#the answer to this has already occurred in the background

[hallucinateonpaperspines]

If some human cought*ash*cought ate a energon shard what would happen ?

Likely choke? I do not think eating a shard/rock would be pleasant... at least in that form.

Am I purposely being obtuse? Yes. Is there a reason for that? Also yes.

Read to find out, but, considering energon is simply energy in a physical form, there are going to be other ways to consume it.

[gloomwitchwrites]

secret baby trope with tf141? 😌😌

Anon! OH. MY. GOOOOOD. I love this. I love this. I love this. Secret baby? Yes, please. I adore this trope. I bow down to you for requesting this. I don't know who you are but I wish that I did. I can absolutely get behind a secret baby trope. I actually read a book recently that was a bit like that and I enjoyed it so so much.

I had an absolute blast putting this one together. Seriously. You totally indulged me here. Thank you!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, stalking, possessive behavior, second chances, pregnancy / unplanned pregnancy, parenthood, reunions, light angst

Word Count: 2.3k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle relaxes further into the couch. The air around him is slightly smoky.

He brings his vape to his lips and takes a hit. The action is calming, and that’s exactly what he wants. Kyle is rotting, and it feels fucking good.

Between missions, Kyle is always somewhere, but right not there is no reason for him to do anything. He can relax. He can watch reality television, eat himself to sickness, and wank off until his wrist hurts.

It’s bloody fucking brilliant.

Kyle isn’t attached. He has no kids. The only responsibility required of him is the one he has to himself. Which is why he’s splayed out on the couch in nothing but grey sweatpants and his vape. The television is on, and the volume is low. It’s mostly for background noise. Kyle isn’t really paying attention to it.

With a vape in one hand and his phone in the other, Kyle scrolls through his contacts. There are all the usual people there, but there are also a slew of general acquaintances and a long list of people he’s had it off with but never took anything further.

He pauses at one name, and old memories resurface.

They just happen upon him. Kyle doesn’t drag them up from the depths. They linger there, and Kyle remembers all the fun he had with you.

You were just a small fling. A few lengthy but deliciously good fucks that tops most of the sex he’s ever had in his life. There have been times since he last saw you—over a year now—that Kyle has thought about what could have been.

You were sweet. A potential partner. But Kyle didn’t follow through. He would regret it, but things can’t be taken back. There is no turning back the clock to change what has already occurred.

Kyle’s thumb hovers above the screen.

He shouldn’t. He really fucking shouldn’t.

But he does. Because why not?

Switching over apps, Kyle starts scrolling social media. He doesn’t usually give a shit about what’s happening in people’s lives, but he is curious about you. What are you up to? What are you doing? If you’re not attached, maybe he could call you up, rekindle what was once there.

You don’t have him blocked on anything—thank fuck—and Kyle delves into your socials, exploring your life. At first, the small infant in your arms is nothing to him, but then the tiny human keeps reappearing, and Kyle pauses.

Kyle scrolls a bit more. And stops.

Just three—no—four months ago, there are a slew of friends and family congratulating you on the birth of your son.

Your…son.

Kyle thinks back. Does the math in his head.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sitting up, gaze glued on the screen.

He scrolls back, studying every photo where your son is featured. Kyle’s heart slams in his chest. The features Kyle sees are features he sees every time he looks in the mirror.

“Fucking hell,” groans Kyle, the phone nearly slipping from his hands as he slumps back against the couch.

Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you contact him?

The very thought of you not reaching out doesn’t sit well with him. It sits heavy in his stomach.

“Fuck,” says Kyle, switching over to his contacts.

He finds Simon’s number and taps the call button.

It rings on the other end, and Kyle doesn’t think that he’ll answer. But he does.

“Kyle,” comes Simon’s gruff voice.

Kyle sighs. “I need you to track someone down for me.”

John Price

John doesn’t like cutting off contact with people.

He likes to keep in touch, even if it’s just an acquaintance. But things happen, like a fucked phone with no way to retrieve contacts, and the only people he’s able to retrieve are those he sees on a regular basis.

Your number is gone. And John has no way to get it back.

Legally that is. He could try and find you in the system. What information he has is minimal, but then again, the two of you only had a one-night stand. He’s prone to it since he’s never in one place. Always moving around.

John would like to settle down one day, but his work is his life, and it just doesn’t seem possible to have a family and be consistent with them when he’s constantly called away.

He chews it over while sitting in his office. It’s late, and there isn’t anyone else here but him. Late nights like this are calming to him—a time to process away from the events of the day. John has your first name, where you might live, and a general idea of what your number is. But he isn’t certain, and it’s hardly enough to go on.

Sighing, deciding he’d rather find you than not, John turns on his computer. It takes a while to get the classified systems he has access to. No one tracks what he does on here, and no one will think twice if they do happen to look. John runs lots of names and faces through this system.

John waits. Ponders. Enters in different spellings and every possible clue to try and seek you out. With every new search, John begins to lose hope. He might be completely fucked. Completely at a loss.

If this doesn’t work, he might not ever see you again. And for some goddamn reason, that bothers him.

He tries one last time, expecting nothing, only for his heart to drop into his stomach,

“There you are,” he murmurs, leaning forward, gaze sweeping over your passport photo.

Grabbing a piece of paper, John jots down your phone number and current address. He also notes your top place of employment. You might not be there anymore, but that isn’t an issue. He has enough.

John shuts off his computer and grabs his coat. He’ll try to reach out first by phone and go from there.

“You have the wrong number, bud.”

The man’s southern drawl irks John. “You sure?”

“Yeah I’m fucking sure. Quit calling.”

John frowns as the line goes dead. The number on file isn’t recent.

“Fuck,” mutters John, running his hand through his hair.

This is getting him nowhere. The only other option is showing up at your home or place of employment, but he can’t do that unless he’s on scheduled leave. That’s months away.

And each month is fucking agony.

When John finally makes it to your front door, nervousness sets in. This is completely fucking weird. Who the fuck shows up at someone’s door months after a one-night stand? Him apparently.

But fuck it. He’s here.

Either he does this and things go great, or things go to shit and he doesn’t need to worry about it anymore.

John takes a deep breath, and then pounds on the door. He takes a step back, hands in his pockets as he waits. There is a stretch of silence, and then he hears it—the turn of a deadbolt.

The door swings open, and there you are, just as beautiful from when he first saw you. At first, your brow scrunches in confusion, and then your eyes widen.

“John,” you breathe.

He smiles, and then his gaze drops as your hand moves away from the doorknob to land on your stomach. Your belly is round. Protruding. You’re—oh shit.

“Is that—”

“Yours?”

Fuck.

John glances up into your eyes and swallows.

You shift on your feet, one hand resting against the doorframe.

“It is,” you confirm.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon shouldn’t. Really—it’s fucked up. Wrong.

But he does it anyway because there is no fucking way he’s letting you go even if he has to watch from afar.

He’s done a lot of things he isn’t proud of, and losing you is near the top of the list. Not that he blames you for breaking it off. You had every right. Simon is always gone. Always away. And he rarely thought of you when he came home.

Communication can be a difficult thing for him. He knows this, and yet he couldn’t make an effort to do better with you. It wounds him. It does. Like a sharp blade to the gut.

But that is secondary now. Simon has dismissed it.

Sure, you’re not truly his now, but you’ll come back to him. He’ll make sure of it.

In the dark, Simon watches. Before him is a slew of screens and all of them show different angles of your home. Simon also has your phone tapped, and in another window, he can lurk through your messages and emails.

It’s where he first learned you were pregnant.

You know, and haven’t told him. Haven’t reached out in the slightest. Simon has to see all the results and tests come back via your email. He has to log into your medical portal to access specific things which is goddamn frustrating but he needs to know.

You are fucking pregnant. With his child.

It’s growing in your belly.

Even through the camera feed, Simon can see the swell of your stomach. He wants to be there, to stand beside you, and rest his hand against it. He wants to feel his son kick. Because you are carrying his son in your belly. Simon saw the results.

It’s fucking painful watching you like this.

He’s stayed away for a bit. Not engaging.

But you’ve broken it off before, and came back eventually.

Simon just needs an in again. All he has to do is figure it out, and then he can put away these fucking screens and surveillance. He can be by your side and be there when you give birth.

Leaning back in his chair, Simon observes every screen, his palm rubbing against his thigh as he considered his options.

He has to play this right.

He has to.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Do you think you’ll ever find your woman again?”

Johnny grins behind his pint glass. “If she’s here,” he replies.

The beer is perfectly cold and goes down easily. It’s refreshing since it’s so bloody hot outside.

Johnny didn’t think he’d ever come back to the little seaside town. He came between missions—a way to relax and get away for a bit. With only a few hundred residents, it seemed like the perfect place. What he didn’t expect was to meet a woman that upended his fatigue and made him glow a little brighter.

He learned your name while exploring a local pub. You were a pretty thing. Caught Johnny’s eye immediately. With several beers fueling him, Johnny struck up a conversation, and you were receptive to his charm—melting like butter over fresh toast.

That evening, the two of you jumped from pub to pub, having a bloody good time. It was fucking magical. Afterward, the two of you ventured back to Johnny’s hotel room. But the two of you didn’t have sex. It wasn’t until the next morning that Johnny actually fucked you.

Johnny had presented himself, you slid right into his arms. The hotel bed was well-used. There wasn’t a moment after that Johnny didn’t have his dick inside you. He kept you full and screaming his name for an entire fucking week.

But when that week was up, the two of you parted ways. You gave Johnny your number, and for a couple months, you were consistent in your texts and phone calls. Then it all changed, and you began to contact him less frequently.

Eventually, you didn’t talk to Johnny at all.

He was hurt at first. He tried to reach out. But Johnny didn’t hear a thing—and he left you to it. Maybe someone else arrived into your life. Johnny can respect that even if he doesn’t exactly like it.

It sucked then. And it still pains him a bit now. Johnny liked you when you left—and if he’s being entirely honest with himself—he still fucking likes you.

Maybe you’ll be here. Maybe you won’t.

Kyle is with him this time. A guy’s trip. Price isn’t one for vacations, and Simon has his own shit going on.

“We could try that pub again,” suggests Kyle. “See if she’s there.”

Johnny shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Did she live here?” asks Kyle.

Johnny nods. “Aye. Sure did.”

Kyle bobs his head. “We’ll find her.”

The two of them sit outside a small pub. The air is laced with salt from the ocean, and the sun is out, shining bright. It’s hot, but it’s a beautiful fucking day.

Johnny hums in agreement, bringing his pint glass back to his lips. For a moment, Johnny glances away from Kyle, looking out across the road where people walk along the pavement. He frowns.

Is that?

No. Can’t be.

His focus becomes a tunnel, and all he can see is the woman across the road. It’s you. There is no doubt. He knows that body, that hair and smile. You haven’t changed all that much. Not really.

There is another woman with you—a friend that Johnny met briefly before you and him went off on your own.

But that isn’t what has Johnny’s attention.

You’ve turned, and Johnny can see a swell to your stomach. Your hand cradles it affectionately.

“What is it?” asks Kyle, but his voice is distant.

“That’s her,” murmurs Johnny, his pint glass lowering back to the table.

You don’t see him. You’re chatting with your friend, features animated. The curve in your stomach is fairly large, and a deep twisting in his stomach arises, moving toward his throat.

“Oh fuck,” says Johnny as Kyle shifts to look in the direction Johnny is staring.

“Is that?”

“It fucking is.”

“She’s fucking pregnant.”

Johnny swallows. “Aye.”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s likely the fucking truth. The baby is probably his. No wonder you stopped talking to him. Maybe you thought it best to cut off contact when you found out.

But that doesn’t sit right with him either. If you had told him, Johnny could have been there for you sooner—not finding out like this.

You throw your head back and laugh, playfully hitting your friend’s arm as she says something funny. When you wipe at your face, clearing tears, your gaze shifts, and all the humor leaves your face.

You’re staring right at Johnny.

And he’s staring back.

taglist:

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@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

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@whisperwispxx @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @arrozyfrijoles23

[multifandomme]

Disarmed

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Female Reader

Summary: During a mandatory training session, you unexpectedly uncover a new kink and Emily is more than happy to indulge you. Based on this anon request.

Genre: Smut, (choking, semi-public/public?, fingering, pet names, light praise, degradation, daddy kink), not suitable for minors.

Word Count: 2.9k..

This piece is for day 15 of kinktober under the ‘choking’ prompt.

More works from me here. || Masterlist here. || Kinktober 2024 Masterlist here.

––--– ♡ –––--

––--– ♡ –––--

The sky had yet to be licked with a trace of dawn’s light, the only solace found in the caffeine that thrummed steadily through your veins, listless eyes flickering around in the silence. It was unusual for the team, though incomplete, to be so void of life, but Strauss and her dark magic had the ability to drain the fun out of any situation.

This time, Strauss had stooped to new lows, had marched into the morning briefing and blindsided half of you with firm instructions to abandon the case and attend a mandatory training session instead. Of course, the reaction she had understandably yielded had been less than favourable, though presented with no choice, you were forced into compliance.

Unshakable tension hung in the air, unnerving quiet persisting and breached only by the sound of the car engine in the background. Emily’s warmth bled into you, her body pressed snugly beside you, her hand lingering against your knee. Spending time with her appeared to be the only saving grace, every occasional stolen glance forcing the emergence of a smile upon your lips and one that even Strauss could not diminish. 

But you knew that the moment would be short-lived, knew that the second Emily stepped into the training facility she would transform, the demeanour of a hardened agent soon to possess her. It was alluring to witness, her competitive streak free of its cage and only evoking an envy in you towards any unsub that was ever lucky enough to be subdued by her. You had imagined it countless times, desperate to feel the weight of her wrath, her gun trained on you, her voice purring in your ear. For now, the fantasy would have to suffice. 

The vehicle ground to an abrupt halt, your devious daydreams hastily thrust to the outskirts of your mind. Morgan sighed audibly in agitation as he regarded the training facility with disdain, serving only as a reminder of a job left undone, the knowledge that cases were certain to be stacking in your absence. This sound roused Hotch into rotation as he twisted in the driver’s seat, his hands retracting from their prior state of uninterrupted white-knuckling around the steering wheel.

“I know that none of us want to be here,” Hotch acknowledged, flatly, his mirrored indignation unable to be hidden, “just follow instruction, stick to protocol and maybe we can get back in time to pick up the case, which I know is what we all want.”

“How the hell did the rest of the team get out of this one?” Morgan flared, his head shaking in avid disapproval, his jaw flexed, “Strauss has it in for the four of us, this is just another one of her games.”

A lengthened pause occurred as Hotch jostled to land on a diplomatic answer, though his agreement was glaringly obvious. He knew that this was merely another strategy to antagonise the team and place all of you under a microscope in the hopes that you would fail. Morgan had already let her sneak under his skin, falling victim to the effect she had been intent on provoking.

“Then let’s not give her any more ammunition,” Hotch nodded, his expression determined, intense.

“What’s the first scenario?” You probed, curiously, the lewd thoughts you had stowed away earlier suddenly sparking back into existence, entranced by the vision of Emily in her bulletproof vest, wondering how it would feel to have it slammed against you.

Morgan unravelled the little brochure that Strauss had kindly provided earlier, his eyes scanning the first page, a scoff of bemusement emitting. “Hostage negotiation.”

The revelation elicited a burst of excitement inside of you, a sense of renewed purpose holding you in its grasp as you conjured a menacing plan. Emily noted the shift, suspicion quick to cloud her as she narrowed her eyes. 

“I could be the unsub,” you suggested, coolly, a dismissive shrug following suit for good measure, the deranged delight threatening to hack through and expose your true motive.

And manipulating a profiler was your first mistake, Emily's irises swirling with something newfound, an unmistakable glint that soundlessly informed you that she had suspected your underhandedness. You had expected her to dissuade you, to foil your plan for her own satisfaction and yet, she remained quiet, collected, a sweet simper fused to her lips.

"You sure you can handle that?" She retorted, the soft lilt in her voice only inflaming the thoughts that plagued your brain.

Emily knew exactly what she was doing, but you also had an ace to play.

"Come on, Prentiss," you appealed, vehemently, your lips inching closer until your breath fizzled against her ear, the proximities deliberate enough that a marked whisper had the potential to go unheard by the others. "I have no problem overpowering you in the sack, baby, why don't you give me a challenge for once?"

A musing scoff emanated from her, eyes darkening to a shade unfathomable, her expression hastily correcting itself, self-control successfully slashed by the daring nature of your words. Bite marks imprinted themselves into the full flesh of her lips, her gaze averted as she threw a nod of confirmation towards Hotch.

"Let her do it, Hotch," Emily echoed, feigning supportiveness, though the hand upon your knee mutated its caressing touch to something more ominous, squeezing with vigour, with warning. "She's desperate for it."

"Give the girl a chance, Hotch," Morgan chimed in.

Hotch ruminated on the idea, the chasms of his frown lines deepening in his state of thought, his face unreadable until it melted into certainty.

"It's settled then," he affirmed. "Emily will negotiate. Morgan, you and I will serve as backup. Let's get into position."

––--– ♡ –––--

Anxiety rattled as you awaited the inevitable onslaught, an agent from another unit knelt before you, posed as the hostage, your gun nudging into the back of his skull. You should have been fearful of failing given the high stakes involved, Strauss gunning to disband the BAU and strip you of your jobs, but you were enthralled by the unfolding situation. Your heart thudded, so ferociously that your ribcage seemed to bounce visibly with every pulsation, a familiar tingling sensation between your legs as you prepared to face the crowd of agents. But you only cared about one of them.

And when the battering footfalls flooded, you stared out into the sea of unfamiliar faces until you identified the one that educed goosebumps, libido splintering. Emily gripped her gun forcefully, her aim never straying as she followed your every movement with it, her callous demeanour only furthering the thrill that racked through you.

"FBI! Put the weapon down!" Emily bellowed, unequivocal in her demand. "Nice and slowly, let me see your hands."

"Listen to her," Morgan encouraged, his voice gentler, coaxing. "She's trying to help you but you need to let this man go, okay?"

The words did not register, unable to pry your lustful gaze from the woman before you, her steps painstakingly slow as they grew nearer, cautious in her approach. You almost considered surrendering, too engrossed by Emily for logic or reason to occur to you, every thought placing her at the singularity. And God, you wanted her, wanted to bow out of this exercise and feel her flush against you, inside of you, all over you.

"Don't come any closer," you demanded, unfaltering on your designated target as you repositioned the handgun against the hostage's temple this time, the threat coercing Emily into a slight retreat. "I'll shoot, do you hear me? I will shoot him."

Emily swallowed hard, a fleck of annoyance passing over her eyes in the realisation that she would have to resort to faux appeasement. As expected, she safely holstered her weapon, her teeth gritted almost undetectably in response to her state of powerlessness, having assumed that a feat like this would have been effortless. She had underestimated you.

"I have put away my gun," she reiterated, her hands raised to the skies, her fate undecided, at your mercy. "I won't hurt you, but I'm gonna need you to let him go first, okay? Nobody needs to get hurt."

Compelled to heed her, the uncompromising cinch upon your gun devolved into a state of wavering, the compulsion to submit to her almost too staggering to ignore. It was only when you noticed her form closing in that you had realised how convincing she had been, how she had managed to render you bewitched without being consciously aware of it. You had forgotten the existence of protocol, the purpose of your task sliding away until it no longer mattered to you or at all. And then, your gun clattered to the ground beneath, the hostage fleeing into the arms of Morgan who awaited him.

Under the guise that the exercise had been concluded, your eyes travelled to land on Emily, met instead by the whirring of flashing throws and punches. The pain had not yet materialised, too bewildered to arrive upon a single emotion nor feeling until your neck found itself encircled, besieged by a wrecking force.

The surge of cold against your back signified that you had been successfully wrangled to the ground, a striking white smile peering down at you from above. A sensation of weightlessness washed over you, the hands around your neck only willing you further to places unknown, places that you had not yet explored, your vision clouded in white-hot.

"More," you rasped, your thoughts so exquisitely confused, so nonsensical that you were convinced that the voice belonged not to you, but to someone far in the distance. "Daddy."

"Come on, Prentiss," Morgan's voice pierced your brain, half-startling you as you thudded back into reality and reacquainted yourself with your surroundings. "Now that's just overkill."

The pressure released itself and subsequently filled you with disappointment, Emily clambering from you with a sickening smile.

"Really?" She questioned, blatant amusement sported upon her features, the sound of footsteps retreating as the training room gradually emptied. "Begging me to choke you in front of all of those agents, hm?"

A pitiful whine was all that you could gather, any further response thwarted by the sound of Hotch's voice as he peeped his head around the doorway.

"Take twenty," he spoke, his voice echoing out into the newfound hollowness of the space, you and Emily now the only remaining inhabitants. "Target practice is next on the agenda. We'll regroup at the range."

Emily nodded in agreement before scanning the room to assure that you were alone, panic percolating inside of you until it brimmed. You had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, left vulnerable in the desolation.

"A lot can happen in twenty minutes, pretty girl," she hummed, her mouth still corrupted by that same, sinful smirk. "I could help you out," she considered, a finger pressed to her lips, as if she was waiting to be convinced. "The question is, are you going to be quiet if I do?"

Instantly, you sucked in a breath, careful as not to solidify an unfavourable decision, the remnants of a whimper swallowed away.

"I'll be quiet, Daddy," you acceded, fighting avidly to veil your growing desperation.

The surrounding scene blurred the second the words had been uttered, the cool flooring against your back replaced by the feeling of a rugged wall. Your vision vacillated between clarity and murk, unable to shake the residual feeling of light-headedness from earlier. Two hands fisted into your vest, her strength pinning you in place as you battled to meet her gaze.

And when you did, you weakened into a state of undivided pliability. You were hers to take, she knew that.

"So fucking typical of you, isn't it, angel?" She taunted, a low chuckle expelling from her, two fingers teasing a downward stripe over your larynx and eliciting a subconscious shudder. "You just can't seem to control yourself around me, can you?"

Refuting her was a lost cause, your hunger so visceral, so blatant that you would do anything to persuade her into quelling it.

"No, I can't," you admitted, breathlessly, your focus fixed upon those trailing fingers, praying for the revival of that same crushing pressure, praying to a god that you didn't believe in if it meant you could relive that feeling of ascension. "I want you, Daddy. I need you."

Flames roared in her eyes, a searing heat radiating from her despite the heavy obstruction of clothing, her hand spreading to reprise its role around your throat. This time, the force was purposely unsatisfying, light as you sprung forward in search of more.

"You want me to choke you, baby?" She asked, almost innocently, her tongue curling against the corner of her mouth in unbridled amusement. "You want me to make you beg for air, hm? Make you forget how to breathe?"

The second you opened your mouth to formulate a response, a harshened grip unleashed itself, the sounds you had vowed to conceal blurting out into the silence.

"That's it, whine like a whore," Emily crooned, mockingly, her teeth grazing your earlobe, the vibration of her words causing shockwaves to ricochet, "you're just loving this aren't you, angel?"

Every drop of moisture drained from your mouth, your jaw slack as you struggled to will in a trace of oxygen. Emily merely smirked as you flailed in her grasp, her face dangerously close as she basked in your strife. For a fleeting moment, she released you and you exploited this scintilla of freedom to calm your burning lungs, your breath erratic, audible.

But the pressure did not let up for long, merely re-emerging in lower territories, her free hand smoothing over your pussy and inducing a loudened moan.

"Fuck."

With time stacked against you, Emily could not afford to subject you to the prolonged suffering that she loved so much, the pads of her fingers soon pressed to your folds. A menacing grin tugged at her lips, her cheeks swelling as she noted the sheer abundance of arousal. A stifled grunt exuded from her, your eyes flickering to acknowledge that she appeared to be as voracious as you were, undeniably pleased to find you drenched, delighted to be the cause of it.

"Filthy girl can't stop herself from getting wet," she growled, "so pathetic, baby."

"Daddy, please," you begged, twisting your neck against her palm in a helpless bid to coax her into compliance, "Squeeze harder."

And Emily delivered, your expectations surpassed as your eyes widened in shock, the bones in your neck appearing to rearrange from the brutality of her grasp. It was heaven and hell combined, the torturous motion of her fingers toying with your clit causing reality to elude you in its entirety. Pleasure burrowed into every pore, lungs burning for alleviation as you dragged in tiny, futile bursts of oxygen, eyes flickering as your mind soared, detached from you.

"And you thought you could overpower me?" Emily huffed out in irony, three ruthless digits shoving their way inside of you and prying your eyes wide. "Not very smart are you, princess," she gibed, her nimble fingers curling deliberately without warning, "you only think about getting fucked, huh? Mindless little thing."

The rigorousness of her action had you elevating to your tiptoes, frantic to encourage her into a deeper invasion of you. This thoughtless bliss was where you prayed to remain, to live out your days, with Emily intruding every part of you. You were positively addicted, relinquishing all control to her ministrations, a smile pinned to her lips as she denied you of breath and regifted it at her own accord.

The sound of punishing fingers wading through your arousal engulfed the quiet, joined by the shameless squeals that fled from you. The consequences of your volume would surely be rectified later, and would probably exist in the shape of Emily's hand spanking you red, raw. You didn't care, didn't have the energy inside of you to put up much of a fight now, your self-control reduced to tatters with no sign of reassembling just yet.

"Close, Daddy," you mumbled, your voice stifled, trembling. "Please."

A cloudy fuzz filled your eyes, Emily's silhouette eclipsed as you succumbed to the dizziness that lapped at you. The ceaseless pounding of her fingers kept you on the cusp of alertness, each swipe of your clit rousing your conscious mind into waking.

"Cum for Daddy," Emily cooed, her lips etching flitting kisses into your cheek, her grip on your throat loosening ever so slightly. "Good girl, cum for me, princess."

And as your climax swept you up, her hand retracted from your throat to muffle the screams that spilled, unchecked, fading against her palm as you floated away. You didn't want to return, lost amongst the stars that sparkled in your vision, shooting around until they gradually ebbed away. Emily withdrew first, suckling ardently on the arousal that covered her digits, triumph fulgurating in her orbs.

"Ready for target practice?" She questioned, cockily, studying your disheveled state with an unrivalled satisfaction. "You know, you can always sit this one out if you're not in the right... state of mind."

"Oh, I'm ready, Prentiss," you retaliated, determination falling to mask your state of disarray as you readjusted your clothing with a cunning smirk. "I just can't wait to watch you lose to me twice."

Emily paused, dumbfounded as you barged her out of the way, your shoulder purposely colliding with her. An audible scoff escaped her, frenzied footsteps soon to follow behind you.

"Okay, now you're really in trouble."

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[kryptznnn]

♡/♛- It's Been A While

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➸ INTERESTS; -mha!shouta aizawa x quirk-using!freader

➸ BACKGROUND; - after an attack at the high school you studied in, you were requested by your work firm and the firm of that school to work as a teacher there for extra security, incase an attack were to occur again to protect the students (and teachers). Unfortunately, it won't be as easy as you expected when you rekindle with old friends, and a specific someone.

➸ WARNINGS; - wc. 2.1k uu slow burn, second chance, ex-lovers, medication/pill usage, dissociation, anxiety mentions.

➸a.i; - omg new category!! im working a lot guys brace w me!! ill be working on other masterlists and stories and such trustttt, also this is going to be a fanfic!! no more one-shots sorry for the torture

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♡/♛- It's Been A While Masterlist

"Please, there has to be some other way. I'm already busy enough here, this is way out of my league." You complained, tossing your hands up in the air.

"There is no other way" your supervisor responded, you sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"There's no one else available to take on this job?" You asked your boss, who only nodded as he sat at his table with crossed arms.

This was unbelievable, you of all people in this city and they choose you. You're one of the busiest women out there, especially outside of your so called 'once in a blue moon hero duty'. You're part of a government organization for fuck's sake, your entire job is to stay under wraps. You had people who depended on you, a firm to carry on your shoulders as second in command to your chief, just to give it all up to become a teacher back at your high school.

"As of now the school could use all the extended help they can get. You have connections to the school and have learned there before, plus all other heroes with solid quirks that would work in their favor are either already working there or are too busy to be there for hours on end, but you can." He said in a cool tone, handing you all of the paperwork and pointing to the amount of damage and casualties that happened during the accident, you only closed your eyes and shook your head.

"Okay" you said softly, picking up the papers and stacking them in order, placing them in your folder and shoving the folder in your work bag, not wanting to argue. He thanked you for your cooperation and told you you'd start the beginning of next week, Monday. Today was Thursday, giving you a little time to mentally prepare yourself for what was to come.

Of course, as any normal person you were curious, thousands of questions running through your mind which you were sure you'd get answers to during the tour and explanation that was awaiting you over the weekend.

You weren't too concerned about working or teaching students, you'd already knew all about them and had also known you'd cover a chemistry class, you were concerned about using your quirk.

The last time you had used it in the face of danger, things didn't end well for you. It's a great quirk yes, but the aftermath and side effects of it always left a heavy toll on you.

It truly was an accident, well not really. It was ruled out as a case of self-defense and your firm was to cover the damages. You were out with a friend from work until a large commotion was heard outside, where you two had stepped out, ready to leap into action and help whoever was in need.

Apparently, it was a hijack situation on a train in the city, that was now approaching downtown at an insane amount of speed. Your friend had already agreed she'd help escort people out of the way and into safer zones, in case the bus had crashed in the area you and hundreds of other people were in.

You nodded in response, quickly thinking what around you could've been useful to possibly slow it down or bring it to a stop in time to call for reinforcements.

Unfortunately, a child had wandered off into the middle of the road ahead of you without realizing it, and without thinking you ran up, covering her with your body and you held out your hand to shield her, shutting your eyes tightly and using your quirk.

Unintentionally, you had now turned the train into water, wetting you and all other people downtown that were trying to avoid the train crash. Thankfully for you the train was a rather medium sized one, so the water produced from the train by your quirk hadn't caused any damage downtown.

You quickly stood up with the little girl by your side, who quickly ran to accompany her mother once she spotted her in the crowd. You stood there in awe, looking at everyone else and turning back around, seeing the hijackers now sitting on the floor, dripping from head to toe in water.

You were slightly relieved, thankful you hadn't turned them into water. Soon after your friend accompanied you to, tying up the three troublemakers and leaving them off to the side and awaiting law-enforcement to arrive.

Having the powers of matter transmutation meant the world was your canvas, all you had to do was touch it. Creating any matter, you had into something you wanted to, but the only downside being that you weren't able to convert things to people or animals, whether living or not.

You didn't necessarily see it as a bad side, it honestly could be a blessing in disguise, especially since you had such a wild imagination when you were younger.

As you grabbed your belongings from your office and made your way back to your car you began to think about your first day working at the high school.

You loved children, well... most of them. Teenagers now were such pains in the ass, and you've had your fair share with a few, either being rude, weird, or just freaky horn-dogs that obviously weren't loved enough by their parents.

Hopefully things wouldn't go back when you start, and you didn't have to use your quirk as often as all other teachers in the school do.

Unlocking the door to your car you opened it and placed your bag inside as you sat in the driver's seat, starting your car and driving off back to your apartment.

After around 5 to 10 minutes of driving you stop at a red light, resting your head back onto your seat with a sigh, mentally drained for the day. As you waited for the light to change color you felt as if a pair of eyes were on you, before you were able to turn around and see who it was the light had turned green, you only shrugged it off and drove off, keeping your mind on how Monday would be.

Maybe it was the students or the teachers, but an uneasy feeling rested in your stomach, making you feel wheezy. It definitely was the thought of the teachers, more or so your new colleagues.

Well not new colleagues, more like old friends and companions. You knew them all well enough, being classmates and close friends back in high school and distancing after graduation and everyone else focusing on going professional in the hero department.

You had always envisioned yourself as a hero there, waiting to fight side by side with everyone, but towards the end you realized that without having proper control of your quirk you were probably safe enough to not do so. Protecting yourself and everyone else in case of an accident or any immediate dangers.

Guilt slowly began to eat you alive as you arrived in the parking lot of your apartment complex, parking and shutting your car off before taking a deep breath and exhaling sharply.

This was not going to go your way, and you know it.

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It was now Monday morning and honestly, that 3-day weekend wasn't enough to prepare yourself for what was to come. You hadn't gotten any sleep from the night before out of overthinking, and honestly you weren't even tired.

Your brain's constant buildup of stress has been keeping you up for a while and was the right amount of motivation you needed to get this day over with. You had gone to the small training practices and tours of the school over the weekend, seeing new buildings and practice rooms that were extended from when you previously attended.

You had decided to get ready 2 hours in advance, showering and now doing a small amount of skincare before doing your makeup. Even with your quirk and all of the stuff you'd bought for your skin, even the thought of stress makes you begin to breakout, you sighed as a pimple appeared on the upper left corner of your forehead. You only shook your head and began to apply your makeup, finishing a little later than you expected because you couldn't decide if you wanted lashes on or not.

You made the decision to wear them, first impressions are everything. You fixed your hair in a style you liked, deciding to keep it down instead of a ponytail with a side part and gathered your things and looked in the mirror one last time before exiting out the door.

The closer and closer you were getting to the school the more your stomach churned out of anxiety. It could've been anxiety, or maybe the fact you skipped out on breakfast just to be here early, as all teachers must arrive before the students. Whatever it was you didn't like it at all, and you felt your head begin to spin.

"Not again" you whispered to yourself, now opening your glove department looking around for your prescribed medications, pushing past the other 3 you didn't need now until you found one that read 'Valium', opening the capsule and taking a pill, realizing you had nothing to take or drink it down with.

You sighed heavily as you took the bottle with you, grabbing your coat from the back of your driver seat along with your bag and shoving the pills in your coat pocket. Soon locking your car and placing your keys in the bag as well, beginning to walk your way over to the building.

You needed to find something to drink so you could take this pill, before your anxiety gets the best of you and your quirk gets out of hand. You reached for your phone in your pocket and checked the time, barely 7:30, perfect. It's too early for classes to start when everyone gets situated at 8:00-8:10, where could you kill time with a cup of water or anyth-

The teachers' lounge, oh yeah, it's shocking how quickly you forgot about it when you were here not even 48 hours ago. You walked inside taking a left, praying your memory wasn't playing tricks on you as you walked over to the supposed teachers' lounge, hearing small chatter and commotion.

The last thing you wanted to do was draw attention onto yourself, you quickly entered and made your way to the back, walking slowly praying your heeled boots didn't make too loud of a noise.

You quickly spotted a large fancy water dispenser, clasping your hands together as you looked up and mouthing the words 'amen' before grabbing a small white silicon cup and pouring some for yourself.

In one swift movement you dug into your pocket, pulling out your pill bottle and opening it, taking one and placing it on your tongue as you closed the capsule, putting it back in your pocket. Your cup that was now filled with water you chugged down and refilled it to take another to attempt to flood out the aftertaste, until you were stopped.

Before you could lift the cup up to your lips you were immediately lifted into the air from behind, listening to a familiar voice cheer your name. You immediately went into a panic, turning your previous cup of water, now into nothing but sand, pouring over you and the arms around your lower waist.

"Hizashi!!" You shouted, now trying to pry yourself out of his grasp, your feet swinging in the air as he laughed, quickly putting you down. You immediately scoffed and dusted yourself off, rolling your eyes at his comments and horrible jokes, bending down to the small sand pile you created, forming it back into a silicone cup before throwing it away.

"It's good to see you again seriously, I'm surprised you agreed to come here seeing why you left, with your new fancy job and all." He said, placing his hand on your shoulder and pretending to wipe a fake tear, you only shook your head and smiled at him.

He hasn't changed at all since you last saw him nearly a decade ago, it warmed your heart honestly. You only responded in agreement to his saying, hugging him as he did back to you.

He wasted no time in bringing you to the other side of the teachers' lounge, where you reunited with old friends and shared a few laughs and nice memories before you were all abruptly stopped by hearing a loud slam of the door opening.

As luck would have it, you had another cup in your hand that had coffee in it as the incident occurred, but thankfully your medication had kicked in. You panicked as you nearly spilled the coffee onto yourself, taking a sigh of relief as you moved in time, spilling partial of it onto the floor. Smiling to yourself slightly as you felt the dosage of your medication now starting to affect your mind, making you disassociate.

As everyone paid their attention to the door and expressed words with one another you had bent over, using your quirk and making your coffee spill on the floor a small tissue.

You picked it up and turned to throw it away, completely blocking out the sounds of everyone's voices and small laughter as you made your way to the same trashcan as before, bumping into someone.

"I'm sorry" you said, snapping out of your small trance and zoning back into reality, turning your head to the side to see whose shoulder's you had hit, only to lock eyes with them instantly.

"Shota" you said, nearly breathless as if at a loss for words, he looked at you in shock,

No this wasn't shock,

It seemed to be sadness

maybe sorrow?

"Y/n" he replied, quickly looking away from you and walking away, your eyes trailed his figure as he left.

Out of everything that had happened this morning, and the effects of your medication, you completely forgot that your past lover worked here, and you'd be working alongside him.

He only went over to the coffee table, grabbing a cup and exiting the room, you only looked over to Hizashi and Nemuri, nibbling on your bottom lip. They glanced over to one another, then looked back at you, each placing their hand on each of your shoulders as the bell rang for everyone to get to class.

You were right, this wasn't going to go your way, at all.

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✴🕷 please do not copy, plagiarize, edit, or translate any works submitted by me. all works are originated and all other pictures used within those works are online images. thank you!! @kryptznnn

[peachesofteal]

oh the image of Darling alone with her newborn daughter, afraid and uncertain 🥺 what if she did call the guys during a moment of vulnerability, begging them to come get her, she can’t do this by herself?

This is my absolute jam. Anon, I love you.

18+ Mature themes Baby trap au Takes place after this

Johnny is having a nice dream.

He knows it's a dream, because you're in it. And instead of seeming sad and tired and overwhelmed, like you looked in the store a few weeks ago, you look happy, and comfortable, beaming up at him with the baby in your arms while she coos sleepily against your chest. Simon stands beside you, hand on your shoulder, peeking over to look at her, before flicking his gaze back to Johnny's, his own smile stretched wide across his face.

There's a shrill, annoying sound in his dream, something that makes him frown, before he redirects his attention, back to you, Simon, and Bee, his baby, that he doesn't even know yet. His family, the pieces that make him whole, that he doesn't get to have.

The shrill sound gets louder, and this time, he can feel himself waking up, being pulled forward into consciousness.

No, no nononono please, let me stay here, let me stay-

"Phone." Simon grunts, mouth hot against his neck, and Johnny pats around the bed for it, before locating the thing under a pillow.

Blocked number? A telemarketer, at this hour? He blinks when he sees the time, 0347, and then blanches when another thought occurs to him.

"Simon." he's sharp with it, word full of intent, and it has Simon jerking awake.

When Johnny tilts the phone screen, his eyes widen.

"Answer it." He barks, and then Johnny slides the call open.

"Hello?" he's holding his breath after he answers, waiting for a response from whoever it could be.

He expects someone, you, hopefully, to say hello, or hi, or anything. But that doesn't happen, instead... the line is quiet. Dead air... but open. Like someone is there. Like someone is listening.

Simon's grip tightens on his knee.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

He can hear breathing on the other end, light puffs of air, and it emboldens him, encourages him to take a guess, take a chance.

"Darling? Is that you?" He softens his voice, trying to be as gentle as possible, trying to coax you, if it is truly you. The line stays silent for a while, seconds, and then-

"Johnny?" It's your voice, but it doesn't sound like you. You sound... distraught. Your voice is scratchy, pitched with rasp, and he swallows.

"Yes, I'm here. We're here." You're crying now, he can hear it through the phone, and Johnny's heart lurches, while Simon stares at the phone in his hand like it's a bomb.

"J-Johnny." You cry, and he wants to scream at how useless he feels.

"I'm here, I'm here darling. Talk to me."

"I ca-can't." you sound broken, and he looks at Simon in a panic, who has a fist clenched in his hair, eyes wide and wild.

"Can't what?" He asks, but then the baby cries, little wails that turn immediately into screams, and the phone sounds like it's being shuffled. "Can't what, love. Talk to me, tell me what's wrong."

"She's si- ick, and I'm, I- I'm sick and I haven't slept and we both have fevers... I don't know." You echo like you've put him on speakerphone, and he can hear you sobbing, while Bee screeches over the sound. Sick? You're sick? The baby is sick? Panic pounds in his heart, and his mind conjures all of the things that could go wrong to the forefront.

"Where is she?" Simon demands, and Johnny shakes his head while he quickly mutes the mic.

"We can't just barge in on her, she's skittish enough-"

"The fuck we can't. She needs us, Johnny." He's already getting dressed, putting sweatpants on and Johnny's internal battle rages. They could spook you. They could scare you off. They could never see you again. "She needs a bloody doctor, MacTavish. They both do. Ask her. Now." The order stings, and Johnny forces his doubt away.

"Darling... where are you?"

"At my-" Bee screams in the background, and he listens to you try to soothe her, voice cracking as you sing a soft lullaby through your tears before coming back to the phone. "My apartment."

"Will you give us the address? So we can come help?" He tries to ask it gently, tries to ease into it, and then they both hold their breath before you rattle it off in a shaky voice.

"Okay, darling. We're on our way, okay?" Simon calls to the phone while Johnny shoves himself into a sweatshirt, and you make some kind of noise, that sort of sounds like an okay, before saying you're going to hang up to take care of Bee.

"Alright, love. We'll be there soon. Everything's going to be alright."

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt 2.1

Note: The writing bug bit me while wading through the comments and replies so you guys get more! 😁 Special thanks to @the-scarecrow-of-aus & @starlightcat04 for helping spark this continuation!

Also, so you're not confused, this part is from Kon's POV and backtracks to before the Bane incident to explain how Kon started going undercover in Arkham. Pt 2.2 has the Bane incident from Kon's POV.

~*~*~

When Kon got the call from Tim asking if he'd be willing to do a favor for him, he hadn't expected it to be an undercover assignment in the infamous Arkham Asylum itself.

"You want me to do what?" He asked staring at Tim in disbelief once he reached the Nest to debrief.

"Go undercover as a new guard in Arkham." Tim repeated with a deadpan expression looking over his shoulder at Kon from his computer chair. Holy fuck, his eyebags were bad. 

"Have you slept in the past week, Tim?" Kon asked, taking in his best friend's appearance.

Tim frowned at the question. 

"I don't see how that's relevant but yes." He answered, heartbeat unchanging. Which didn't really mean anything since it was Tim but Kon decided he'd believe him. 

For now. 

Kon sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, I'll do it." He said. "Can you tell me why we need someone undercover at least?" 

Tim eyes widened, startled by the question like he was surprised Kon didn't know yet even though Tim hadn't told him yet. Okay, deep breaths, calm down, Tim clearly hasn't slept in at least two days. Kon coached himself as his temper flared up at the evidence that Tim wasn't taking care of himself again. All the Supers agreed: sometimes you just wish you could beat some sense into the Bats and make them take care of themselves like normal human beings.

"Ah. Right." Tim said, turning back to the computer and pulling up some files as he explained. "Two thing have occured within roughly fifteen days of each other that together are rather suspicious. First, Dr. Thomas Rylie, Jonathan Crane's undergraduate roommate and classmate throughout undergrad and grad school, was hired to work as one of the new in house psychiatrists at Arkham Asylum. They also got their doctorates from the same school during the same time frame and both focused on the impact fear has on the brain. Dr. Rylie's focus was on fear conditioning and Dr. Crane's focus was on fear responses." Well, that sounds suspicious. 

"Second, Gotham University lost their minds and began an undergraduate and graduate internship program partnering with Arkham Asylum." 

Kon went cold. They did what?

Pictures of the Asylum, University, and three people -presumably Scarecrow, Dr. Rylie, and a young woman- filled the computer screen now. 

"The internship program has only one applicant so far and she'd already started working at the Arkham. Her name is Jasmine Fenton and her background is...sparse, to say the least." Tim turned in his chair to face Kon.

"I'm too recognizable in Gotham and among the rogues to successfully go undercover in Arkham so I've set you up with an apartment and ID as 'Kyle Jennings.' You're scheduled to start work at Arkham as a new guard tomorrow morning."

"Okay," Kon said with a nod. "What do you need confirmed? What are the primary objectives?" He prodded Tim again since his friend's sleep deprived brain seemed to think that was enough information for debriefing. It wasn't. Definitely not. A lot was implied but it wouldn't be the first time Tim had completely different intentions than what Kon had understood from his briefing. Sleep deprived Tim frequently assumed others could read his mind or something. Sleep deprived Tim was wrong.

"We need to determine if Dr. Rylie is here working for Scarecrow as part of some new scheme. We need to determine if Jasmine Fenton is complicit. We need to know if Gotham U is also in on it. And we need to find out what exactly Scarecrow is the planning." Tim stated automatically as he ticked each one off on his fingers.

"Got it. Guess I'll head over to my new apartment then and start prepping for tomorrow." Kon said, heading towards the exit. Tim hummed in agreement waving a hand in his direction as he left. That dumbass was probably already absorbed in the next case. Kon sighed, hopefully Tim would at least pass out sometime later tonight.

~*~*~

Kon's first day at Arkham wasn't anything special. He didn't see Jasmine, Dr. Rylie, or Scarecrow. He didn't see any rogues or doctors at all. It was just a really Gotham kind of orientation. 

"This is where we keep a cache of stun grenades, long-range scope rifles, tranquilizer rounds, and rubber bullets." His new supervisor and guide through orientation, Alex Fhizer, said as he showed Kon how to access, inventory, lock, and re-conceal the cache. "Everytime you pass by a cache on patrol, you will check the inventory again and sign off on it with the date and time. If anything is different from the previous inventory entry, you will immediately radio the tower and the island will be put on lockdown." Greyish Hazel eyes peered out of a weathered face staring Kon down. "You will never neglect to inventory a cache while on patrol. You will never neglect to report an inventory discrepancy. The first time you do you will be fired immediately and you can count yourself damn lucky if that's all that happens to you." 

Fhizer was intense, man.

"Yes, Sir." Kon answered. Fhizer's hard look lasted another long moment before the older man gave a firm nod and continued showing Kon the ropes.

~*~*~

The second day was no where near as chill as the first. Hell, his brain was already starting to warp, there hadn't been anything chill about that orientation.

Kon started his second day by boarding the Arkham transport bus with the rest of the staff and early morning visitors to the island. That was where he saw Jasmine Fenton in the flesh for the first time. 

She has got to be part Amazonian, was his first thought upon seeing her. She was around 6ft tall with a thick mane of red hair tightly braided reaching all the way down to her waist. Jasmine was wearing teal stud earrings, a silver bangle type bracelet on her left wrist, a white blouse, black slacks, and black flats. She carried a small, clear purse that only held a small notepad, pen, house key, chapstick, and a thin teal wallet that presumably contained her IDs, debit cards, and a small amount of cash. Damn, she was tall.

Kon's concentration was broken by the quiet sound of metal crunching slightly beneath his fingers. He immediately loosened his grip on the hand rail, checking for damage with a wince. He breathed a soft sigh of relief when he saw the damage was almost entirely unnoticeable to the naked eye. He'd have to mind his strength more closely. Kon was too used to the farm and facilities that were all reinforced to handle casual use from people with super strength. 

Tim's notes indicated Arkham wasn't reinforced for super strength anywhere. Not even along the outer walls. The facility had opted to use suppression collars on their meta inmates instead since they were cheaper and easier to repair and replace according to the official reports. However, Tim's notes had also mentioned that Arkham had reinforced the outer walls to account for super strength at one point. They'd poured nearly every dime the facility could spare into the project for months until the Joker himself had taken it personally. The madman had absolutely obliterated the reinforced outer walls until no part of them remained standing. Given Joker had destroyed the walls without having any meta powers at all and his history of viciously attacking -damn near mauling- anyone that tried to put him in a straight jacket, Kon didn't really blame Arkham for stopping while they were ahead.

Kon looked up as the bus jolted to a stop. The other passengers filing off around him. He watched as Jasmine Fenton was met by Dr. Rylie in front of the bus as he waited to disembark. 

"Ms. Jasmine!" Dr. Rylie greeted her enthusiastically with a broad open grin and beaming eyes. He reached towards her with both arms, hands open and she reached back. Their right hands clasped as their left hands landed on the other's upper arms as the two greeted one another openly. Kon wasn't very familiar with intern-mentor relationships nor what would be considered normal or professional for them, but it looked like a rather affectionate greeting for them having been strangers two weeks ago. That was strange, wasn't it? Was Tim right to be worried about them?

"Ms. Jasmine is the first and only applicant for Dr. Rylie, Director Keener, and Dean Byle's hairbrained idea to hire more doctors for this place." One of the older guards that had been standing just behind him on the bus explained having apparently noticed Kon watching the pair.

"They just seemed rather affectionate for Gotham." Kon shrugged dismissively as he turned to look over his shoulder at his new colleague. The shorter man laughed.

"A bit, yeah." He agreed. "I think Dr. Rylie is just desperate for this program to work out." He continued as they finally managed to get off the bus. Dr. Rylie and Ms. Fenton were gone now. "Pretty much everyone's been treating her like a princess." 

"That doesn't seem fair to everyone else." Kon commented, dropping back a bit to let the older man lead the way to the guards room for morning debriefing and to get their assignments. He'd already memorized the layouts but 'Kyle Jennings' shouldn't have yet.

"Who cares about fair as long as it works?" The guard answered. "If treating her like a princess scores more interns for the program in the long run, and if one intern every year ends up interested in sticking around, I'll be happy to cater to every single one of them." He confessed, stopping in the middle of the hall to turn and face Kon directly. Kon glimpsed the name Ryans as the silver name badge flashed the briefly reflecting the overhead lights. "You non-gothamites just don't get it. We're desperate for whatever help we can get." 

"That's why I applied here." Kon lied. "Going to school across the bay, I heard a lot about what went down over here while I was in college. I want to help." 

Ryans gave a short solemn nod then turned and led the rest of the way to the break room. 

~*~*~

Day four undercover was when Kon officially met Jasmine Fenton. 

Everything had been going well so far with his undercover assignment. He'd settled in to the role of Kyle Jennings, been getting along well with his new coworkers including Ryans and Fhizer, and hadn't yet managed to screw up inventorying the caches during the outer patrol loops. That being said, Kon was having other issues.

The worst part of being an unstable Kryptonian clone was that his strength tended to fluctuate. It normally wasn't much of an issue when he was surrounded by reinforced everything in his daily life but here at Arkham it was becoming a problem. Case in point, Kon thought to himself with an exhausted groan as his freshly made coffee mug shattered in his hand.

"Oh come on." He sighed snatching a handful of paper towels from the counter and bending to wipe up the coffee and ceramic shards on the floor. At least he was the only one in the room when it shattered. The door clicked softly behind him and Kon jumped twisting to look. 

Jasmine Fenton stood behind him having just closed the door to the break room after entering.

"What happened here?" She asked, sounding bewildered with slightly wide eyes as she took in the mess on the floor. Thank God. She didn't see it.

"Guess I was a bit more tired than I thought." He said with a forced laugh in order to hide his nerves. "Slipped right through my fingers."

She nodded, accepting his words at face value. 

"I've done that more than a few times close to finals." She admitted. "You guys have 10 hour shifts, right? You must be exhausted. When's your next day off?"

"The day after tomorrow." Kon said. "This is day 3 for me since orientation doesn't count."

"You get 2 days off followed by an on-call day, right?" She asked.

"Right," Kon agreed. "AKA 2 days of freedom and a day chained to the Bowery." He joked.

"Absolutely terrible, they may as well put an ankle monitor on you." She cracked back grinning. Kon snickered. The door opened again.

"I see you found another non-gothamite here." Dr. Rylie said striding into the break room with a wide grin.

"Sounds like that makes three of us." Kon agreed. Outside of Joker, he had never seen a gothamite grin that wide in his life.

"Dr. Thomas Rylie, a pleasure to meet you." Dr. Rylie introduced himself holding out his hand to shake. Kon shook his hand as gently as possible, mindful his strength was on the fritz.

"Kyle Jennings, nice to meet you. I just started as a guard earlier this week." He said then held his hand out to shake Jasmine's.

"Jasmine Fenton, I'm an intern therapist. This is my second week here." She greeted with a warm smile shaking Kon's hand. She didn't say anything about being glad to meet him, Kon noted. It wasn't exactly strange behavior but something made him take note of it anyway. Like by not saying it she was saying she hadn't decided whether meeting him was a good or bad thing yet. Dr. Rylie didn't seem to notice anything off with the interaction though as he went about making his own coffee. The three of them made idle small talk as they made their own coffees. Once his new cup was ready, Kon bid them both goodbye and went on his way. While they were his main objective, lingering too long this early into their aquantiantship would probably be strange.

He had several other small friendly interactions with both of them over the next few days. Taking the time for greetings, small talk, and sharing small bits of casual background info from Kyle Jennings's past to encourage them both to open up to him. He also broke a clipboard, two more coffee cups, several pens, and a doorknob during that time as his strength continued to fluctuate. The doorknob had been particularly embarrassing. He had gone to open the door for Jasmine when he saw her with her arms full of files and somehow managed to twist it in such a way that the screws holding it in place sheered off and the knob came off in his hand. Collins, his partner for building patrol that day, burst out laughing hysterically as Kon stared at the doorknob in horror.

"No worries, man." Collins said, clapping Kon on the shoulder still snickering. "Someone else probably broke it and put it back so they wouldn't get scolded or something."

"Yeah," Kon said with a nervous laugh. "That must be what happened."

Jasmine's eyes flicked between the two of them then she grinned.

"And here I thought you just really hated that door." She teased Kon. He felt his face heat up as Collins laughed at him again.

"It is an ugly door." Collins agreed enthusiastically smirking.

"Terribly ugly. Hideous even," Jasmine said with a smile.

"Possibly even traumatizing to behold," Collins continued to smirk.

"You've got me. I have a deep rooted traumatic fear of metal taupe doors." Kon deadpanned ears burning. Jasmine snickered as Kon got the door open for her and they went their separate ways.

~*~*~

"What have you found so far?" Tim asked. Kon did not have the words to express how much he didn't want to be at the Nest at 3am on his first day off from undercover work. If it was anyone other than Tim he wouldn't have even answered the phone.

"Literally nothing," Kon said dryly. "I am still the newest of newbies at Arkham. I practically spent the whole week being babysat by senior guardsmen." He sighed, reminding himself that it wasn't Tim's fault that he was a little insomniac goblin and that Kon really did love his friend and would be sad if he hurt Tim's feelings. Eventually. When he woke up again in the morning. "I did start befriending them both though. It's slow going since we're in different areas but nearly being the only non-gothamites there seems to be helping me make some headway at least." 

There was one other non-gothamite on staff, a medical nurse named Sharon Earley. She was in her mid-thirties and the most sour and unpleasant person Kon had had the displeasure of meeting so far on Arkham's staff. Not that Kon could blame her for that. Not when she had several large ragged scars spanning from her chin and down both of her arms from when Zsazz had gotten hold of her alone after dark her second year at Arkham. It was a damn miracle she'd survived him. Kon didn't know how she managed it but he wouldn't try to find out either. Ryans had taken him aside right before he first met Nurse Earley and warned him not to stare or ask about any of it and then explained the bare basics of what happened to her after they'd left. 

Tim probably had a file with every detail of that night as well as information about Sharon Earley's life both before and after that night somewhere on his computer. The thought made Kon nauseous. 

"Good, good," Tim said absently as he updated the mission file on his computer. The keys clicked so rapidly that Kon again reconsidered whether or not his best friend had super speed. "Better to keep them from suspecting than to rush in anyway." 

"Exactly." 

Tim continued asking questions about every little detail he could think of concerning Dr. Rylie, Jasmine Fenton, and the rogues currently in Arkham.

"They don't let me near those guys yet. I'm too new." Kon said when Tim asked if Scarecrow looked to be plotting more than usual.

"They don't?" Tim sounded surprised, going so far as to stop typing so he could turn and stare at Kon. The clone was amused to note something about his statement had managed to wake Tim up enough to be visibly shocked instead blank-faced with exhaustion.

"Of course not," Kon answered trying to keep the amusement from his voice as much as possible. "As many times as your rogues have broken out they're leary of letting new hires near them in case they're goons in disguise." 

Tim sank back into his chair looking like Kon had uprooted his whole world by proving the Earth really was flat via actual science.

"That's impossible." Tim said sounding faint. "Everytime there's a mass breakout, we always hear that some of the guards helped them escape. How?..." He trailed off, eyes darting rapidly like he was tracking lines of an invisible conspiracy board in the air in front of him. Kon shrugged, uncomfortable with this new information.

"Scuttlebutt is that the people helping them escape are visitors. The guards get blamed because the goons visit wearing clothes similar to the guard uniform from a distance. All blue polo shirts and black pants look similar at a distance." Kon explained. "It also doesn't help that the guards can't really do much to stop the escape attempts since they only have stun grenades, tranquilizer darts, batons, low voltage tazers, and rubber bullets to fight back with. So as long as enough people are involved in the escape attempt at least some of them will make it out even if the guards manage to to tranquilize several of them." 

Tim still looked like Kon was blowing his mind. It was such a rare experience that Kon had to continue.

"Plus the tranquilizer darts and the rubber bullets have to be fired from different hardware." Kon told him. "Which sucks because you have to carry twice the amount of weight while chasing after the escapees which slows you down and it takes longer to swap between them."

There was something similar to mystified horror spreading across his friend's face now.

"Speaking if swapping between them, they have different ranges too." Kon continued gleefully. Half because it was fun wrecking Tim's worldview and half to actually impart the information. "Batons are short-range. Tranquilializer darts and stun grenades are mid-range. Rubber bullet riffles are long-range."

"If that's all it is, WE can fund then better gear to control the inmates." Tim interrupted turning back to the computer and swiftly typing out a list of things to send Arkham. Kon shook his head.

"That won't work." He disagreed gently. "They aren't failing because of the gear itself."

Tim turned back around to face him, confused. This was not going to be a fun conversation, Kon swallowed hard and forced himself to continue.

"The problem is that if you fire the rubber bullet riffles from mid or short range you could seriously injury or even kill the patient. If they get past mid-range, you'll miss them completely using tranquilizer darts or stun grenades. If you try to use either of those at short-range it'll be bad for you whether it's because they'll get hold of you before the tranquilizer knocks them out or because you'll stun yourself too."

Comprehension and trepidation began to dawn on Tim's face. He deflated in his chair, sinking lower and lower as he stared off into nowhere.

"You also can't hit them with more than one tranquilizer dart in a four hour window because you could accidently kill them that way. That also means even though you have a baton, you typically can't do enough damage to them to keept them from escaping because that might potentially kill them." Kon said completely solemn now as he relayed the information. "Because regardless of the reputation Arkham has or what the patients have done, it is still a hospital and they are still patients." 

Tim was staring directly at Kon now. Mouth open, face slack, eyes wide with a kind of numbed shock. Kon held his gaze.

"Yeah," Kon said after a moment. "Yeah, that's how I reacted too." He looked down, picking at his nails for a moment before forcing himself to stop and meet Tim's gaze again. "Phizer, my new 'boss', made sure to drill that into my head during orientation. 'Arkham's guards exist first and foremost to protect the patients. Arkham isn't supposed to be a prison. It's a medical facility. The patients are confined to the premises because their affliction has made them dangerous and they have to stay so that we can keep them and others safe from further harm. We are here to keep the patients and staff from hurting each other, themselves, or being hurt by people outside of Arkham's walls.' Not gonna lie, man." Kon said quirking a bitter grin as his did. "Hearing that kind of fucked me up a bit."

Tim sucked in a huge heaving breath then slowly let it out before he responded.

"I can't say I ever thought about it like that." He admitted in a soft strained voice. "Can't say I ever wanted to either." There was a bitter tinge to his words.

"Yeah, neither did I." Kon answered, shoulders slumping a bit. "Was there anything else you wanted to ask me? I kind of want to head back and sleep a bit."

Tim shook his head slowly.

"No, I think we're good at the moment." He said looking twice as exhausted and drained now as he did when Kon first got there. Kon nodded.

"Good night then. I'll see you later, man." He said, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning against and heading for the door.

"Be safe, Kon." Tim answered softly turning back to his computer.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (10)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to her that for days she had lingered in a deep, restless sleep, once seeing her past before her eyes, and once seeing something that seemed to her to be the future, dark and frightening.

When she awoke the first thing she smelled was his scent, smoke and ash; she felt his hands stroking her body, his soft lips on her neck. She sighed then with relief, thinking that all she had seen, all that had happened to her, was just a bad dream.

It occurred to her that they had escaped from the library together and were still lying in each other's embrace in the chamber to which he had taken her, that perhaps she would soon bear his child, that she would become his wife. Her fingers intertwined with his then, and despite the discomfort she was feeling within her wrists, she felt safe.

She finally opened her eyes and found to her surprise that it was morning, but she was in her chamber, his body pressed against her from behind, his arms embracing her tightly, his calm, warm breath enveloping her neck.

She smiled to herself and attempted to lift herself up to sit, but she hissed loudly, surprised at how much pain she felt in her wrists when she shifted the weight of her body into her hands. She looked at them and froze, seeing the bandages on them, feeling the cold sweat on her back, her heart began to pound like mad.

"− my love? −" She heard his voice, startled and uncertain. She looked at him and already knew; her lower lip trembled, tears of anger, regret and disappointment gathered under her eyelids.

It was all true.

His betrayal and what happened next.

Moon tea.

She pressed her lips together so that no sound came out of them and lay down again, turning her back to him, trembling all over. She drew in the air loudly when she felt him embrace her immediately, his warm, accelerated breath enveloping her neck.

"− I didn't know − I swear I didn't know about moon tea −" He muttered with a pain and regret from which she felt her heart squeeze, his face pressed into her hair seeking comfort, but nothing came out of her mouth.

She looked towards the window behind which the sun was shining, and although a new day had dawned, night had fallen in her heart and mind, for despite still being alive, she felt dead.

She stayed for him, she gave him what she held most precious, she believed him.

None of his tears or grief could change the fact that all she felt for him was compassion.

She thought he was a pathetic, weak man running at his mother's every beck and call, thinking he was entitled to everything.

She decided that she would punish him the way he had punished her all these years.

With her silence.

It turned out that persevering with her decision came easily to her, as she had no desire to look at him; she would not answer his questions, she would not let him feed her or stay in the chamber when she took a bath with the help of his servants.

She didn't use words, so she couldn't tell him that she didn't wish for his presence, however, she later decided that she did not feel the need to do so − she derived satisfaction from him returning to her like a moth to a flame, night after night falling asleep in his tentative embrace, feeling the closeness and warmth of his body, his fingers stroking her hands and arms.

He didn't try to take her, he knew she wouldn't let him, and there was something about it that, to her despair, aroused her.

The fact that she could feel his swollen, throbbing manhood on her buttocks, that she could feel his anxious, shuddering breath on her neck, his body writhing restlessly behind her making her insides clench wonderfully.

She fought with herself, trying to keep a sober mind from guiding his hand between her thighs, to keep him from satisfying her with his long, warm fingers.

She decided that she would not give him that satisfaction and pleased herself alone, in brief moments of solitude during her baths, involuntarily thinking of him and what they had done then, in that cramped, cool chamber.

Once she had fallen from her elation all that was left in her was emptiness, regret and bitterness.

She thanked the gods then that she had been able to restrain herself and not let him take her again, that after what he had done he deserved nothing she could and wanted so much to give him.

Her thoughts wandered to her family, to how she could be of service to them.

She decided that she would wait patiently until her uncle's wedding to one of Lord Baratheon's daughters, remaining calm until then, not causing any trouble, wanting to lull their vigilance.

She knew that such an event would focus the attention of most of the keep and she would be able to try to use this to escape.

One of the servants whispered during her bath as she poured oils into her tub that there were people in this stronghold who still supported her mother, that they would help her flee when the time was right.

She accepted these words with relief, finally having the feeling that she was not alone.

No one besides her uncle and his sister visited her, questioned her or demanded anything of her. She was surprised when, in her presence, a servant girl conveyed to him that the Queen wished to speak with her, and he replied that she was to convey to her that he forbade it.

Neither the Queen, Otto, Aegon nor Criston Cole crossed the threshold of her chamber after what had happened at his clear command.

Her uncle had decided that Helaena would stay with her in his absence, and although she craved nothing more than solitude, her presence did not bother her.

She was their hostage, just like she was.

Helaena was an affectionate caregiver to her – when she was still weak she helped her to eat, get up and dress. They did not speak to each other, however, she felt that there was a kind of warmth between them, a kind of understanding, a sense that they both suffered just as much and supported each other in their agony.

All day long they would sit and read books or embroider, listening to the birds sing; all around them a strange stillness, the calm before the storm, a tension that could be felt in the air.

War was coming, they all felt it in their bones.

"– from the mingled blood will emerge a dragon's crown –" She whispered under her breath, cocking her head, looking dreamily at the spider figure she had embroidered on the light fabric.

She lifted her gaze to her, surprised, wondering if the very thing her uncle had once told her about had happened.

He had said to her that Helaena had seen things in her dreams.

"What does it mean?" She asked softly, piercing the needle with thread across to the other side, pulling it so that it formed another knot folding into one of the wings of a bird.

The Arryn family crest, her expression of who she identified with, who she supported.

Helaena hummed under her breath, mending one of the threads that had entangled, piercing the material from underneath with a needle, pulling it out on the other side.

"He really tried. I was there. He tried, but they cornered him and forced him to succumb." She said calmly; she felt a tightening in her throat, understanding perfectly well that she was referring to her brother. She lowered her gaze, clenching her hands into fists, feeling discomfort in her stomach.

"I trusted him. I gave myself to him." She said in a trembling voice, regret, resentment and disappointment flowing out of her like a black stream, feeling that she could no longer hold it in, that it was poisoning her from the inside.

She shuddered when Helaena finally looked at her, in her bright eyes understanding and compassion, but also something else, some kind of deep, bottomless sadness.

"He wanted to keep his vows. He said he wanted to marry you, but the only person who supported him in that decision fell asleep forever. When you…" She fell silent for a moment and lowered her gaze, swallowing quietly, both of them didn't say a word for a moment, knowing what she meant.

"…I've never seen him like this. I didn't think he was capable of such despair, of such affection." She said, sighing quietly, looking up at her again, her white hair tied into a braid that shone wonderfully in the sunlight.

"After you moved to Dragonstone, he wouldn't let anyone mention you. When I spoke of you, he would burst into a rage and leave. He never came to terms with what had happened. My grandfather, disturbed by information from the servants that they had seen your letters, told me to go to his chamber to look for them and then bring them to him. He stated that he would not suspect me of anything. I found them in his drawer. There were so many that they barely fit in there. Each year tied separately with a black ribbon, sorted, arranged in the right order."

Helaena spoke, looking absently out of the window; she felt her heart begin to pound like mad, her throat and stomach clenched with pain. She played with her fingers in a nervous gesture listening to her intently, wanting so badly to know what had happened to him over the years, what he thought of her.

"Some of them looked much more worn than others, as if he returned to them particularly often. It shocked me but also gave me hope because I had stopped recognising him over the years. He had turned into a cold rock who rammed everything in his path. I told my grandfather I hadn't found anything, that he had apparently burned your letters after he read them to leave no evidence." She said and sighed, massaging her temple, looking tired and discouraged as she clearly could not get the peace she so desperately wanted.

Their conversation made her feel even worse.

Some part of her sympathised with him, while another part resented him for simply not kidnapping her to Essos, for intending to take this girl as his wife and beget his children with her, for hoping that she would understand and forgive him.

That evening he came to her chamber as he did every day – she pressed her lips together lowering her gaze to her embroidery, feeling his burning gaze, her heart began to pound like mad.

She heard him sit in the same place he always did, in a chair facing her right next to the fireplace, watching her for a moment; she heard him sigh heavily as he turned his head, simply looking into the flames, thoughtful.

She swallowed quietly, trying to focus on the pattern she was sewing and not think about what Helaena had said to her.

About her letters that he had kept in his drawer for years, that he had returned to and cherished, that he had tried to fulfil his promise in spite of everything.

She felt resentful towards herself that she had begun to feel some kind of sympathy for him again, to justify him in her mind wanting to believe that he actually cared for her as much as she cared for him, that what had happened was the result of his grandfather's cold calculation and not his will, that he, like her, was standing between a hammer and an anvil.

She felt a discomfort in her stomach and a squeeze in her throat at the thought that they were both in fact prisoners of the situation, unable to express or do what they really wanted.

She shuddered when he stood up suddenly with a loud creak of wood and walked over to his secretary's desk, opening it, pulling out parchment, quill and inkwell. She blinked in confusion, watching as he sat down and mused, sinking the tip of the quill into the ink, then began to write.

She wondered what had happened, who had been the recipient of his words, and thought with regret that it had surely been Lord Baratheon or one of his daughters, that his mother had commanded him to take action and try to win their hearts.

She lowered her gaze at this thought, sad and discouraged, returning to her work, piercing the needle from underneath the fabric, pulling it out on the other side with a light, soft flick of her hand.

She looked at him surprised when, many minutes later, he put down the quill, rolled up the parchment and walked over to her, placing it next to her on the table and simply left the chamber, closing the door behind him.

She looked at the scroll in disbelief feeling the cold sweat on the back of her neck, her heart pounding like mad, her fingers clenched tightly on the material she had just embroidered on.

For the first time it was he who had written her a letter.

His words to her, his act of desperation.

She felt some kind of emotion at the thought, felt tears under her eyelids because although she didn't know what was written there, she felt it would break her heart.

She reached for the parchment with a trembling hand and unrolled it slowly placing it on her lap, beginning to read in breathless amazement what her uncle had to say.

My Rhaenys,

I set out on my journey to Storm's End to quench my grandfather and mother's thirst with a sense of injustice. It occurs to me that only now am I able to understand what you have been going through all these years, experiencing from me only the silence I deeply believed you deserved at the time.

I'm sure you think the same of me now, and you're not wrong, because I myself am unable to comment or justify what happened through my hesitation, which cost me everything.

I thought it is easy to see what is right and what is wrong, to choose the proper path, but after my father's death it became apparent that none of this was the case, and my mother's and my grandfather's decision set it out for me, against my will, and although I tried to stand up to it, it seems to me that the consequences of their actions have sunk me like a wave that carries me onward, away from the safe harbour that you are.

I want you to realise, my niece, that one word from you is enough for us to slit our lips and hands upon my return and drink our warm, mingled blood, sealing at last our destiny once and for all.

I, unlike Aegon the Conqueror, want you in my bed every night.

I don't think Lord Baratheon's mind can contain what we read about as children and that he would accept that his daughter would be merely a second, and moreover, unwanted wife in my life. Union with him may give us an army to wage war on, but my union with you may in my mind end it with the birth of our child, a descendant of the Greens and Blacks.

I am not, and will not be able to accept, either as your uncle or as your husband, Jacerys, Lucerys or Joffrey as heirs to the throne for reasons that are well known to you, and which neither the marriage nor the threats of your stepfather and your mother can change − we both know full well that they do not and cannot have rights to the crown.

However, Aegon's and Viserys's rights to it are strong, unassailable even by me, and although as your uncle I have no personal interest in your mother or her offspring sitting on the Iron Throne, as your husband I would be willing, as part of a truce, to agree that it should not be Helaena and Aegon's children who inherit the throne, but my half-sister's and my uncle's or, if both sides in the conflict were to be at least partially satisfied, ours.

I have spent the last few days reflecting on what has happened and on what I think would be a solution that would satisfy me, but it has turned out that there is none. Unlike my brother, I don't delude myself that your mother will bend the knee, any more than any person with any dignity or pride would.

We all have to sacrifice something.

She looked at what she had read with a kind of disbelief, and covered her mouth with her hand, clenching her eyelids, warm tears of simultaneous relief and pain flowed from the corners of her eyes, for here was her uncle, a man she no longer recognised suddenly seemed closer to her than ever.

He had shared with her musings that would have been considered a betrayal by his brother and grandfather.

She read his letter quickly a few more times, trying to calm her breathing, noticing with surprise that her hands were trembling.

I want you to realise, my niece, that one word from you is enough for us to slit our lips and hands upon my return and drink our warm, mingled blood, sealing at last our destiny once and for all.

I, unlike Aegon the Conqueror, want you in my bed every night.

My Rhaenys.

She covered her face with her hand, letting out a loud breath, no longer knowing for herself what she thought of it all, distraught and torn, at the same time wanting to stay with him and run away, to support him and her mother, wanting to be in two places at once.

To be a good wife and to be a good daughter.

Though she tried, she could not choose.

She thought with pain, lying in her bed at night, covered in furs, that he had just chosen his future wife, that he would marry this woman if she did not agree to his terms, that she would lose him forever, that his hands, his lips would caress another woman.

She clenched her eyelids and wept quietly, feeling a sting in her heart at the thought, furious with herself that despite all she had been through she had not been able to stop loving him, she had not been able to tear him from her heart.

It would be better if you ripped your heart out, she remembered Daemon's words and thought with a sneer that she only now truly understood them.

She looked at her wrists, her still red, healed wounds, and considered trying again, but decided it made no sense, that if the gods wanted her dead, Ser Criston would not have stepped into her chamber then.

The gods wanted her to live, but why?

She screamed and pulled herself up, sitting up, turning towards the door when she heard someone enter her chamber, within seconds her uncle was beside her, pulling her by her arm and dragging her forcibly from the bed, grabbing her grey cloak on the way.

"− uncle? − what are you − stop −" She cried out horrified as he surrounded her with it and put the hood over her head, pulling her towards the door despite her standing up to him, not understanding what was happening, what he was up to.

She thought he would want to marry her by force, that he had no intention of waiting for her decision.

"− no − I don't want to − you won't make me − I'm going to scream −" She mumbled as she followed him barefoot down the torch-lit corridor, trying to break away from him but fruitlessly; she heard him snort, he looked at her over his shoulder with annoyance and impatience.

"Be fucking quiet. Don't you want to see your little brother? Hm? I thought so." He growled and tugged her towards the narrow staircase leading underground; she squealed loudly but didn't say a word, breathing heavily through her mouth, her heart starting to pound like crazy.

Don't you want to see your little brother?

She wondered if he was mocking her, if this was some kind of trap, some kind of trial.

She was afraid of him.

She wept silently quivering with cold and terror, walking with him in complete darkness.

And then she spotted a light, a silhouette standing by the open door and she recognised him, his black curly hair, his terrified face expressing disbelief.

Her uncle let go of her and she stopped, breathing hard, his name bursting from her throat like a desperate cry.

Luke.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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[agent-troi]

mulder and scully’s season 6 dynamic is interesting because in some ways they’re more joined at the hip than ever before. this season has the highest concentration of shippy episodes, including an explicit love confession, getting mistaken for a married couple three times (not including the time they pretended to be married on purpose for a case), a baseball date, scully going feral when mulder gets lost in the bermuda triangle, mulder begging scully to investigate x-files with him even when it’s not their job anymore, mulder tagging along in the background the whole time scully gets sent on an x-file without him, their secret handshake in the hospital afterwards. “agent scully is already in love.”

the only times they really don’t get along are when diana actually appears in the episode (side note: diana only gets mentioned once in the episodes in which she doesn’t appear, a fact which intrigues me to no end. it’s like when she’s not there she doesn’t even exist, and in fact i have actually forgotten she existed while watching some of these episodes lol).

i think their schism in the beginning is partly due to mulder being petulant because scully couldn’t/wouldn’t back him up at the opr hearing after he put himself way out there earnestly insisting with his whole chest she was about to present proof of alien life. it’s not that he suddenly doesn’t trust her anymore, he just feels (somewhat irrationally) like he was let down, and this occurring simultaneously with the reappearance of someone else who not only listens to him but appears more inclined to believe him (which almost never happens) naturally led him to act out, but in the very next episode (drive) they’re a team again, using his intuition combined with her science to figure out what’s going on with crump. the fact that they couldn’t save him wasn’t their fault, and is almost incidental to what this episode really illustrates, which is not only how well they work together, but that they still can work together, and the past five years between them haven’t been erased just because diana’s back in town.

another thing: every time scully gets injured/goes to the hospital, mulder goes absolutely apeshit and starts accosting doctors and demanding answers. when diana got shot, his reaction was to hang out with scully and wait for secondhand info on her condition. we don’t even know if he ever went to visit her. when he finds out she’s taking over the x-files, he’s hurt and accuses her of stabbing him in the back. also in terms of endearment, we find out he’s going through spender’s trash to find x-files that he shredded so he (and scully) can investigate them, but if he really wanted to he could just talk to diana and ask her to slide him some cases when no one’s looking. the fact that he doesn’t shows that he doesn’t necessarily trust her blindly (or at least that he doesn’t want to get involved with her again).

i’m kind of rambling and not really sure where i was going with this, except i think people sometimes overestimate the impact diana had on their relationship. i think she was definitely a catalyst for them to examine some of their feelings more closely, but she was never gonna drive a permanent wedge between them. the closest she came was in one son, and even then they manage to pull back from the brink of destruction. scully asks for mulder’s trust, and he gives it by going to look for proof that diana really has betrayed him. if it had been the other way around, if diana had accused scully of working for the syndicate, he would have dismissed the idea immediately and never even bothered to consider it (actually hold on that’s a great fic idea, maybe diana overplays her hand and mulder catches on a lot sooner to what she’s doing).

[tommykinardkink]

This is a first that Buck has been waiting for with a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation. Because that's what happens when you date someone, right? At some point, if things go well, you'll see them naked.

And it's not like Buck's never seen another cock before, okay? He watches porn, he's been in the locker room at the station or whatever.

But this is different. This isn't just some random dick slip at the gym. It’s Tommy.

And Tommy's really big.

They’re lying pressed together on the too-small couch, Buck half on top of Tommy to accommodate the both of them. The movie they’d been watching is playing softly in the background, both of them having forgotten about it when one heated kiss had turned into two, three, his hands slipping up beneath Tommy’s Henley while Tommy’s fingers toyed with the drawstring of his sweats. And then, in a moment of reckless want, Buck had pulled back enough to free Tommy from the confines of his jeans.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Only now, Buck finds that he can't move, throat dry as he stares down at the length of Tommy's cock.

"Evan." He jumps a little when he feels Tommy's fingers thread through his hair, using the gentle grip to force him to meet Tommy's gaze. Tommy's brows are pulled together, lips turned down in a worried frown.

"You know you don't have to do this, right? There’s no rush."

"Yeah, I-I know. I want to." It belatedly occurs to him that maybe Tommy isn't ready for this—he thinks about teeth and suddenly isn't sure he'd want someone with no blowjob experience near his junk either—and he hurriedly begins to back pedal. "Unless you don't want—"

He doesn't get much further than that, Tommy pulling him up further to press a hungry kiss to his parted lips. It's a welcome distraction, and Buck feels his own cock throb in response, his hips thrusting infinitesimally against Tommy's thigh.

But it doesn't get much further than that before Tommy breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Buck's and breathing heavily.

"There is nothing I want more than to have your hands on me," he says, voice rough.

"Then let me do this for you. Please?"

"Fuck." He watches the way Tommy's throat works before he answers in a shaky voice, "Y-yeah. Okay."

Seeing Tommy look so wrecked when they haven't even started yet bolsters Buck's confidence some as he turns his attention back to Tommy's cock. It's long and so thick. Now probably isn't the best time, but Buck allows himself a moment to study it. The vein running up the length of the shaft, the way the foreskin has pulled back from the sensitive head, his balls hanging full and heavy between his legs...

Buck's mouth waters.

Steeling himself—C'mon, Buck, you rappelled onto a capsized cruise ship from a helicopter in the middle of a hurricane, get it together—he reaches out to take Tommy in hand.

He isn’t sure what he'd been expecting. It's a dick. He's got one of those and he's jerked off plenty. Brow furrowed in concentration, he gave an experimental stroke.

Above him, Tommy hisses. Okay, yeah, that is not encouraging. Buck peeks up at him, only to find Tommy staring at him intensely, his chest already heaving.

Huh.

"You like that?" Buck asks, a teasing grin curving his mouth as he pumps Tommy again, slow and easy.

"Christ, Evan." A muscle in Tommy's jaw jumps and he draws in a deep breath through his nose. "Do that again."

The bite of command in Tommy's voice makes him shiver. He does as he's told despite the awkward angle, his eyes darting between Tommy's expression and the tip of his cock is beaded with precum. Feeling daring, Buck rubs his thumb over the droplet, spreading it out over the sensitive head.

Tommy's hips buck into his hand.

Yeah, this is gonna be fun.

Buck laughs, twisting around to settle himself between Tommy's legs, the shaft only inches away from Buck's mouth. He bites his lip, hesitating, before deciding to just go for it. Holding Tommy's gaze, he leans in to brush a featherlight kiss on the underside of Tommy's cock.

His reaction doesn't disappoint. He curses loudly, hands winding back into Buck's hair and tightening almost to the point of pain. They've only just begun, and already Tommy's control is threatening to fracture.

He's beautiful.

Buck's not feeling brave enough to take Tommy into his mouth, not yet, but it's almost better like this. This way, he gets to watch Tommy's head thrashing against the arm of the couch, see the way his body strains towards the pleasure. Buck jerks Tommy off, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and through the precum accumulating there. With every second, his movements slowly gain confidence as Tommy gets closer to the edge. He categorises the other man's every reaction, filing it all away for the next time they do this.

Jesus, he's already desperate for next time.

"Evan, please, I—"

"What do you need, babe? C'mon, tell me."

But Tommy does something even better. He releases his hold on Buck's hair and reaches down to wrap one hand around Buck's, guiding his movements. Buck's breath catches as Tommy's fingers squeeze his, jerking Tommy's cock harder and rougher and—

"Fuck."

Tommy's body tenses for an endless moment before he breaks. Ropes of cum shoot up Tommy's belly and chest, and a few errant drops land on Buck's face. The sounds he makes as he comes undone, the helpless grunts and shudders that wrack his body are so fucking hot, that Buck has no choice but to get up onto his knees to give himself room to reach for his own cock. Tommy's come slicks the way for Buck's hand as he works the shaft

Tommy stares at him with hazy eyes, lips parted as he tries to catch his breath. Christ, he's so gorgeous like this, utterly debauched with his flushed cheeks and come splattered skin.

And Buck's just going to add to it. It's that thought that tips him over the edge. His orgasm rolls through him, taking his breath away as his own come paints Tommy's abdomen. And all the while, Tommy watches him, dark eyes warm and gentle and hungry for something Buck can't quite put a name to.

His knees give out under him, and he falls forward in a boneless heap, narrowly avoiding elbowing Tommy in the ribs. Tommy lets out a little ooof as he bears Buck's weight.

"Wow," Buck says after a brief, breathless silence.

“Yeah.” Tommy runs a shaky hand up and down his back, and Buck arches into the touch like a cat. He feels his eyes drifting shut, a bone deep satisfaction beginning to lull him to sleep.

“… go shower,” Tommy’s saying from somewhere above him. Buck frowns and burrows closer into his body. It’s gonna take a friggin’ crane to get him to move now.

“Evan.” A quiet sigh. “I know you can hear me.”

“Hng.”

The sound of his laugh makes Buck smile against Tommy’s skin. The hand that had been rubbing his back moves back up into his hair. Buck can’t hold back a shiver at the sensation of Tommy’s nails scratching at his scalp.

“C’mon,” he coaxes. “If you get up now, I’ll even wash your hair for you.”

That gets Buck’s attention. He lifts his head to squint at Tommy.

“Promise?”

Tommy’s smile makes his nose scrunch up and his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s an expression that never fails to give Buck butterflies.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I promise.”

[greenfiend]

i just read your time travel theory and all i keep thinking about is how in back to the future 2 marty and doc travel to the future and biff finds the time machine and works it in his favor so when marty and doc travel back to present time everything is wrong and they have to travel all the way to the beginning. have you had any thoughts on such a twist? (by the way i love all your theories and you blow my mind with every single one)

Short answer: a big huge YES!!!!!!

I actually allude to this idea in this post!

I believe that we have already seen aspects of the show inspired by Back to the Future Part II.

For example: newspapers indicating different timelines. Just one example is the differences between the Will articles… the Henry-Edward Creel articles are another major example of this. -> click here for info on that. Credit to @aemiron-main for these amazing finds.

Another one is the Dustin and Mike walkie-talkie scene- it’s a reference to the first sequel of BttF (since it was the only one of the movies where they used walkie-talkies!).

Now for some stuff I think we WILL see referenced from the movie…

Now, I believe it’s very telling that they put “William” rather than “Billy” on the gravestone and that they played the song “Dear Willy” in the background of this scene. They are obviously alluding to the other William here as well, and possibly to a separate timeline where he died on November 6th, 1983. Not unlike how George Mcfly was murdered in the alternate 1985 in Back to the Future part II.

If true, then I’m even more inclined to believe that Lonnie is the #1 suspect. Lonnie being our Biff… and possible step father to Will…

Look at their similarities… “[He] always did have a way with women.” 🤢

Then, of course, we must have a scene like this one.

The alternate timeline!!! There’s absolutely at least one of these, possibly more. For this scene, I like to envision Dustin being the one to explain this to everyone.

Now for my favourite idea…

Our characters travelling back to a previous moment within the show! Ah… movie magic. I cannot tell you how much I love this concept. Blew my mind as a child. Look at how the events of the first Back to the Future movie were occurring as a second Marty was on a separate mission desperately avoiding detection from his past self. Time travel can be confusing as heck but damn it’s fun.

I will say that I do not think time travel within Stranger Things will occur in the same way as it does in Back to the Future. It’ll be different somehow. I mention a pretty *wild* idea here.

Now. Here are some things I’m nearly confident about:

Will will (or has) travelled to the past. SO much evidence of this, it’s nearly undeniable.

Mike *somehow* is their “ride” back in time. This is heavily implied when Dustin calls up Mike for a “ride” while the DeLorean is shown on the big screen.

Multiple timelines exist, and we will likely see them or at least learn about them.

Vecna, Mike, and Will are the characters most associated with time and time travel.

Ahhh I love time travel and Back to the Future. The Duffers clearly do too! Back to the Future has been referenced since episode one when we first saw Will in that classic red “life preserver”. The references go deeper than most people realize too. I gotta say too, the whole play being set in the 50s, with the parents as teens, is very reminiscent of Back to the Future as well!

I would not be surprised at all if they referenced this classic sequel a fair bit in the final season!

[cuubism]

Hope for the Future

~2k, Dreamling, 1589 era, post-Eleanor's death, dream conversations and revelations. cw death in childbirth

Dream and Hob meet at Eleanor's deathbed, in a fashion.

--

Ages ago I wrote Patron Saint, a fic about Hob's friendship with Death. For a while I wanted to write a companion piece from Dream's POV since Dreamling is a background ship in that fic but their trajectory is different from canon. But lbr it's been 2 years and I haven't done that-- early on, though, I did write one scene from Dream's POV because I wanted to flesh out a potential moment that Death mulls on in Patron Saint, when she was visiting Hob after Eleanor and the baby died:

“So many babies die,” Hob says. “Mothers, too, I—” he runs a hand through greasy, disheveled hair. “Do you think it will be better in the future? Because I haven’t seen that much improved. Not in my time.” “I imagine so, yes,” Death says. Dream would be able to answer this question for him better. Dream would be able to tell him what doctors might be imagining solutions to the problem, what midwives were dreaming of new ways to care for their charges. Hope for the future is Dream’s business, whether he accepts it or not. She wishes Dream were here. She has a strong feeling Hob would find even his stoic pretense at apathy comforting. Caring for others is strange like that.

Anyway I wanted that scene, I wrote that scene, I didn't write anything else to flesh out a companion piece but I think it stands on its own and can be understood even without reading the original fic.

--

Dream would assert that he did not care about Hob Gadling. He was not interested in Hob Gadling, beyond a passing curiosity in his approach to humanity, sated every hundred years. He was certainly not thinking about Hob Gadling, or his wife and small child and knighthood and other life goals he’d managed to accrue in this century. 

And yet, as he felt a particularly vicious nightmare go for Hob in his sleep, not long after their last meeting, he took note. 

He wasn’t sure why he took note. Perhaps because Hob had been on such a disgusting high last they’d met, it seemed strange for this to happen now. Perhaps because he knew this nightmare particularly well, had crafted it from deep in his own soul, as he so rarely did.

He followed the thread of the nightmare. 

Hob was running. Both from and after something at once. A darkness chased him. And another darkness retreated from him.

“Wait!” he yelled, reaching for it. Smoke slipped through his hands. Hob heaved for breath, stumbling to a stop as he ran out of air. He leaned on his knees, panting and coughing. “Wait,” he sobbed, but the darkness did not wait.

The other wave of darkness caught him, knocking him off his feet so he sprawled on the ground, hands scraping on the dirt. It didn’t attack him, just hovered over him like a blanket of fog, blocking the meager light. 

“You weren’t supposed to go,” Hob said into the darkness. It didn’t reply.

It was not an unreasonable nightmare for a father to have, Dream knew well enough. But the sharpness of those dark shadows – this nightmare was not pure fiction. It was drawing more from memory than he’d thought.

“Enough of this drama,” he commanded the nightmare. “Show me the truth of things.”

The scene of darkness faded to reveal an ordinary, if well-appointed bedroom. An air of sickness hovered, and death also – Dream could feel the echo of his sister near. 

A sickly woman, heavily pregnant, lay in the bed, and it was she that Dream knew was calling Death forth. She, and the tiny baby cradled in her womb, not quite ready to be born, and now would never be.

And Hob – not dying, he couldn’t, but he looked about as close to it as a man could come. Ashen, shaky, trembling.

“I love you,” he was saying, kissing Eleanor’s hand. “You know?”

This was still a dream, and this had all already occurred, Dream knew. There was nothing he could do here, not that he would. He turned to go, feeling stiff and cold in a way he decidedly did not like, when Hob looked up, and saw him.

Dream had not meant to be seen.

“My friend,” said Hob, surprise temporarily wiping the grief from his features. “You’re here.”

“I… am,” Dream conceded, and, drawn in despite himself, sat in a chair beside Hob. 

“I’m grateful for it,” said Hob. Dream didn’t know what he could possibly be providing that Hob was grateful for. Then, “There’s no hope, is there? I mean. I don’t know why I’d think you would know.”

Dream looked at the mother and baby before him. Hob had called him friend. A friend, he thought, would tell Hob that there was always hope. But that was not what Dream believed.

“I do not think so,” he said. “I am… sorry.”

Hob sighed. He was still holding Eleanor’s hand. “I have to tell you, I– whatever I might’ve said to you at our last meeting, I’m struggling to feel any of it right now.”

“That is understandable.” More understandable, Dream thought, than his declaration of Life is rich! that Dream had found so hard to swallow.

“I’ve known others who’ve lost wives, children,” Hob said, and Dream looked down. Hob would have no way of knowing who those others might have included. “But I guess I always thought, not me, never me, never my Eleanor. Not until she was old and gray, anyway. But I guess everyone thinks that, don’t they?”

“Perhaps.” Dream thought he himself had always known the cost would come due. Destiny might have said that was one of the reasons it did come due. You make your own end. But that would not help Hob.

“It’s got to get better,” Hob asserted. “It’s got to. It’s got to stop some day, doesn’t it? All these children, and mothers dying.”

The instinct to sneer at his optimism jumped up Dream’s throat, but he managed to bite it off. He did not want to be… cruel, he realized, to someone who was suffering. Especially within a dream; dreamers’ minds were not for him to subject to his own feelings.

“In Guangzhou,” he started slowly, the dreams coming to him like a light rainfall, “there is a doctor who has just crafted a new medicine to ease pain during childbirth. She has been dreaming of it for years. In Oyo, a healer is learning to tell earlier and earlier when a pregnancy is troubled, that they might intervene in time. A few months more, and they will have it. And down the street, here in London, a midwife is just planting the seeds for the hospital she will open to help unwed mothers with nowhere to turn.”

Hob stared at him. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“Dreamers abound,” Dream said, “but it takes time for their work to come to fruition.”

Hob continued to watch him. Something shifted in his eyes, as he looked at Dream. Dream wasn’t certain he liked it. 

“You know everything, don’t you?” Hob said.

“Not everything.”

“You know all of that,” Hob mused, “all these things that are happening. And… you still come to ask me if I wish to live?”

Dream bristled, and Hob raised his hands in surrender. “Never mind, never mind, forget I said anything. You’re entitled to your own feelings on the matter. Thank you, for those stories. It helps. Truly. And I’m glad that I’ll get to see it. One day.”

“‘One day,’” Dream echoed. “‘One day’ is a time when no children die and no famine walks the earth, when soldiers break their swords before the fight, and later bread with their enemies. One day is always one step into the future, Hob Gadling. Ever-moving.”

“Aye,” said Hob. “That’s the point.” 

Dream frowned. What pleasure could be derived from wanting and wanting, and never having, he could not fathom. He had crafted nightmares thus. What hope to find in hope itself continually being dashed?

“I look forward to seeing you every century, you know that?” Hob added. “No matter what else happens. Bad days, or good ones.”

Dream kept frowning, unsure of the connection.

“It’s important to have those things,” Hob said. He squeezed Eleanor’s still hand. “Even now. Especially now.” 

In Dream’s own… aftermath… he could not imagine finding comfort in anything. What help could some nebulous future date possibly be?

“If that is what helps you,” he said. 

Hob cast him a look like he just knew that Dream didn’t get it, and it rankled. But there was no true criticism in that look. Hob looked at him with an unfathomable fondness, always.

He turned back to Eleanor, just gazing at her face with an expression Dream found difficult to witness in its softness. Were this the waking world, she would have certainly passed by now. But moments could freeze indefinitely in the Dreaming.

“Do you think I’ll forget her?” Hob asked quietly, still looking at his wife. “The details of her face, I mean? Her voice? What she smelled like? My memory’s far from perfect, and there’s a lot of time for it to fade.”

Dream knew without having to actively make the vow to himself that he would be sending frequent dreams Hob’s way to ensure he did not. He should not do so. He should not interfere. 

But.

“There are some things one does not forget,” he said.

Hob swiped at his eyes. He was crying now. “S’pose you’re right.”

If Dream was any sort of friend – and he was not sure that he was, though Hob had declared him so – he would end this dream now and spare Hob any further torment of reliving this memory. 

Instead, he sat beside him, far longer than he intended. Sat in silence, listened to Hob’s breaths, his sniffles as he cried, the subtle movements of continued life. He stayed in this sea of human endings and sickness and grief. With Hob. Something unnameable sitting heavier and heavier within him. And more than once he told himself to rise and to end the dream, and he did not. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hob finally said, when much time had passed and they still sat side-by-side. And it was this that finally reminded Dream that he should not be.

“I should leave you,” he said, standing abruptly. “This dream is–”

“Wait.” Hob took his hand. Dream should– Dream should yank it away in offense. He should take his leave of Hob instantly for the familiarity, the daring. 

He did not. He merely stood frozen as Hob pressed his hand between both of his own. His touch was very warm.

“Keep all those things in mind,” Hob said. His eyes still glittered with tears, but his words were steady. “Those infinite things you know about the world. Wherever you’re going.”

“I have much in mind at all times,” Dream told him. Hob had no idea how much. 

Hob smiled at him sadly. “I’m sure. Just think about it, okay? Those doctors in those faraway places. Alright?”

Dream studied him, but gleaned no additional information from it. “Very well,” he said at last.

Hob squeezed his hand once more, then let him go.

A friend might comfort him again, in these circumstances. But Dream was not certain it was necessary. He could see in Hob, even now, the spine of a man who would not break, even when he was so far down.

It was… curious.

Hob bid him farewell, eyes just crinkling at the corners. “Until we meet again, dear stranger.”

Dream stepped back into the comforting arms of the Dreaming proper, discomfited by the moment in a way he could not quite pin down, and by his own willingness to stay and engage in it at all. To involve himself in Hob’s life in a way he had not intended. 

“Until then, Hob Gadling,” he said, letting the scene dissolve around them, “this dream is over.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Actually could we put some light on the class difference clash epel is experiencing in school. The situations looks a little weird to me. Cuz in epel's robes vignette it starts with the other pomefiore students asking him about carpet brand preference and he has no idea what to answer. They end up having a misunderstanding that never clears up. Epel proceeds to make a table manner mistake which Rook helps cover up with a lie so epel won't be embarassed (rook can probably sympatise) while vil is more strict. It is in this vignette we see that instance of vil first making epel lie about his favorite food for unclear, debated reasons.

In Epel's labwear vignette we hear some of the NPC students whisper about him and they seem to be asuming he must also be from some rich family due to the clothes he wears (which vil gave to him and makes him wear) and maybe also because he's in pomefiore. I know that it's just like vil to give people clothes he thinks will fit them best,and some of it might be so epel blends in pomefiore better, but could Epel actually be more likely to get picked on if he was perceived as from a lower class? NRC is a prestigious boarding school but it's not like he's the only character with more...average circumstances. Compared to the literal royalty and celebrity attending.

[Referencing this post!]

Mmm... I mean, aren't the mobs (in the Labwear vignettes) already bullying Epel because they perceive him to be of high social status? I don't think it would make a difference if they knew he was of a low social status since the mobs were already bullying him (again, under the impression that he's rich) to begin with. What I'm saying is that bullying would have occurred regardless of Epel's socioeconomic status. It's not necessarily nice, but it seems to be the norm for NRC students to verbally bash one another.

I don't really recall other major or frequent instances of middle class (Trey, Jack, Ace) or low-income students (Ruggie, Deuce) in the main cast being bullied. In fact, Trey and Ruggie are pretty well-liked and respected within their own dorms despite not being as wealthy as the majority of their peers are. (In this post, I go over how roughly 75% of the main cast come from at least upper middle-class backgrounds.) The bullying seems to be centered mainly on Epel, and I think that's probably because his peers perceive him as being small and cute--and therefore delicate, meek, and easy to push around. Epel just seems like the ideal target from a quick glance. Notice how B-kun comments on Epel’s face first:

I think it's also worth noting which dorms the bullies in Epel's Labwear vignettes come from: B and C are from Savanaclaw, and A is from Pomefiore. Savanaclaw mobs are notoriously belligerent and are usually the go-to mobs to pick fights with their peers for what are very minor things. The Pomefiore mob bully seems to be an outlier; most other Pomefiore mobs, at least as depicted in Epel's Ceremonial Robes vignettes, are polite and refrain from this type of behavior.

Importantly, (Savanaclaw) C is the one that calls Epel a “little rich brat” and (Pomefiore) A says Epel is “daddy’s fancy little lad”. This wording makes both sound resentful of the rich, thinking them spoiled—so it makes me think maybe A, B, and C are actually not rich themselves and are the less privileged picking on someone they think is wealthy but unable to stand up for themselves.

Now, within Pomefiore itself, it does appear that many of its students are upper class or at least sticklers for appearances. Their knowledge of brands and aesthetics itself is not damning evidence (anyone of any class could know this too; there’s also lots of non-rich people who obsess over brands). However, the fact that all of Epel’s first year peers already seemed familiar with how to handle a full set of cutlery at a formal meal does indicate high socioeconomic status, as the common man would not know how the heck a salad dork differs from the fish fork. (Most people use 1 fork or 1 spoon for the entire meal, and forget about having courses.) Buuut we shouldn’t assume that this one vignette is representative of all Pomefiore students, just as we cannot assume the one mean Pome A is a good example of all Pomefiore students, since there are limitations with the game. (Another famous game limitation is all Savanaclaw mobs being beastmen and every other dorm having zero beastmen mobs; in the manga, we see humans in Savanaclaw and beastmen in Heartslabyul. Riddle also verbally confirms that Heartslabyul has a cat beastman in the second Beans Day event.)

I think there’s definitely intersectionality at play as well. There’s something to be said for a culture clash in addition to a clash of classes. Epel is the only one in the main cast from a decidedly rural area where there isn’t much to do (ie no brand name shops) and everyone is close and casual with one another (ie there is little in the way of formalities). This likely contributes to the disconnect between Epel and his Pomefiore peers.

Now, where is this all leading to? Am I claiming that bullying based on socioeconomic status doesn't happen at NRC? Of course not! I have no doubt that it happens, but I don't think it's specifically the rich-on-poor type. In Epel's case, it seems to be the poor-on-(perceived to be) rich kind, but the opposite also occurs (in book 1, Riddle insults Yuu's pitiful education, something which is typically associated with the lower class; magic and magic education in particular is associated with the upper class). And, of course, we have the middle ground of people of similar socioeconomic status going at each other (for example, Leona and Malleus's rivalry). What's sort of sad is that the environment at NRC is conducive to animosity and no adults ever intervening because: 1) the students are so prideful, who would actually have the guts to tell an authority figure they were being picked on? and 2) the students tend to try and retaliate or get into fights instead, which only escalates the situation.

At NRC, I get the impression that class is one thing you could get bullied for, but that power and/or connections are much more important factors. Let's revisit Ruggie, who is the most impoverished of the main cast. If we assume that the less well-off students are predominantly the ones who get picked on, then shouldn't we have many examples of Ruggie being bullied? But he isn't. In fact, the big, burly Savanaclaw mobs (who are known to be combative) seem to defer to him instead of bullying him. Leona even leaves Savanaclaw in Ruggie's care while he is away in book 6, fully expecting that the mobs will listen to Ruggie. Why? Well, Ruggie is not physically or magically strong, but he has Leona's backing. It's through this association with the powerful Leona that Ruggie gains the respect and the following of the others in his dorm. This is something we consistently see in other characters, including Epel's own dorm leader. Because Vil beats him in combat, Epel agrees to listen to what he says even if Epel dislikes it. We see mob students bend the knee to the main cast once they've gotten glimpses into their power or abilities (Leona versus the Savanaclaw mobs, Idia versus the Ignihyde mobs, each in their respective Dorm Uniform vignettes).

Circling back around to the concept of Epel being bullied! Would the Pomefiore mobs turn on him if they realize he's actually not wealthy? Maybe...? We don't really know enough about the individual personalities of the mobs to judge for ourselves. If they did bully Epel for that though... I feel like those mobs would be in for an ass whooping from Vil (and Rook) for being so petty, vindictive, and disregarding decorum. Vil can rub people the wrong way with his demanding and stern attitude (I'm one of those people sometimes), but he wouldn't stand for such "ugly" behavior. It sullies the good name of the Fairest Queen and the dorm made in her image that he oversees. Those are my thoughts on the topic! I apologize if I ended up straying a little from the initial ask (I felt like I wasn't even truly talking about Epel for half this post ashdbsadlbayw).

[grimoireofhayley]

Of Friends and Horror

Stu Macher x Fem!Reader x Billy Loomis

WARNINGS: Graphic content, Smut (MINORS DNI), Language, Talks of SA, Cheating, Obsessiveness, Gore, 18+ Content, Stalking, Possessiveness, Dirty talk, Religion talk, Suppressed Mental Health problems (I.e., reader has some issues that she isn't aware of)

Word Count: 0.9k

Taglist: @ev3ningrain @nerdytif @fanfic-enjoyer123 @darkenwolfie @juda-the-simp  @colsons-baker @junnniiieee07  @ok-boke @ren-ni @katie-tibo @bruce-yamada

A/n: I promise the chapters from this moment onward will be longer! I haven’t proofread this chapter yet, but I’m working on it as it’s published. I can’t leave ya starving now can I? 😜

All chapter links!!! 👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

OF&H Masterlist

Chapter 12

You stood a few meters away from the door, contemplating on how you were going to walk up to both Sidney and Tatum and act like you didn’t just have a heavy-heated make out session with Billy that almost ended up with your back pressed against the glass window; being railed from the front.

The door opened again, startling you from your thoughts as Billy and Officer Brinks came out.

You watched closely, frowning.

Billy was cuffed and being held aggressively against his own will and his dad only stood a few feet away from him, not even trying to hide the fact he was disappointed in his son.

Billy looked at his father, his white shirt clinging to his muscles from the amount of sweat that was coming off of him, defining them more than needed.

“Tell ‘em.” Billy began, his voice cracking. “Come on, Dad, tell ‘em!”

“Just wait for the lawyer, Billy.” His dad stated, unimpressed.

You wanted to run up to Billy and hug him close, but the interaction you had prior made it impossible for you to even budge.

“Sidney!”

This caught you off guard.

“Sidney, come on, you know me.” He whined, fighting against Officer Brinks’ hold, but the man was far too strong as his grip only strengthened, pulling Billy towards his cell. “Sidney, baby!” He hollered, not noticing your presence in the background.

‘I was merely just a distraction…’ You thought, baffled. ‘How could he do and say that to me, and then beg Sidney to look at him, like we didn’t just almost fuck back there..’ You cringed, biting your lip, trying your hardest not to let any tears build up again, but you failed.

Sniffling, you looked to the side, spotting Tatum, fortunately, she was already heading your way.

“(N/n), we’re going to get you and Sid out of here, okay?” She beamed, placing a hand on your back and began rubbing circles in an attempt to keep you from breaking down.

She gently grabbed your hand after a few seconds and dragged you towards Sidney, who was balling her eyes out.

Tatum looked ahead, seeing her brother, Dewey.

“Hey, Dewey. Can we go now?” She asked, impatient.

“Yeah, hold on a second.” He mumbled, but Tatum wasn’t having it.

“God dammit, Dewey!” She screeched, outstretching her arms to the side, in the process, she let go of your hand as aggravation strung along.

Dewey glared, stomping from his boss.

“What did Mama tell you?” He hissed, “When I’m wearing this badge, you treat me like a man of the law.”

You and Sidney just stared at each other, not sure what to say or do and for a minute, you had completely forgotten about the woeful event that occurred beforehand.

“I’m sorry, Deputy Dewey-boy of the law, but we’re all ready to go…” Tatum huffed, grabbing Sidney’s things and stuffing them away in a bag. “Now.” Tatum finished, handing Dewey Sidney’s things.

The Sheriff laughed, patting Dewey on the back.

“Take ‘em out the back way. Avoid the circus out there.”

___

“Isn’t there a back way out of this building?” Gale asked, already walking towards the back with her cameraman.

“Yeah, down that alley I think.” Kenny answered, hoisting the camera on his shoulder, steadying it.

“You stay here, I’m going to get the police car.” Dewey ordered the three of you and then jogged towards his destination, not realizing Gale was on her way.

“There they are!” Gale suddenly blurted, running towards you, Tatum and Sidney.

“(Y/n)! Sidney!” Gale shouted, slightly out of breath.

The bright beam of the flash on the video-er, blinded you for a moment.

“Hi, this is some night! What happened? Are you two okay?” Gale asked, not really interested, as she shoved the mic between you and Sidney, awaiting answers.

“They’re not answering any questions, all right. Just leave us alone.” Tatum stepped in front of you, swatting the mic away.

“No, Tatum, it’s okay. She’s just doin’ her job, right Gale?” Sidney spoke, now in front, confidence radiating off of her despite the forced smile making its way to her face.

You glanced at Sidney, not sure what she was doing, when all you wanted was to just leave, maybe get some rest before the next day. You were irked as it was, and Gale’s voice just kept going and going, making it more difficult to think, breathe, and leave.

“Yes, that’s right.” Gale grinned, oblivious.

“So, how’s the book?” Sidney asked, curious to know what Gale would say.

“Oh, it’s going well, should be out later this year.” She answers.

“Oh, I’ll look for it.” Sidney mocked, she was definitely pissed off.

“I’ll send you a copy—“

Gale didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence as you butted in; your knuckles connected to the side of her face, causing her to knock back, falling into her cameraman. She groaned, pain searing throughout her jaw and cheek, her hand immediately shot to the stinging sensation she felt in a horrible attempt to soothe the affliction.

Sidney’s mouth gaped as she looked at you, not sure if she should thank you or scold you as she wanted to be the one to punch her.

“I’ve had a long day.” You started, “And your voice was the tip of the iceberg.” You growled, “And frankly, I didn’t want to hear you talk anymore.” You fumed, spitting at her feet. “Now, if I were you, I would put that book on hold and shut the fuck up for once.” You finished.

<—Previous Next—>

[aismoker]

How to Bing?

Part 1: The basics

I received several questions about how I create the images I post. So, here are some of the answers. I am no expert and I have not a clue how the algorithms work. There are probably plenty of other ways to make images, but this is the way how I make them. If you have tips or tricks, share them below.

As I have stated before, I use the Image Creator of Bing, powered by DALL-E 3. It is "free", as in: you don't have to pay for it, but it probably collects tons of data, but let's not get into that. I have tried other creators, but at the moment, I think that Bing produces the highest quality images, with the smallest amounts of flaws, although it still happens quite often that too many arms or legs appear in the images. Of course, this field develops so quickly that by the time you read this, there can be thirty other, better creators out there. One of the cons of the creator is that it sometimes blocks your prompts to eagerly. As a rule, just stay away from full-body nudity, sex, celebrities, violence and weapons. In some cases you can work around it, for example, if you create a soldier, often a gun appears in the image. There are other image creators that allow that kind of stuff. Feel free to use those.

Below I explain the steps that I usually go through when I make an image. I put examples along with it. Those are just examples to highlight the point I am trying to make. It is not a process you have to follow step-by-step to create your own images, you can do that in your head.

STEP #1: Composition

Generally speaking, the first things you put in your prompt are usually considered to be the most important, so start with what the focus of the images should be. Do you want the focus to be on a person, than write that down first. Do you want a more overview-like image (for example of a large room, a field, etc.) then start with that.

As you can see below, I created several different images of a man in an office. The prompts that I used are below them.

"A man sits in an office"

"An office with a man sitting in it"

"Portrait of a man sitting in an office"

"A coffee cup in an office. A man sits behind it."

Do you see the difference between the first and second image? In the first, the focus is on the man, in the second more on the surrounding. In the third image, the focus is even more on the man. In the fourth image the focus is on something else and the man is just a background prop.

STEP #2: Specify

With such basic short prompts you usually get decent images, but there is a huge problem: You don't have any control on what the image looks like. In the example above, the men look completely different as do the offices in which they are sitting. If you let the prompts run again, you get completely different men and offices. It is therefore needed to specify your prompts. You can do that by changing the words in the prompt that you already have, or to add stuff.

STEP # 2.1: Change what you already have

By exchanging the words in your prompt, you can specify what you have. I have used the prompt above and have changed the word "man" into different occupations. The differences are striking.

"A general sits in his office."

"A bouncer sits in his office."

"A baker sits in his office."

"A farmer sits in his office."

I have also changed "an office" into "his office", just to make sure that the main figure remains a man. In the case of "general" and "bouncer" the chances that a woman appears are not so big, although it does occur. With occupations like farmer, baker, teacher, etc. the chances that you get a woman are bigger. This is because the generator works on the basis of prejudice, bias, stereotypes or whatever you want to call it. This is logical as the generator has been "fed" images of, for example, generals, who have been traditionally more often men than women. That is also the reason why for example in images of bakers a lot of breads, cookies and other pastries appear, simply because the generator has been taught that that is the essence of being a baker. You can see this as a problem, but it is what it is. Besides, you can always subvert expectations.

Just use your imagination and you might get surprised what works for you. There are, however, some occupations that you should try to avoid if you don't want your prompts to get blocked. For example, I tried "butcher" instead of "baker". In the first attempt I got the images below, but all later attempts got blocked. Based on the images I did get, I think that the generator basically equates "butcher" with "serial killer".

I didn't try words like "murderer", "psychopath" or "male prostitute", but I guess they are also blocked.

Some of the words I like to use to describe men are: "bouncer", "biker", "scally" and "security guard". This very often gives a masculine, bad boy vibe to the image.

STEP #2.2: Add stuff

Changing the things you have can change the images significantly, but with a short prompt like "A man sits in an office." you leave a lot of space for the generator to fill in the blanks. It is therefore important to fill in those blanks. It is, however, important to know, that you cannot control everything. First of all, you only have 380 characters to describe what you want to get. I found out that you can make longer descriptions with the chat feature, but I never used that. Secondly, the longer you make your descriptions, the harder it is for the generator to understand what you mean and it can mess things up. For example, if you describe multiple people seperately, it will happen that the features of one will be copied to the other one, or that they will morph into some creature. Especially if you want to create an image like 1.2 ("An office with a man sitting in it.") with multiple people in it, you just have to accept that the image will probably not turn out how you hoped it would be.

The easiest way to make the images more to your liking is to add specifications to the nouns. You can, for example add age of the people in your images and add more qualities:

"A 30 yo man sits in an office."

"A 60 yo man sits in an office."

"A sinister man sits in an office."

"A muscled man sits in an office."

"A 30 yo sinister man sits in an office."

"A 30 yo muscled man sits in an office"

Adjectives I like to use to describe people are: "muscled", "charismatic", "sinister", "brutal", "athletic", "brutish", "rough" and "rugged". Note, however, that some of these words tend to have some strange consequences. I noticed, for example, that "rough" tends to create men with wounds or scars on their faces, "rugged" gives the men often a fur collar and "muscled" and "athletic" very often leaves the men without shirt or sleeves. Not necessarily bad, but just keep it in mind.

You can add multiple adjectives after each other and it is quite fun to try strange or unlogical combinations, like "charismatic" and "brutal". The generator often comes up with inventive and quite good images! The system has its limits, however, so try to keep it simple. In my experience up to four specifications seem to work okay.

The same goes for the space in which the person is.

"A man sits in a dark office."

"A man sits in a bright office."

"A man sits in a bright smoke-filled office."

"A man sits in a creepy smoke-filled office."

Of course, you can also put specifications after the nouns. I usually use this to describe the spaces (like: "at night", "at dawn", "in a big city", etc.) For people, however, I have the feeling that it not always works.

The images you create with these methods are nice, but not exactly what we want. In order to get there, we have to add more stuff to specify it further. Things I put in here are usually descriptions of clothing, specific features of people and movements.

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. He smokes a cigarette."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. He wears a shiny leather suit."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. He talks on the phone."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. He has shaved his head bald."

You can let your fantasy go loose here and you can add as much as fits in the prompt. Think, however, about what you put in this part and what you put in as adjective. For example, "a bald man... He has shaved his head bald." is double, so remove one of those. I have the feeling that "He has shaved his head bald." gives better results, so I would keep that and remove "bald", but this is all up to you. And if you have not enough space, try to put things in as adjectives instead of descriptions. Don't be afraid to put in this part also adjectives. Just play around with it. There are indefinite possibilities in indefinite combinations.

A few examples:

"A brutal 30 yo bouncer sits in a smoke-filled office at sunset. He wears a leather jacket. He has a black mohawk. He fills out a form. He smokes a cigarette."

"A charismatic 45 yo business man sits in a steampunk office. He wears a biker suit. He has polished his nails green. He pets a cat."

"A handsome brutal 30 yo man sits in an office. He wears a shiny black police uniform. He smokes a cigar. He stares at his phone. The phone glows red."

"A bald 23 yo scally lad sits in a futuristic high-tech office. He has a bushy blonde beard. He wears a shiny black tracksuit. He drinks a beer and smokes a cigarette."

What you should not do is to tell a story to the generator like "A man sits in his office. He is on the phone with his colleague, complaining about his boss, while he writes a report with graphs in it." This will usually confuse the generator. Keep the sentences short and describe what you want to see. The story behind it should be made in your head.

STEP 3: Add a style

One of the last things I add is a certain style. This is not necessary, but it can add a bit of finesse to the image. I either put it in at the end or in the beginning. I am still trying to figure out what works and what doesn't.

"Sepia photo. A 30 yo man sits in a n office."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. The scene is sinister."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. Manga style."

"A 30 yo man sits in an office. Low-angle perspective."

STEP 4: Be patient and practice makes perfect

One of the most important things to keep in mind while making AI-images is to be patient. You can have written the most fantastic prompt, but still the images can look like shit. Don't despair and try it again with the same prompt. If, after a few attempts it doesn't work, try to change a few words. Most of the images I have created are the result of multiple attempts and rewrites. Also, save you prompts in between. A prompt that gets blocked disappears and you will have to start your prompt from scratch.

After some practice you will start to get a feeling of what will get a prompt blocked and how you can circumvent this. For example, I noticed that "police man" has a higher block-ratio than "bouncer" or "man" + "He wears a police uniform". Also, if you want images of men getting towards a climax, use something that might look similar to that, for example "He has his eyes closed in pain".

That's all for now. I hope this helps some of you guys out in making some nice images. Don't forget to share them!

In the next part, I will get deeper into more complex images, with multiple people in them.

To go to part 2: click here

[dailyadventureprompts]

Mystery: Oh, How the Iron Coffin Hungers!

There's been a rash of graverobberies across the kingdom that have the authorities suspecting necromancy. For their part, the necromancer's guild has nothing to do with these crimes and is willing to hire your party to help clear their name. The investigation will lead you to through tombs, black markets, and haunted crossroads of the realm, as it becomes clear the culprits are seeking far more than coin or corpses at the bottom of those defiled graves.

Clues & Complications:

A missing body is usually a dead giveaway that a necromancer has been involved in a grave robbery, as most criminals only care about grabbing what valuables they can and wouldn't result to bodysnatching unless someone was going to pay them for it. How unusual then when a few of the bodies begin turning up days after they were exhumed, one in an abandoned cellar, one on the side of the road, and one in a completely different town, which may give a hint as to the culprit's movements.

Working for necromancers has its benefits, the guild is aware of the habits of the corpse trade (only in a theoretical sense, you understand, yes?) and can use their magic to extract information from the cadavers. Strangely enough it appears all the corpses bear the marks of previous magical questioning, hinting that it might be information the robbers were after, not flesh or treasure.

The bodies all belong to minor gentry or well-to-do merchants, the ideal targets for graverobbers who don't mind breaking into a tomb or fussing with a trap (both of which the party might have to do during their investigation) if it means access to better plunder. If the party press deeper however they'll notice a recurring symbol, on a ring or a tattoo or etched into the gravemarker, resembling the crudest sketch of a jawbone.

Just like it seems the party is getting answers, the corpses they've been trailing sit up and lunge for the nearest individual's throat, transformed by dark power into a rampaging ghoul. Chaos ensues as this awakening occurs not just with those corpses that have already been found, but also with those that were previously undiscovered as well as a half dozen or more random bodies scattered across the countryside. Though they seem too possessed with hunger to be capable of speech, if the party manage to restrain one of the ghouls and sate its unholy hunger, they may just get the last few clues they're looking for.

Background: In life all of the bodies belonged to a secret society known as the jawbone club, a bad pun on one of the first mystical objects they'd obtained; a crude weapon made from the skull fragment of some great beast, unearthed on one of their founder's estates by some adventurers clearing a nest of monsters.

Their association started a few generations before as a mostly innocent affair, a nameless but exclusive social lodge where those in the know could smoke and gamble and make the sort of back room deals that occupy much of the energy of the idly wealthy. Those who took an interest in the jawbone realized that whoever held it had greater luck in their personal affairs, in no small part because of the unlucky and sometimes disastrous circumstances that would befall their rivals. They became secretive, an inner circle within the lodge that took on more authority as their powers grew, understanding emerging that if they fed their blood to the jawbone it would grant them power.

Power does not spring from nowhere however, as the weapon was infact an artifact dedicated to the ghoul-saint Doresain, the avatar of a hungry and terrible demon god who was in turn feeding on the hungry ambitions of the inner circle. Unconscious impulses became whispers became visions, as the tithe of blood raised to sacrifices of flesh and fingers, because what was letting the razor teeth of some dead beast scar your body if it meant your hateful old uncle suddenly took ill just after rewriting his will to leave you his fortune.

Things came to a head with Catiro Wayte, the youngest and least favored son of a large noble family. The Wayte clan owned land and mills aplenty and were no strangers to ambition, Catrio and his siblings were practically weaned on it. So when the opportunity came to take hold of his fortune at the price of only a little pain Catrio was only too happy to pay it, and keep on paying so long as he had blood to let and skin to scar. After they'd come to understand what it could do the Jawbone Club had made rules about how often its members could make use of the artifact, fearing not only discovery but one of their number growing in power above the others. Catrio begged, bartered, and blackmailed to jump the line every time he could, hacking away a little more of himself each time, not giving his wounds time to heal up between sacrifices.

One night, when the itch of pride and avarice overwhelmed the pain in his infected flesh Catrio broke into the jawbone's sanctum. It was too late when the others found him in the morning , he'd carved open his belly looking for more of himself to cut away and had died with the artifact buried in his guts. Such heedless sacrifice opened a door for the ravenous hunger of the gnawing god, transforming Catrio's corpse into its mouthpiece, hungry and cruel. For all their resources the Jawbone club were unable to slay their former friend, instead sealing him in the lodge's basement and later an iron coffin they had constructed. They had a select number of their most trusted find a place to entomb Catrio's body (along with the bone it still clutched) in some unknown location and swore all the rest to secrecy, dissolving the jawbone club and swearing never to speak of it for the rest of their days.

The Culprit & The Consequences:

Catrio left much behind on that night he met his end, including a commonborn mistress and a daughter named Heliana only a few years old. One could theoretically source his ambition to his desire to make a place for them in the world, but that would be making things far too simple.  Unrecognized by her father’s family and cut off from Catrio’s support Heliana and her mother ended up scraping to get by, with her ending up in the gravemaking trade out of one part practicality, one part wistful desire to perhaps one day find where her father was buried.

after nearly four decades after she and her mother were forced out on the street, Heliana’s crime spree began when by chance she found the first of the Jawbone marked graves. Remembering the stories her mother had told her about the club and its excesses, It took only a little convincing to have her fellow undertakers help her unearth the body, and a few charms learned from a travelling death priest to get the cadaver talking.  After that it was just a matter of asking which corpse knew what, tracing her way through the postmortem ranks of the Jawbone club until she found out what had happened to her father and where his body lay. 

Originally, all Heliana had wanted to do was give her father a proper burial alongside her some years dead mother, as she was told was always his wish. Plans changed when her father began to speak to her within the iron coffin after she’d unearthed it from its secret hiding space. Through the magic of the ghoul-saint he knew her, knew of her hungry years, and of the long dormant pride and ambition he’d handed down to her along with his blood: a desire to be recognized no matter the cost. He whispered a plan into her mind, a way for him to return to life and use the artifact he still carried to make everything as it should be. Naturally when they caught her agreeing with the corpse, most of Heliana’s muscle deserted her, and might give your party a much needed lead in their tall tales.

The animation of the other jawbone club members as ghouls was only a warning sign, a byproduct of Heliana breaking through the outermost layer of the iron coffin’s wards in preparation of something far more calamitous. Her father’s plan (or rather, the thing wearing her father like a mask) is to have Heliana burn the iron coffin along with her mother's bones in a ritual pyre at the heart of the Wayte estate. Catrio’s spirit will be free, devour the grounds (and his unwelcoming family) and use the power of the jawbone artifact to remake them all as they should be, with him as lord of the manor, united with his lover and child.  While she’s more than willing to even the score with the people who denied her birth and threw her mother out on the street, why Heliana doesn't suspect is the horde of flesh eating undead and other malign spirits that will be unleashed should the ritual be allowed to finish.  

Art 1 Art 2

[homunculus-argument]

I've learned to be neutral about other people being religious, but my own experience with it was definitely coloured by my issues with my dad. He was a proper Edgelord Atheist, loathing religions as a whole and christianity in particular, never hesitating to remark about how stupid and backwards or primitive it is. My mother didn't care either way, she only talks about god when she talks about gardening. So he was the only one in the house with any strong opinion about it. And yet, me and my sister were babtised, put into a christian daycare for a while and then put into christian religions classes at school.

I always loathed religion classes as a kid and didn't know why, I hated hearing about it and having to put up with it and always felt like the teacher is just insulting us by lying right at our faces, about something that surely nobody actually believes for real. My childhood best friend was put into the non-christian option despite of coming from the same kind of a vaguely culturally christian background as I did, and I envied her intensely for it. I asked repeatedly to get to go to the non-christian classes as well, and was told "no", because my mother didn't think that letting your kids do that was an option even though my friend's parents clearly had already done it.

I had a serious Edgelord Edgy Atheist phase in my teens, and was wrangled into going through confirmation anyway because Everyone Else's Kids Are Doing It Too. The aforementioned friend got to go through a non-religious version of the same thing, which I had not even known was an option, so I didn't think to ask for it. Being wrangled through jesus classes as a 15-year-old bag of spite who was only marginally self-aware enough to avoid physically wearing a fedora, I was not a pleasure to have in class.

My father was physically present in the house until I was 14, until my mother finally accepted that this man's presence might actually cause physical harm - his drunken attempts to cook almost caused a fire, and he drove drunk with me and my sister on board once - and he reluctantly agreed to be removed from the picture. His absence at home made no impact nor difference in our daily life, the man who sleeps in the spare room just wasn't sleeping in the spare room anymore.

We saw him frequently enough after that, he visited us for family events and joined us for outings. At some points I tried to bond with him, over mutual interests and passions, even tried to prompt him to join me on snide remarks about religions that he used to make all the time, but he would not. He refused to bond with his children even over mutually hating the same things. It slowly occurred to me over time that the reason why christianity had played any role in my life was because he had never, at any point at all, moved a finger to stop it. Harmless or not, he had no instinctive desire to move his children away from things he considered bad. He had hated it enough to make it known that he hates it, but genuinely just did not care enough to consider not letting him children grow up in an environment he loathed.

My father died when I was 17, and I never really mourned him - not out of hatred, but because his death had hardly even altered the empty absence that was his presence in my life. I had grown up with religious classes trying to tell me about a loving god, and I had not understood why I had hated it, why I felt betrayed and lied to. My relationship with the christian god I was taught to understand has been exactly the same as my relationship with my father.

Desperately shrieking into a void that is so vast that not even my own echo would answer, and knowing for certain that the dead silence I'm hearing in return is the complete, absolute absence of a loving Father.