... and carnally."
You swallow, and he follows the movement like a predator tracking his prey. The blush in your cheeks, the way your lips press together as if you are just as starved of him as he to you— oh, you want him too, don't you?
One hand moves from your elbow to slowly reach up. Your arms, your collarbones, your neck. A thumb brushing your cheek and your eyes flutter.
Aemond wants to devour you.
"You plague me so, and I crave you."
"Then have me," you sigh.
His eye closes. "I cannot sully—"
You grasp his neck, bringing your mouth close to his. "You cannot sully what is freely given. If you crave me, I want you."
Honour unbound, a snap is tightened by the hunger that uncoils from a dragon that wants you. Aemond had grabbed the back of your head, tangled his fingers, and made a mess of your mouth.
Gasps and teeth, touching skin from where you can feel it— touching skin from where you unbuckle, tear through hem and push against cloth. When he slams you again the shelf, a moan so lewd falls from your lips that he groans, pulling your nightgown until he feels the heat from your very womanhood, and so, so wet, that when he flicks his thumb, curious and entranced, moving it around experimentally, you are a mess of sound and feeling, gasping his name, A-aemond, oh gods, please, and he is whispering, forgive me, f-forgive me, like love letters, like penitent, like a kiss from a traitor so wrong but so tasteful against your skin as he pulls himself from his confinements, holds you steady, and breaches your tight cunt.
Just before a scream tears through your throat, he devours your sound, holding you steady, until the pain bleeds pleasure and you are holding him like an anchor in dangerous seas. You cannot think or feel anyone else but him; what you are and who you are do not stand a chance as Aemond Targaryen swallows your senses.
It is harsh and fast, it is sweet and devouring, and more, more, more, you don't know what you're begging him, you feel like a devout and he feels like a god, grunting against your skin, biting through anything his teeth grazes. When he shifts you at an angle, finding a spot that feels like a lightning striking through your entire being, you are screaming, twitching, reaching a high so blinding it feels like white death.
"Is that it? That sweet spot?" he purrs, a breathless laugh, shocked and delighted drinking in your trembling and pleasure. "Your cunt is tight against my own, holding me like you never want to let go." You cry out when his cock hits that spot again. Your combined wetness makes an obscene squelch, just as pretty as the sound you utter. He smirks. "Can you hear that? Not even a whore can make a sound so sweet, hm?"
His teeth grazes your lips, sending shivers through your body as he licks the roof your mouth. "I want more of that sound. As your prince, you would grant me this, yes?"
But he isn't waiting for an answer, planting his feet and holding you steady, angling you back to that spot until he is snapping his hips, fucking into you as you can do nothing but beg and cry and tremble in the arms of a dragon taking what is his.
And you are.
You are his.
Maybe you had known it since then.
You definitely do when his seed floods your womb.
You want to say that that night was a fluke, a mistake that must be regretted. But once your gaze meets another, the fire burns, flickering and dancing, and it repeats. In quick fucks in dangerous spots, to slow, sweet love making in his room.
You are his, in mind, body and soul.
"Death is nothing but a friend," he murmurs against your neck, holding you close. Sweat cooling between your naked bodies. "It cannot stop me from finding you."
"I hope you say that to my father well," you tease.
" Marrying you is but the next step, my love. You are already mine as I am yours." He plays with your hair, brushing it past and kissing a bruise he made on your breast. "In face of every god and more, they will understand that we are but one soul."
You can plan the future in rose-coloured gaze for as much as you can, but the truth of marrying into a family with war brewing inside of it, held together by a dying king's hope and corpse fingertips— it is another matter entirely.
It all comes to a sharp clarity when Viserys I dies... and they keep his rotting corpse a secret.
And then they crown a whoremongering drunk.
"Aemond," you break into the silence, your entire being too cold for comfort. You had just come back from a privy council, a Green Council where the Queen had ordered you and your betrothed to reach Storm's End before the night fully breaks.
As if she knew where your loyalties are.
As if there is no question you will support the usurpation.
You turn to Aemond, busy with packing his things for they have bared the maids and people the of Keep. Because they are making Aegon as king and they know a revolt is underneath the floorboards.
"Aemond!"
"What? What has happened?" He looks confused, irritated. "We must make haste, my love, if we are to beat the storms at—"
"Princess Rhaenyra is Queen," you whisper but it could have been a scream. Saying it aloud gives you confidence, strengthening your resolved. You turn to him. "She is the King's heir, no one else. Aemond, this is an usurpation, unlawful in the eyes of—"
It takes little strides for him to reach you, for him to hold your neck in a tightened grip of warning.
"She," he spits, slow and careful as if you are a simpleton in need of teaching, "is a whore who is attempting to place her bastards on the Iron Throne. Rhaenys Targaryen held no chance of it, just as she. My brother is the firstborn son. He is king." His fingers dig into your skin. "You will do well as my wife to not speak of such blasphemy once more, do you understand?"
Your shock and fear melt from your visage, making way for compliance. You nod once. "Yes, my prince."
"Husband," he corrects, holding you much gentler but the weight of his hand is still there on your neck. A reminder. "Have you forgotten? We only come to Storm's End to officiate our union and your House's loyalty to the King. Once done, we will marry, yes?"
You nod, hands fisting. "Yes."
When he kisses you, harsh and needy, imprinting his will unto you— you close your eyes and plan how you make known to your Queen of their plots.
But Storm's End doesn't go as planned, does it?
Lucerys Velaryon, the Queen's son who had come as nothing more but an envoy for the rightful heir, and Aemond—what you thought to be your Aemond but a monstrous man who needed his revenge, who needed to draw blood for a grudge so deep, for an existence he finds so abysmal — had chased after him and came back to you bloodied, tearing up your dress, rutting in you in harsh, rough thrusts, as you listen to the storms from your window and think,
The Queen will never find his body. Her poor, sweet boy. Half in the belly of a beast, the rest spread and sunken into the water.
"I will not allow any marriage until the realm is at peace," your Lord Father rumbled with finality. He is not a smart man, truly, but he is a father. His gaze meets yours, full of meaning, of promises, before looking back at the seething prince. "You will have my bent knee for your king and for your war, but my daughter's hand shall be her own until the realm is at ease."
Your mother steps forward, her courtly smile on her face. "We want for her to have a grand wedding, my prince. She is the first of our charges to wed, and to a prince of the realm no less! By sure, at the time of war, we must err on the side of caution, as our coffers will no doubt focus on our troops. A future princess of the realm must be mindful, of course."
She bows in deference, your sisters following suit. Maris is the first to look up, defiance burning in her eyes.
You remember a conversation with him, feeling like a lifetime ago.
"Ask me, my prince," you teased. "What a storm is to a dragon. A creature is a creature. Even you must acquiesce to the way of nature for she has bowed to no one since her existence."
Aemond may be blood of the dragons, but he is surrounded by storms on all sides. The fiercest.
And your father will never marry you to a Kinslayer.
Yet you stay beside him, your duty now clearer than ever. Every new information you can grasp is sent back to the Queen and her council. In a courtier of the Greens and Traitors, you are the sole Black Stag. You use Aemond's adoration for you, his possessive obsession of what he thinks is love, as a protection and guise.
Any time he beds you, you sneak in moon tea. His bedding of you is just as much his hold on you and his defiance against your father's refusal. Once caught, you remind him he would not enjoy a bastard child. Especially at a time of war. Not after what they had done to his nephews.
"Do you want for me to suffer as your sister does?" The tears in your face then had not been a folly, for your heart broke for sweet Helaena and her sons. For Jaehaera. The world bleeds and bleeds, and all who die that reaches your ears are nothing more but innocents.
Aemond does not bed you after that, but he keeps you in his chambers, pulls you close as if he is trying to mould your skins as one. Times like this, your heart stutters. Your love to him and your morality as a person is at a test of swords.
You are in love with him,
He is a monster,
He has lost his nephews,
He has killed his own.
And it makes you wonder if you are a monster too, lying beside him as his bedmate, caring for him, wanting him still as his heart beats as your own, so connected to the umbilical of fate and chance while war rages, bodies falling all around you both, most from his own hand and word.
The war rages, and Harrenhal comes to view.
With it, a slaughter and a witch.
The worst of the massacre is the steely, lulling silence.
No one tells you that most of what an execution is that silence. That it amplifies each scream, each shout, each thick drop of a head as it falls on cobblestone. The sound is wet and a mouthful. Then it is nothing, consumed by that silence again.
You are locked in a room with a window that doesn't face the horror of what Aemond is doing. As if this is enough to shield you from what he is, what he truly is doing to win this war.
The worst part, committing genocide of an entire house is nothing more but a horrific grudge.
Strong blood spills, enough to make a lake.
By the time that night bleeds and a maid had entered with dinner to light a fire— your body is still so cold. No food has touched your stomach since the day before yet you retch.
Does loving a monster meant that you are just as monstrous?
Mayhaps it is still worth it, you muse in your silent madness, tears tracking your cheeks as the heaviness of your being stays. For who can say a monster can love you so monstrously? Who else can?
When Aemond comes back to you, freshly cleaned and a reminiscent of the prince that you loved, and he is making excuses of wanting you as you are, pawing at your clothes, you let him. You make love in the silence suffering from the massacre he had just finished. You hold him and kiss him in a desperation as you know this will be your ending.
That your Aemond is gone, or worse. He had never truly existed.
When you are both spent, satiated in a sweet glow, your head pleasantly quiet, he speaks about a plan.
A woman, a Strong witch, that promises him an assurance of winning with her sights and blasphemous magic. He had spared her among others, and that itself makes you look at him, truly look at him.
In exchange of what— for such things do not concede so easily as gratitude to mercy of one life, yes? Because desire devours itself. A snake eating itself.
"A child," he whispers against your battered head and bruised heart. "From my blood."
"A bastard," you murmur as he stiffens. "From a bastard Strong. Surely the irony is not lost on you? You have started this war by killing your bastard nephew, and you plan on ending it by fathering—"
"Do not question me," he says softly, grip tightening against your arms. Your eyes close, heavy with the weight of being a spy. Of loving him. "I will fuck a babe in her how many times it takes, and when the war is won, I will kill her and it. For your womb is the only place my lineage will live. I am doing this for the good of the realm. For us."
When he thinks you are asleep and leaves— you take your things and make haste to leave. Not once has your people left you in the arms of the kinslayer. Always one maid, always three guards from your father's army, loyal to only you.
You bundle up quick, and rush for the passage, you are blocked by a woman. Pale skin, dark hair, and eyes greener than wildfire. You know her before she speaks. You hold yourself to fight, and the witch of Harrenhal laughs.
"You have changed the tide of destiny, my lady." Her head tilts as if she can see past you and through you. "Once your choice has affirmed, your thread chosen, I cannot stand in the side of the One-Eyed Kinslayer without the Stranger coming for me. So instead, I will grant you one gift. One that will require no sacrifice."
"I do not want it."
"Ah, but it is a gift." She nods at your torso. "Your belly will soon take size, in it, his heir. You will not escape him as soon as he knows." Her head twists to the window. A raven flies. A storm grumbles. The sound comes first before the lightning strikes. A false storm. "Time is flowing, changing and twisting. He may have betrayed his kin, but he is still a prince. He will know soon."
Her green eyes glint as if she is seeing now and tomorrow. Now and a moon. Moon from a year. "You must run now. Hide and hide well."
You hold your stomach, bile rising in your throat. "Where? Where am I safe?"
A faint smile rises to her lips. "Your heir looks more like him than mine did. You will not escape him. But go north. As far North as you can. The fjords can hide him for a while. He will grow well there."
She moves away, letting you pass.
You never look back.
Dark locks. Baratheon hair.
A tuff of silver lock atop his head.
And the rest... his nose, his eyes. With your fingers, you pull his lids. Bloom in mullish blue with the faintest tint of iridescent violet. You know from your histories, that faint tint will overpower the blue.
Oh, he is utterly beautiful. Utterly yours. And utterly his father's son.
Rough breaths strangle out of your raw-bitten lips, brushing blood away from your babe's face, his head, his wet, silvery hair. Few they maybe, unmistakably Valyrian features they still are.
"Oh, he is beautiful," your mother murmurs, tears stain her cheeks. "Quiet as you were, as a babe. Looks just as much as you."
She is weighing his Valyrian features too. Your blood tried, but it seemed as if Aemond's grudge grasped your womb and affected your shared blood.
"We cannot stay," you say, still staring at him, admiring him. Your heart locking in place, steeling itself as you prepare to do your utmost to protect him. "We will have to travel posthaste."
Your mother swallows her grief. She had almost lost you. She will lose you again, now along with her only grandchild. "Where?"
"North. As far as North as we can."
Your mother nods. Ever a lady. "I will send a missive. The Lord Stark is loyal to the Queen and knows by how much you have sacrificed for this realm. He will protect you on his honour or he is no Stark."
You will need to hide. You will need to hide well.
You pull him close to your chest, hot tears freshly spilling from your eyes.
The witch had not lied, for your boy grew up amongst ice and warmth. He grows up with love from you, from the Lord Stark and his people, and love from his father in the way that he resembles him.
The slope of his nose, the sweet purse of his lips.
When your boy had gotten angry once, nothing but a quick burst, it shocks fear and tears from your eyes for you had seen the prince.Nothing more than a flash.
You pull him close and wound him to your heart as he cried, apologising for scaring you.
The North had granted you reprieve from the war as it came and went. Your betrayal to the Greens had mounted to the Black Queen's win. The betrayal of House Baratheon as House Stark and their bannermen joined the fray had squandered any rebellious thought on which sovereign will preside.
The last you heard of what became the Prince Regent was his surrender at the Battle Above God's Eye.
When you had cried that night, you did not know if it was from relief. Or fear.
But a black stag on white snow is easy to spot.
It takes years, yes, but the Stranger is but an old friend.
For when the day of your wedding to the Lord Stark arrives, a familiar screech of a dragon that your marrow will never forget— tolls the bell of death.
And when you looked up, snow swirling, holding onto your son that looked up in awe at the man who looked so much like him—
Aemond is smiling.
Sweet came the word— dracarys! — as Vhagar split her mouth opened and obeyed her rider.
What have I told you?
You are mine as I am yours.
In face of every god and more, they will understand that you and I are but one soul.
#dark!aemond x reader#dark!aemond#aemond smut#dark!aemond targaryen x reader#elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond x you#aemond targaryen x you#aemond x reader#aemond angst#aemond dark#hotd smut#aemond fanfiction#aemond fanfic#hotd fanfic
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Help @alamoudi-ghazi evacuate Gaza
got reached out by op to create a post for them in hopes for reaching bigger views and hopefully get to their goal to change their lives for the better
Before and after the war:
"What once stood as a symbol of hope, my Home is now nothing but shattered walls and debris. I had just finished building our home, a place where I could finally feel safe. But in the blink of an eye, everything was destroyed by the ongoing war. The sounds of explosions filled the air, and I fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Now, where our memories and dreams once lived, all that remains is devastation." -alamoundi
"Every day feels like a battle to survive, I am desperately trying to evacuate to safety before it’s too late, but I cannot do this alone. Please, your support can save lives." -alamoundi
so far here below it what they have so far and what their goal is: they are 23% of his long term goal
2,312€/10,000€
link to their GOFUNME HERE verification proof here and also here to the post where most the info is
cannot donate? REBLOG! REBLOG REBLOG REBLOG!!!! AND SPREAD FOR OTHERS DO NOT JUST LIKE
(if anyone can tell me how to put the links images to click for the gofundme instead of just the link pls let me know)
#palestine#gaza#free gaza#free palestine#to the river to the sea palestine will be free#palestine 🍉#gaza 🍉#reblog to boost#boost
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When You're Ready
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
Summary: A case hits you particularly hard and all you want to do is be alone
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings: Cursing (3x), Mentions of violence/blood, Pestering Sam, Fluff, Dean being a good and supportive boyfriend
Authors Note: I did a “Dean version” of this called Hauled Up where reader comforts Dean after his experience with Michael | These aren’t related in any way, but they’re just similar in nature | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡
Three Days Ago…
Your hands were hot, sticky, and covered in blood as you held the large hunting knife in your hands. As you held the knife with a firm grip, you stared at the lifeless body of the creature under you. You felt tears start to well up in your eyes, and a few hot tears fell down your cheeks. This particular kill had hit harder for you than it should have; and you were currently debating if you had done the right thing in killing it. The creature was killing in order to provide for its sick child, a child that’s now dead because of the three of you.
“Sweetheart…” you heard Dean say, but his voice sounded so muffled like him or you were under water. “Sweetheart…” he said again, his hands on either side of your shoulders now. He looked down at the body, and then looked to see that the knife was still firmly in your grasp. “Wanna hand me the knife?” He asked, and you shook your head; unsure of why you had said no. “Okay, you don’t have to,” he reassured. “You wanna stand up for me at least?” You hesitated for a moment before nodding; and you carefully started to get up, with Dean holding onto your shoulders in order to help you up smoothly.
You looked down at the ground, almost refusing to look at him. "Hey," he said, tilting your face to almost gently force you to look up at him. "You did the right thing, she was going to kill you," he told you. "You protected yourself," he added. His words somehow seemed so meaningless to you, as it didn't feel like you had done the right thing.
Without a second thought, you instantly wrapped your arms around him; gently crying into his chest. His hands wrapped around you as one of his hands started rubbing your back, quietly shushing you as a way to try and calm you down. "It's alright Sweetheart. Let it out," he whispered into your hair before kissing the top of your head.
Present Day…
Dean was in the War Room with his feet propped up onto the table reading more on the creature that the three of you had killed a few days ago. He knew that you guys had done the right thing, but it was killing him knowing how hard you were particularly taking this case. He wanted so much to help you, but he knew the only way he could was to just let you come to him — not being forced to talk about it when you weren't ready; the same way he processed things.
“She still hasn’t come out of the room uh?” Sam asked, walking into the War Room. Dean looked up and shook his head. “It’s been three days.”
“And?” Dean asked, sounding slightly defensive. “If she doesn’t want to come out of our room, I’m not going to force her.”
“Has she talked to you at all about what happened? Why it affected her so much?” Sam asked. He was genuinely worried about you, as he’s never seen you this affected by a case before.
“No, she hasn’t said anything to me,” Dean stated. “She’ll tell me when she’s ready.”
“Have you asked —” Sam started to say, and Dean quickly cut him off.
“I’m never going to force her to talk about something she doesn’t want to,” he said, as calmly as he could muster, even though there was slight annoyance in his voice. “If this is how she chooses to process, who am I to tell her she can’t?”
“Well, you are her boyfriend and —” Sam began to say, but again, he was cut off by Dean.
“And? Just because I’m her boyfriend, doesn’t mean I have a say in how she chooses to process something,” he stated. His emotions starting to become heightened; more defensive. “She’ll talk about it when she’s ready.”
“As her friend I’m worried,” Sam said, his voice sounding the tiniest bit sad. “I’m gonna go talk to her.” He got up from the chair he was sitting in and turned on his heels, about to walk out of the room. But Dean’s voice made him stop in his tracks.
“Talk to her if you wanna get chewed out,” Dean said, turning his attention back to the book he was reading. He knew if Sam went to go and talk to you about this; ultimately forcing you to talk about it, it was not going to end well for him in the slightest.
Lying underneath the covers alternating between sleeping and crying was essentially all you had been doing the last three days. The only times your routine was disrupted was when Dean came to bed at night and held you, or rubbed your back as you cried gently into his chest; or when he had forced you to leave the room to take a shower, a shower that consisted of you just sitting on the floor and him doing the washing for you.
You were thankful for Dean, thankful that he didn’t force you to leave the room nor did he force you to talk about what had happened; why you had reacted so strongly. You felt as though he was the only one that really understood, understood the fact that this was the way you processed things, as he was similar in this way.
But you knew that it wouldn’t be long until Sam would come and talk to you, or at least attempt to, as you had no desire to talk about it; at least not now any way. You knew that he deeply cared for you as a friend, deeply cared for you like a sister; but you hated how he would force either you or Dean to talk about your feelings when neither of you had wanted to. He was doing it out of pure concern of course; but neither you or Dean liked being pestered, when neither one of you did the same to him.
There was a light knock at the door, and you knew that it could only be one person: Sam, as Dean didn’t need to knock — it was his room too after all. “Y/N?” Sam asked, his voice slightly low. “Can we talk?”
“Is Dean hurt?” You asked, your voice was a little muffled, but you tried your best to speak loudly as you had no desire to get out from under the sheets.
“No but —” Sam began, but much like Dean did earlier. You cut him off as well.
“Is Dean dying?” You asked.
A puzzled look appeared on Sam’s face. “No but —”
“You can leave then,” you said. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“But the hunt the other —” before he could finish his sentence, you unearthed yourself from the sheets and grabbed one of the pillows from the bed and threw it in Sam’s direction, promptly hitting him just below the neck. “I’ll uh…I’ll leave,” he said, quickly shutting the door and leaving.
Sam walked back into the War Room, and Dean didn’t even bother looking up. “How’d the pep talk go?” He asked, turning the page.
“She threw a pillow at me,” Sam replied, sitting across from Dean.
“Ha!” Dean said, laughing. “That’s my girl,” he smirked. “Told you it wouldn’t end well for you brother.”
“I’m sorry if I’m the only one that’s concerned,” Sam stated.
Dean looked up now, closing the book he was reading; and shot Sam a stern, pissed off look. “You don’t think I’m fucking concerned about her?”
“Well you’re not acting like you are,” Sam replied.
“And how would you like me to act umm?” Dean asked. “Enlighten me.”
“I don’t know. Actually trying to get her to talk about what happened!” Sam exclaimed.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that this is how she just fucking processes things,” Dean said, his voice getting more angry and annoyed by the second.
“Well the way the both of you process your emotions is fucking jacked,” Sam knew that he had crossed a line with his comment, as Dean’s face looked like he was about one more sentence away from punching him in the face.
“I’m sorry we don’t process our emotions like you do,” Dean said; getting up from his chair and walking out of the War Room, leaving Sam who was currently holding his face in his hands.
If there was something that Dean hated and loved about you, was the fact that the both of you were so similar. He loved it because you two were always on similar wavelengths; almost as if you could read each others minds and emotions. The two of you just clicked; clicked to the point that sometimes it scared him how perfect the two of you were for each other. But at the same time, he hated it; hated it because he could see how stubborn he could be through you. But the thing that he hated the most, was that because he couldn’t help himself with certain things, he couldn’t help you with certain things — and now was one of those times.
He would never force you to talk about why this case had affected you as much as it did, as he knew that you would talk about it when you were ready. But what Sam had said to him really hit him hard because he was worried about you; but he didn’t want to show it because he knew that if you saw him worried, it would force you to talk about it when you weren’t ready just to appease him — and that was the last thing that he had wanted. He always wanted you to do things at your own pace; much like how you had let him do things at his own pace.
When he had entered the bedroom, the light was still off and he could see your outline underneath the covers, barely moving. “Hey beautiful,” he said softly.
“Hey stud,” you mumbled from underneath the sheets.
“Mind if I come and lie down with you?” He asked, already making his way toward the bed.
“I’d like that,” you said. You lifted up the sheets on his side of the bed so he could easily slide in. “Can I be big spoon?” You asked.
Dean smiled. “Of course.”
Stripping out of his jeans and flannel, he slid into bed and got underneath the covers with you; completely encasing yourselves. You wrapped your arms around him, and snuggled your face into his back, giving it a small kiss. “Thanks for not forcing me,” you said, after a few minutes of silence between the two of you.
“I’ll never force you to do anything Sweetheart,” he replied back, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. “I love you, and I’ll always support you no matter what.”
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#dean winchester x you#dean winchester x reader#spn#supernatural#spn one shot#supernatural one shot#spn imagine#supernatural imagine#dean x you#dean x reader#reader insert#female reader
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Finally designing the Sonic cast. or. at least. Some of them. There are too many characters in this franchise these are just the ones I think about the most often. So uh. Ya. I will leave any notes under the cut since I have a lot, although not every character will have notes because we haven't explored every character (and share them with @shadesofvermillionvoid)
(reblogs with tags/comments are appreciated. Thankyu)
Sonic
Sonic's earring is Chip's bracelet. I don't think Sonic particularly likes having anything on his wrists, and Sonic Forces made that worse
The regulators are based directly on Sonic Prime, as I love the regulators in that show and think the idea of giving Sonic something similar to Shadow's Inhibitor Rings makes a lot of sense
He got those little markings due to accidentally absorbing some of Chaos' DNA
Tails
Tails has goggles like in Sonic Boom, because I like Boom Tails' design
He still has his robotic bits from Sonic Lost World, he still managed to keep his free will, but what happened was Zavok used his ability to control robots to force Tails to fight Sonic. Since then, Tails has updated his cybernetics so he can filter out any suspicious frequencies that could take his free will.
The cannon arm from Lost World is now basically like the guns from Mario and Rabbids, where you hold it in your hand and it like covers your arm. It's like that
Tails is a skeptic. This is the funniest bit but also thanks to Boom (the bad luck episode) it has some precedence
Knuckles
Knuckles in our lore is deeply spiritual (we are developing Mobian belief systems because we are Insane) , and the first time he saw Sonic he noticed he looked similar to the murals in Hidden Palace. So when Sonic turned out to be good, that made sense to him, as Sonic was common in a lot of prophetic murals around the island.
Knux actually thought Sonic was a god at first. Then he saw him choke on a Chili Dog.
He put beads around his spines after the events of Sonic Forces, since the war was over and he could relax for the first time in months.
Amy
Amy, like Knuckles, actually has a deep connection to her belief systems. We haven't figured out everything exactly, but she and Knuckles quickly bond over this aspect of their lives
I styled her quills differently because I kind of like giving her something that makes it obvious she is a hedgehog
Similarly, I gave her a back spine, and the hedgehog nose, since I had never realized she has the same kind of nose as Tails or Cream
Shadow
Shadow wears eye makeup. He puts it on every morning. For a while he had to have help with it (from both Rouge and Amy), but eventually figured out how to do it himself
He has yellow sclera due to the Black Arms blood. Similarly, he has a longer tail than most Mobian hedgehogs, and he cannot retract his fangs. His blood is green
He has some less favorable urges. Mostly related to the whole "Black Arms feed on living creatures" things, but they don't crop up often
He and Rouge have matching earrings
Rouge
I based her design off of Sonic Prime because I honestly prefer that design more. One because she looks like an actual spy, and two because it's based on her Sonic Heroes design. Similarly, she has Prim's hair tuft
Gave her the bat nose a lot of people do because I like the way it looks
I don't have a lot of thoughts about Rouge as of right now I am so sorry.
She and Shadow have matching earrings
Silver
Silver has a lot more scrapes and burns from his future, even though it's been fixed several times
He is displaced from time. He doesn't feel connected to his current future, especially since in our lore he is one of the few people to remember Sonic 06 (it's because in our lore, Timeline B Silver got his powers from Mephiles, in the sense that those time powers had to go SOMEWHERE after the timeline reset.)
I am going to be designing a weird messed up form for Silver (like Werehog or Doom Morph for Sonic and Shadow) based probably on Mephiles to some extent
Blaze
Like Silver, she has remnants of powers from the previous timeline. She already had fire powers in Timeline A, but she has much stronger ones now, as she still has Iblis inside of her, although the powers are no longer destructive, as they were never provoked
Her dimension is actually a result of Solaris ceasing to exist. That power still existed and had to go somewhere, so it ended up resulting in the Sol Dimension.
#sonic the hedgehog#tails the fox#miles tails prower#knuckles the echidna#amy rose#amy the hedgehog#shadow the hedgehog#rouge the bat#silver the hedgehog#blaze the cat#sonic#ask to tag#germdraws#germ draws
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