#the description of it is absolutely vile too

[fushiguho]

Birthday Boy ☆ Gojo Satoru

☆ WORD COUNT – 5.5k ☆ SYNOPSIS – It's Gojo's birthday and you surprised him the best possible gift. Gojo wants nothing more than to try it out and it's his only wish on his special day. Will you give him what he craves the absolute most or will you make him beg for it? ☆ CONTENT WARNINGS – Sub!Gojo, pegging, anal, birthday sex

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“Close your eyes.” You demanded as you turned your back toward him to waltz toward the closet. “And no peeking!”

“I literally have a blindfold on.” He reminded.

You stood on the tips of your toes as you reached for the top of the shelf. You began pushing miscellaneous articles out of your way until you spotted the matte black gift box you had placed there a few weeks ago.

It was a simple, plain box with a large, white bow wrapped around its lid. There was a gift tag tied around one end of the bow and it read: For my Love, Satoru in bold, fancy letters. The box was large enough that it required both of your hands in order to pull it off the shelf.

You retrieved the box with a girlish smile plastered on your face before neatly placing it in front of him. He sat with his legs tucked beneath himself on your shared bed as he rocked back and forth impatiently, waiting for you to say something.

With an eager hand, you began to undo the knot at the back of his head, removing his blindfold and allowing it to fall into his lap. You quickly stepped back in front of him before repositioning the box. It had to be perfect .

“Okay, open.” You beamed.

Immediately, Gojo was opening his eyes. His gaze fell from your face and onto the box in front of him. A grin began tugging at the corners of his lips as he started to pull the lid off of the box. You watched him like an overjoyed mother on Christmas day as their child opened a gift they swore they weren’t getting them.

Gojo’s smile fell as his lips parted.

“Do you love it?” You asked nervously, “Oh God, is it too big?”

He said nothing as he pulled a smaller box out of the larger one. Carefully, he read the description, flitting his gaze back and forth from the size to the instructions. Soon, he shifted his eyes up to meet yours again.

“Love?” He started, “It’s… it’s perfect!” He squealed almost childishly.

He pushed himself away from the bed to stand in front of you before leaning in to connect his lips with yours. You kissed him back eagerly, smiling against his mouth.

“It’s not too big,” He muttered, lips still slotted against yours. “Maybe too small.” He jested.

“Oh my God.” You giggled, “Happy birthday, baby.” You whispered before pecking his lips just once and then pulling away.

For as long as the two of you have been together, Gojo would not shut up about the idea of you pegging him. You weren’t sure where this fantasy of his originated, but you were never completely against it.

He was very adamant that you’d be perfect for the job. He claimed that you had the most beautiful hips, perfect for thrusting. You decided it would be a nice gift for his twenty-first birthday. Maybe you’d even fuck him with it tonight if he’s good enough.

Gojo had always been very comfortable in his sexuality and expressing his sexual desires–one of them being getting stuffed full by you. It was the only thing that ever plagued his mind. He’d remind you every now and then, subtly mentioning that he’s still into the idea of you fucking him.

He’d bring it up each time the two of you had sex. He claimed your fingers weren’t nearly enough, though they felt indescribably good. He just needed more.

He’d allow you to be mean to him, hit him, spit on him, degrade him. As a matter of fact, he’d sit before you, tears spilling from his eyes, begging for you to call him the nastiest, most vile names imaginable. He’d let you do just about anything to him.

If he were being completely honest, he preferred when you were in control anyway. Something about you having him at the helm of your mercy made him harder than ever.

“Can we use it?” He asked as he began walking away before hastily ripping the packaging open.

“Right now?” You questioned.

He hummed in response.

Quickly, he began putting it together for you. He hooked the harness onto the base of the dark blue dildo before creating several loops and fastening the clasps. Eventually, he had fully assembled the strap-on and it was ready for you to slip into.

He held it out in front of you with pleading eyes as if begging you to step into the harness.

“Please? I’m the birthday boy, c’mon.” He reminded before pushing out his bottom lip in a slight pout.

You sighed, giving into his empty pleads. He was right after all, it was his birthday and you’d do just about anything to make him happy on his special day.

A devilish smirk made its way onto his face as he beckoned for you to come closer. You obliged, stalking your way toward him before stopping a mere centimeter in front of him.

He looked up at you with desperate eyes before gripping onto the waistband of your sweatpants. Slowly, he began to tug them down your thighs, making sure to keep his sharp gaze on yours.

You watched as he slid them down your legs until they pooled around your feet in a pile of grey fabric. You stepped out of them before reaching for the hem of your shirt.

Gojo watched as you slipped the garment over your head before dropping it beside you. His eyes lingered far too long as he took in the sight of your perfect tits spilling out of your laced bra.

God , it took everything within him not to get up and stuff his face into your chest, littering the flesh with wet, openmouthed kisses.

You could only grin sheepishly as he dragged his eyes along your body. Though you were the one in control a majority of the time, his gaze still made your cheeks warm with crimson.

“Can I take these off too?” He asked suddenly, referring to your dampening underwear.

You hummed, allowing him to grip the waistband of your underwear before sliding them down your thighs. A groan slipped from Gojo’s mouth once he noticed the wet patch on your underwear.

He watched in bafflement as your arousal connected with the fabric of your underwear, creating a thin, shiny string that eventually snapped once he pulled them down far enough.

He always wondered how you’d get wet so easily. He never had to do much either. Just a simple glance with nothing but carnal intent was enough to have you pushing your thighs together.

“So fuckin’ wet.” He muttered as he leaned forward to connect his lips with the skin of your stomach.

With nothing but eagerness, Gojo began dragging his lips along your lower stomach. He trailed openmouthed kisses around your belly button, waist, hip bone, and even a few near your warm center.

“Please fuck me.” He mumbled as he brought his gaze up to meet yours, mouth still pressed to the heat of your cunt.

“Please,” He repeated, “I’ve been a good boy all year. I think I deserve it, don’t you?” He continued.

A breathy moan fell from your lips as you stood before him, knees beginning to buckle beneath you. You nodded down at him. You could feel yourself growing more and more worked up as your arousal continued to drip from your entrance, coating your walls in the slick substance.

“Yeah? You think I deserve it too?” He hummed, a grin growing on his face as his fingers began inching closer and closer to your messy folds.

You could only let out a small, high-pitched yeah once you felt his nimble fingers running along your slit, collecting your arousal.

He proceeded to slide two desperate fingers inside of you, forcing a shallow gasp from your mouth. Slowly, he pulled them out completely before pushing them back inside of you.

He eventually picked up a moderate pace, pushing and pulling, grazing his fingers along your slick walls. He couldn’t help but to groan at the feeling of you fluttering around him.

“Gojo…” You breathed as you tried reaching for his hand.

“Tonight can’t be all about me, baby.” He spoke softly as he began to kiss toward your clit, all the while you stood before him as he sat on the edge of the bed. “That’d be selfish.”

“But…” You gasped once you felt his tongue slipping past his lips to lick at your swollen clit. “But it’s your birthday, baby. I wanna– fuck … I wanna fuck you.” You moaned.

Your hands immediately found their way to the back of his head, fingers threading themselves through his hair. It was your way of getting more out of him. You pulled his head impossibly closer, deepening the sensation.

“I know you do and I want that too,” He spoke, his fingers still working inside of you. “You’re just so good to me. I wanna help you first, if that’s okay.” He whispered, lips still pressed against you.

Your head rolled back, dangling over your shoulder in pure ecstasy.

“Is that okay?” He questioned as his arms began wrapping themselves around your waist, eyes searching for a glimmer of your approval.

You could only nod with an open mouth as no sound would form.

With that, he was scooting himself back on the bed before pulling your body toward him, forcing you to fall forward. He pushed your legs to either side of his waist before beckoning you to come closer.

He helped you slide up his body until you were hovering over his face, your slick cunt on display for him.

“Oh my God,” He groaned as he began to wrap his hands around your hips, pulling you onto his face.

As soon as his lips connected with your sopping folds, your breathing immediately picked up, quickly turning into dog-like pants.

Soon, he was slipping his fingers back inside of you, pushing them into your hole with nothing but haste. He even took it upon himself to curl them forward, gently pushing against your walls.

“Tastes so good.” He muttered, tongue slipping back and forth along your clit, “You always taste so fucking good.” He continued while humming as he tried to savor your saccharine flavor.

“God, you’re so good.” You praised, “So fucking good for me.”

Gojo could only whimper against you as he grew harder and harder. Your encouraging words only egged him on, making him want to eat you out until you’d pass out from the sheer amount of pleasure.

He couldn’t help but to slide his free hand down his body, inching his way closer to the prominent tent in his briefs. Slowly, he began palming himself through the fabric, dragging his hand along his growing erection.

His whimpers grew louder and louder as he rubbed himself harder. Those whimpers quickly turned into moans that steadily grew in pitch, but they were muffled as his lips were pressed to your warm cunt.

He even began thrusting his hips forward, fucking the heavy air of the room. God , he was so desperate, so fucking needy.

All he wanted to do was to make you cum so that you’d fuck him with his birthday present. That’s all he wanted–to feel you inside of him, telling him how good of a boy he is.

“Can you cum, baby? I wanna make you cum.” He mumbled, quickening his fingers in the slightest. “You’re just so good to me. I wanna make you cum… it’s the least I can do.” He whined.

You nodded and almost immediately, your stomach began tightening, begging for some sort of release. The all too familiar feeling had your thighs trembling in the slightest as they rested on either side of his head.

“M’gonna cum.” You warned. “Baby, please–m’cumming.” Your voice grew shaky as you tried to inform him of the impending orgasm.

With that, you were releasing yourself all over his face, nearly falling forward onto the headboard of the bed. A string of moans fell from your mouth as you came. Gojo never stopped pushing his fingers inside of you. He remained steady, tongue still flicking at your sensitive clit.

He drank you up, swallowing every last drop of cum all while humming in satisfaction. He even pushed it inside of you, cleaning you up from the inside out.

He tried to stop himself but he just couldn’t. He continued to lap at your folds, switching back and forth between his fingers and his tongue. He even began sucking on your clit, almost forcing another orgasm out of you.

“Please–It’s too much.” You whined, pushing his hands off your hips before forcing yourself away from him. Your poor cunt was far too sensitive to handle another orgasm.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, he surely would’ve forced another orgasm out of you. He just couldn’t help himself when it came to eating you out. He’d lay on his back for hours, tongue slipping in and out of you, drinking you up and swallowing everything that you gave him.

As soon as you were off of him, Gojo was immediately reaching for the strap-on at the end of the bed, pushing the gift box to the floor in the process.

He pushed it in your direction, silently begging for you to put it on for him. He didn’t even have to say much, the glint of neediness hidden behind his eyes was enough to tell you all you needed to know.

“Eager are we?” You teased as you leaned forward to connect your lips with his, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“Please put it on and fuck me.” He begged. “Please?”

You decided not to make him wait. He’s just been so good to you, it’d be unfair to make him wait any longer. After he’s eaten you out to the brink of tears, he deserved to be fucked nice and hard.

He’s proved himself to you all year, it’s only fair.

You took the harness from his hands before beginning to slip it on. You put each of your legs into their respective loops, adjusting the straps to make them tighter.

Gojo laid beside you impatiently, eyes growing wide with want and anticipation. He couldn’t seem to keep himself still as we waited for you. You could almost feel him rushing you silently.

“Why don’t you take off your shirt for me while you wait, hm?” You suggested as you tightened the final loop of the harness.

Immediately, he was sitting up to slip his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor below. He was soon gripping the waistband of his briefs to slide them down his thighs but before he could, your hand was shooting up to stop him, halting his movements.

“Just your shirt.” You reminded, your voice firm.

He simply nodded, acknowledging your request.

Once you finished, you could hear Gojo mutter a profanity of some sort under his breath, commenting on how pretty you looked with a cock hanging in front of you.

“You like it, baby?” You questioned, a toothy grin growing on your face.

Gojo muttered a quick yes , jaw slacked with parted lips. There were no words to describe how beautiful you looked to him. God , the way the straps of the harness wrapped around your hips, squeezing your body tightly, accentuating the curves and divot of your frame.

God , he could feel himself practically drooling as he drank up the sight of you.

Shamelessly, he dragged his eyes up and down your frame–from your breasts spilling out of your bra, to the deep divot of your belly button, to the curve of your hips, all the way down to the heavy cock that rested between your legs. It might as well have been real to him.

“You’re so fucking pretty. I love you so much.” He muttered.

He was leaning forward to push his lips against yours, his tongue immediately slipping into your mouth. You allowed his tongue to push against yours aimlessly.

“I love you too.” You replied, your hand sliding down his torso until it met his clothed cock.

Gojo sucked in a tight breath once he felt your hand palming him through the fabric of his underwear. Precum began slipping from the head of his cock, staining the grey fabric with a dark, wet patch.

With your other hand, you were gently pushing him back, forcing him to lay on his back once again.

You began to slip your fingers past the waistband of his underwear before tugging at them, hinting for him to lift his hips for you. He quickly obliged, raising his hips up from the bed, allowing you to pull them down his thighs.

His cock bounced up to kiss his stomach, smearing the precum all over his abdomen. You leaned forward to drag your tongue just below his belly button, collecting his arousal before swallowing it all, grinning as your cheeks glew brightly.

You moved your head just a little lower so that your face could hover right above his cock. Slowly, you began placing chaste kisses to the shaft, sticking out your tongue every now and then to softly lick him.

“Please–” Whimpered, accidently bucking his hips forward.

Ignoring him, one of your hands began reaching up until it rested just below his lips. You urged him to spit into your palm to which he obliged. Quickly, he began gathering saliva in his mouth before puckering his lips and letting it messily fall into your hand.

“That’s it, good boy.” You praised.

With that same hand, you were beginning to stroke him in your palm. You watched as his face contorted with immense pleasure–eyebrows furrowing together, pupils dilating with lust, lips parted as labored breaths fell from it, and cheeks flushed with a deep shade of crimson.

“Feels good… mm–feels s’good.” He choked, chest heaving.

“Yeah?” You cooed, picking up a quicker pace, flicking your wrist just a bit faster.

Gojo nodded, forcing out a small mhm .

With your free hand, you took your index and middle finger and slid them into your mouth, stuffing them nice and deep, almost eliciting a gag.

You gathered a decent amount of your saliva before pulling them out of your mouth, admiring how they glistened in the dim lighting of the room.

Gojo knew exactly where you were going with this and he couldn’t help but to whimper at the thought of it.

“Need more.” You mumbled as you brought the same two fingers toward his face, pushing the wet digits into his mouth.

He quickly wrapped his lips around you as you pushed them far enough to force a gag out of him. His eyes were beginning to water but before a tear had the chance to fall, you were removing your hand from his mouth.

“Please.” He whined, pushing his hips forward in frustration. 

“I know.” You cooed as you began to push your wet fingers inside of him. “Just gotta get you ready first, baby. It’ll feel so much better.” You reminded, hand still pumping his cock.

A choked moan left Gojo’s mouth at the feeling of your fingers pushing inside of him. He couldn’t help but to roll his hips against your hand as if the action would get more out of your little fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–feels s’good…” He whimpered, eyes threatening to roll to the back of his head.

You remained slow and steady, pumping your fingers inside of him with no sense of urgency in mind. Gojo wasn’t a fan. You could tell he was growing frustrated as he muttered plead after plead, begging for just a little more.

“More… I want more.” He whined, “God, please. I need your cock.” He admitted, eyes falling shut with nothing but pleasure.

With that, you were pulling your fingers out of him before reaching for the bottle of lube on the dresser beside the bed.

You squeezed a generous amount into your palm before stroking yourself with it, coating the dildo in a nice, sleek layer. With the leftover slickness in your hand, you took your fingers and slid them back inside of him one final time.

Gojo only hissed at the action, sucking in a tight breath through gritted teeth, shoulders nearly shuttering at the coolness of the lubricant.

“Do you wanna stay on your back or do you wanna turn around for me?” You questioned, your voice sweet as a hand reached up to gently rub at his cheek.

“I wanna stay.” He spoke, voice quiet, needy . “Wanna look at you.” He added.

“Yeah?” You hummed as you began to push his legs apart, situating yourself between them. “Wanna watch me while I fuck you?” You confirmed.

He nodded hastily, his white hair falling in front of his face.

You slowly slid the head of the dildo along the expense of his warm center, dragging the tip from his balls back down to his desperate hole before repeating the action again.

You might have learned a thing or two from him–his way of teasing to be exact.

His whines of frustration urged you to finally line yourself up with his entrance. You pushed the head in a bit before taking it out just as fast, forcing him to gasp quietly. 

You repeated the action, slipping the head in just a little, only to pull it out moments later. You used it as a way to get him used to the feeling of something much larger, thicker, and longer than your fingers.

“No… please just fuck me,” He begged, “I can take it all. I’m a big boy, you know I am.” He whined, his eyes growing wider, urging you to continue.

He is a big boy, a good one at that and he’s done nothing but prove that to you.

“You are a big boy.” You agreed, leaning forward to press your lips to his.

With that, you are pushing yourself all the way inside of him, bottoming out in a single thrust. Your hips were flush with his as you held yourself still, reveling in the way his whimpers invaded your ears.

“Holy fuck,” He groaned, eyes immediately squeezing shut from the stretch of your cock. “So big… it’s so fucking big.” He panted, his large hand reaching forward to take your hips into his palms.

“Oh?” You questioned,, “I thought it was too small.” You grinned, the corners of your lips tugging upward into a sweet smile.

He shook his head frantically as if taking back his statement from earlier.

“You can take it,” You encouraged, “I know you can, baby.” You leaned forward to place a chaste kiss to his forehead while simultaneously pulling out of him before sliding back inside.

He groaned, grip tightening around your hips as if bracing himself for your thrusts. The nails of his fingers dug into your sensitive skin, leaving crescent shaped indents.

You continued to push into him, slowly drawing your hips back before colliding them with his. Soon, you picked up a moderate pace that had him panting and whimpering on a consistent loop.

“Feels good… s’good.” He whined, his head falling to one side.

One of your hands came up to grip at his cheeks, forcing his lips into a slight pout. You redirected his gaze back onto your face.

“I want you to look at me.” You muttered, eyes burning holes into his.

He lazily nodded with a wide mouth.

You took his vacant mouth as an opportunity to slip your thumb inside of it. You allowed the salty digit to  rest on his tongue before demanding him to close his mouth.

He quickly obliged, sucking on your finger like a baby, eyes compliant and needy, full of nothing but lust and longing for you.

“Touch me, please.” He begged, your thumb still tucked in his mouth.

You hummed, reaching down to take him in your hand. Slowly, you began to stroke him, dragging your fist up and down idly. Each time you neared the head of his cock, you twisted your wrist to the right before swiping your thumb along his slit.

Every time you’d do it, Gojo would hiss at the feeling, sucking in a tight breath before releasing it in a labored exhale. He almost felt like he was running out of air to breathe. His chest heaved each time he inhaled, leaving him a panting, stuttering mess.

“Faster,” He breathed, barely able to utter anything more, “F-faster. God, please.” He begged.

You said nothing as you picked up your speed, sliding your hand up and down, almost at the same pace as your thrusts. Eventually both of the actions synced, forcing him to cry out, eyes brimming with tears.

“Feels good?” You cooed, your voice soft yet eager.

“Yes, yes– fuck . You’re so good to me.” He moaned.

Beads of precum slipped from the head of his cock, slowly sliding down the shaft until it met your hand. You used his arousal as lubrication, spreading it and smearing it all over him.

You even took it upon yourself to spit on it, only adding to the wetness. Gojo whined, bucking his hips forward in response to your saliva hitting the tip of his cock.

He pushed himself up to rest on his elbows to watch as it dripped from the head, all the way to the base before reaching his balls, then slipping just a little lower, adding to the wetness in his hole.

“Oh, God.” He muttered, throwing his head back onto the pillow, face flushed with crimson.

His grip on your hips continued to tighten as you fucked him. If you weren’t mistaken, you could’ve sworn you felt him guiding your thrusts. Each time you drew your hips back, he would pull you forward, hard , increasing the force of your thrusts.

You allowed him to use you and your cock in any way needed. It was his birthday after all and good boys always get what they want on their special day.

He continued to use you, gasping each time he pulled you back as if the feeling would never grow old. Every now and then he would mutter how good you felt inside of him, how well you stretched him out, and even how he wished you would’ve had him like this a long time ago.

Gojo watched as your tits would bounce with each thrust, the fat jiggling whenever your hips would collide with his. He wanted nothing more than to see all of your chest, even your pretty little nipples.

He removed one of his hands from your hips to slide it up your back. With nimble fingers, he was quickly undoing the clasp of your bra before tugging the straps down your shoulders. He didn’t even care enough to remove it completely. Before the straps could even reach your elbows, he was dragging both of his hands up your body to play with your chest.

He massaged and kneaded the skin, sliding his palms along your nipples before taking the sensitive bud between his fingers and gently rolling it between them. Little did he know, his immense neediness was only adding to your arousal. Your head rolled back at the feeling, lips parting as your breathing increased.

“I like making you feel good too.” He mumbled, an idle smile growing onto his face, his hands still pressed to your chest.

Eventually, he was eagerly pulling you forward by your waist, causing you to nearly collapse on top of him. Your tits rested just in front of him, practically on display for him. With both hands, Gojo was pushing the fat of your tits together before stuffing his face into them.

His tongue was quickly slipping past his lips to lick at the flesh, leaving a messy trail of saliva along each of your breasts. He hummed in satisfaction while he kissed and nipped at you. He was slipping one of your nipples in his mouth at a time, swirling his tongue around the hardening buds.

You sucked in a tight breath, eyebrows furrowing at the feeling of his warm tongue gliding along your skin. What amazed you was the fact that Gojo was still able to find a way to please you, despite the continuous moans and whimpers slipping past his lips.

Each sound that left his mouth was muffled and absorbed into your skin. He could hardly breathe as he tried his best to please you, though he couldn’t find himself to care in the slightest.

The sight of him so needy, so desperate , it had your walls fluttering around nothing. You could feel yourself growing more and more aroused, wetness trickling out of your cunt, coating your folds in the slick mess.

Ignoring the dull throbbing between your legs, you leaned forward to connect your lips with his, hoping it would distract you from your increasing arousal.

He kissed you back sloppily, moaning and whimpering into your mouth. You soon felt his tongue prodding your lips, begging to slip inside. You parted your lips, allowing his tongue to delve into your mouth. They pushed against one another aimlessly.

Each moan that fell from his lips was absorbed into your mouth. You swallowed every whimper and every pant, memorizing and stowing them away for later retrieval whenever you’d think about this very moment late at night a few days from now.

A hiss left Gojo’s mouth as his cock began to twitch against his abdomen. This was a telltale indicator that he was so close to the brink of orgasm, that it was creeping up on him, threatening to snap at any given moment.

You took him in your hand again before beginning to stroke him, immediately picking up a quicker pace than usual. Your hand moved quickly as you pumped him in your fist. The obscene squelching of your palm sliding along his shaft was almost enough to make him cum right there.

“You gonna cum?” You hummed, pace never faltering.

“Y-yes.” He choked, “It’s too much… m’gonna cum.”

“Do it then,” You encouraged, “Show me how good of a boy you can be for me, baby.” You continued, your free hand reaching up to caress his cheek.

Gojo only nodded, his lazy eyes struggling to stay open.

His whiny moans soon turned into broken ones, each of them interrupted with a dog-like pant. His chest heaved as he felt his lower stomach beginning to tighten with a tension that was mere seconds away from snapping. 

That winding coil in his abdomen continued to tighten until eventually, it broke, releasing itself in several spurts of milky-white cum.

An unbroken chain of whimpers and hisses left his mouth as he bucked his hips forward, thrusting into your fist as he came all over himself.

“Fuck. Oh my– fuck , baby, please.” He whined, his head rolling to the right.

You watched as the substance shot upward, coating the two of you in a sticky mess. It covered his abdomen, your fist, and even your lower stomach. Though he had already came for what he thought was enough, you continued to stroke him slowly, milking every last drop of cum out of him.

“God, please.” He begged, tears threatening to spill.

He could barely see you as his eyes sat full of warm tears. His face was hot to the touch, especially his cheeks. They were flushed with the brightest shade of red you had ever seen.

You were able to elicit a few more spurts of cum out of him which slipped from the head of his cock and dripped down the base rather than shooting upward like before.

If one of Gojo’s hands weren’t reaching up to push yours out of the way, halting your strokes, you would have surely forced another orgasm out of him.

Slowly, you began pulling out of him, reveling in the way he sucked in a tight breath as if bracing himself for more. You were undoing the clasps of the harness before eventually slipping out of it and dropping it to the floor below.

Though you were covered in a thin layer of sweat, as was Gojo, you still climbed further up into the bed to lay beside him, your warm body pressing against his. You watched as chest heaved while he tried to catch his breath. Leaning forward, you placed a prolonged kiss on his temple.

“I taught you well I see.” He breathed as a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. His arm came up to drape itself over your waist.

“Might’ve learned a thing or two.” You smiled, pressing your forehead to the side of his face.

“Best. Birthday. Ever.” He laughed, “Maybe a bigger one next year… what do you think?” He added jokingly, or at least you thought.

You said nothing as you pushed the disheveled strands of white hair out of his face, reavealing his fucked-out expression.

“Maybe.” You smiled.

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[ladyofrosefire]

I've been thinking a lot about Ulder and Wyll lately.

It's hard not to get overly personal when approaching that. The relationship one has with one's parents will always creep in, or the relationship one wishes one had, and the reaction Wyll gets from Ulder when you rescue him from the Iron Throne is vile. The idea of saying those things to your child's face turns my stomach. It's meant to.

It was exploring the tree when you get back to camp, and finally actually looking at some of the harsher things you can say to him, that brought a bit more light to it. If you say "bet you feel like a real bastard" or... whatever the exact phrasing is, I don't know how to find it right now, he says he does. The heavy judgement he levels at others weighs on him, too. He doesn't spare himself, and after that moment, the few scraps of information we get (honestly, fuck you, Larian) do show him trying his damdenest to fix the damage he's done.

He should have listened to Wyll. He loved his son and he knew what kind of a man he'd raised. But. We cannot fill his fuck-up with everything we don't like about our parents. Wyll forgives him. Wyll is perhaps too forgiving and too harsh on himself. It's part of what makes him such a fantastic character. But he does forgive him, and the more I think about that and the bits of lore we can dig up from the descriptions of his weapons and the journal of loving memories that Ulder locked away when— what? when it became too painful to look at? The more I have to wonder. I don't know how much of the outside lore Larian bothered with. I don't know how much of the outside lore survived WotC running around with shears.

I keep thinking about Wyll and Ulder, up at dawn, sitting on the wall overlooking the harbor and talking about the seven years they missed. It would be hard. Cutting Ulder off entirely might be easier, but it might not be better, and it definitely is not what Wyll wants. So they sit and they talk, and Ulder keeps pardoning fists who followed a tyrant who turned their fear against them and gave them an excuse to indulge in their easiest, lowest impulses. When Wyll has children of his own, it probably gets harder for a while.

I don't know what the ending of this is. I am absolutely not commenting on how anyone should handle their relationships with their parents. I'm very grateful to the people whose writing got me to slow down and look a little harder.

I think it would be nice for Wyll to get his father back, after everything.

[ultralightpoe]

Mistaken Hatred - Aemond Targaryen

Authors Note: This was a request, but I might have accidentally deleted it! If this was something you requested sorry for the lateness! Idk what happened 

Word Count: 4748

Warnings: angst, aemond is a loud-mouthed asshole 

Description: Aemond is sure that you are enemies and stuck in a marriage of convenience 

Aemond could remember the days when you hadn’t hated him. 

You had both been young, far too young to understand the war brewing between your mothers or recognize any of the vile things that had been said. He could still smell the oils in your hair from all the times your would wrap your arms around him, still taste the strawberries he would steal from you as you both lazed under the weirwood tree together. 

He remembers his heart beating faster at every smile you would give him. 

But something had changed in the both of you somewhere along the way, and though he could not pinpoint a certain moment you became enemies he knew for a fact that he hated you just as much as you hated him.  

“Tell me, bastard, how does it feel knowing you will never live up to anything?” He sneered, watching as your eyes narrowed in on him. 

“Are you sure you even know who you are speaking to? Can you see out of that rock?” You snap back, giving a false cringe to his eye that makes him blush. “Aemond…… It’s me, it’s Y/n. You are speaking to Lady Y/n.”

  His jaw tenses in anger as you continue to tease him, rolling his eye. “I do still believe that you and your brothers owe me an eye….”

“An eye for an eye? What’s next? You take your mothers balls?” You laugh, walking past him in your riding leathers, making sure to hit him with your hair as you throw it over your shoulder. “Tell me how that goes will you? Always enjoyed watching you cry.” 

The day his father broke the news of the peace treaty Aemond could feel nothing but relief. A tension released as he had the greens and the blacks forge the peace treaty. His half sister, Rhaenyra, would get the throne and after her it would pass to her son. 

But there were things needed to ensure the alliance lasted past his fathers dying wish, a marriage for example. 

His brother had already been married of to his poor older sister, Aemond only feeling pity for his closest friend as she struggled to survive. His nephews had been arranged to marry the Velayron girls to ensure that peace, and his baby brother Daeron would still be in Olde Town until the end of summer. That left him…….and you. 

When Viserys made the announcement Aemond had already been looking to you, waiting with baited breath for you to argue. A wave of embarrassment already clinging to his being at the thought of you outright denying him. 

Not that he cared, you were a constant thorn in his side. 

“Tell me, do people ever make eye contact when they speak to you?” You snipe, sitting across from him at the septas library, smirking. “Would you feel better if I went cross eyed?”

“I would feel better if you left. Or if you and your siblings were finally taken from the world. ” He sighs, refusing to look up from the book he had grabbed for the day. “You have a terrible habit of absorbing all the energy and patience of a room.”

“Good to know I have such a large effect on you.” You laugh, snatching the book before he could process what you were doing. “Thank you.”

“I was reading that you bastard-”

“Oh here we go with the bastard- Aemond, darling, I look exactly like my mother. You have no evidence.” You stick out your tongue before moving to stand.

“Give the book back!” He sneers, launching for it until you hit his forehead with it lightly.

“I need it, you ghost. Go find a romance somewhere.” 

“I was reading it-” “I take precedence-”

“No you absolutely do not-”

“I do indeed, my matter is more important than yours.” You say it bluntly, with such a straight face that Aemond finds himself intrigued.

“What do you need it for?”

“I need it to impress a boy.” You smile, moving to leave. 

Aemond clenches his fist as an unknown feeling settles in his gut, watching you leave with his book. 

You hadn’t looked at him that day, but you hadn’t argued either. You merely stared at the floor in quiet surrender that had his jaw clenching. 

You were acting sad when it was him that was being thrown up like a fucking pawn? Would it really be so bad to be married to him?

Rhaenrya and his mother met in the middle of the throne room, hugging softly as all the children watched, you refusing to look up while you held your youngest brothers hand tightly. 

Jace and Luke stood on either side of you while Joffrey stood right by Daemon, who was holding young Aegon to his chest. 

“May our families join as one, once more.” Viserys smiles, the cue taken soon enough as everyone began to mingle. 

“Let us see the future lovers closer together!” The elder Aegon slurs, snatching your shoulder to drag you closer to Aemond. 

He takes a moment to slap his brothers hand away from your shoulder, shoving him back and mumbling “Don’t ruin this peace treaty Aegon.”

When he turned to speak with you it seemed you already disappeared, spotting you in the hallway with your stepfather Daemon arguing. 

The blistering heat seeped into his skin as his riding leathers seemed heavier with each step he took, hair beginning to mat to his neck. 

Aegons 18th name day was to be celebrated by a tourney, every knight lord and noble of the realm having traveled to compete or attend, including all the beautiful females.

Not that the last fact would ever matter to Aemond, who had been completely ignored by every female since he had his eye carved out as a boy. All except one, one constant pain in his side. 

“Lord Baratheon, this is my-.....this is Prince Aemond.” You correct yourself, a sweet smile laced on your features as you keep a hand rested in the lords elbow. 

“Prince Aemond! A pleasure to meet you!” The lord smiles, bowing slightly, giving Aemond the chance of making quick eye contact with you before the lord stands to his full height once more. 

“We’ve met…. My 13th name day, 3 years ago.” He says tightly, hands crossed behind his back as he turns to look away from the both of you.

“Right… the um…. The year that you….”

“The year my nephews tore out my nephew and you and your charming followers through dirt in it on my own name day?” He reminds, turning just in time to see a look of shock cross your features. You obviously hadn’t know, having been dragged back home to Dragonstone for your parents to marry in secret. 

“I…. must have been far too into the ale My Prince.” The lord lies, trying not to look irritated or embarrassed. “Lady Y/n was allowing me to escort her to the-”

“Princess Y/n.” Aemond reminds, finally looking to the lord. “Bastard or not her mother is the heir.”

“Aemond-” You snap, turning to the boy in a panic as Aemond laughs. “My lord, I do apologize-”

“So it’s true? You’re a bastard?” The boy snaps, eyes narrowed as he looks down at you. For a second Aemond gets a rush of irritation looking at how the lord was using his height as a weapon against you, taking a second to step between you two.

“I- Lord Baratheon, the words my uncle speaks come from anger and not truth- you must believe me.” You try to ease the situation and the lord gives you a skeptical look. “Let us get back to our walk, you were just telling me about the difference between dear and elk?” 

“Is that why you picked the book up the other day? To try and hide your half title from any suitor?” Aemond snaps, finally scaring off the other male as you whip to look at him. 

“That was not funny-”

“Shouldn’t you be sitting with the rest of your fucking bastard family?”

“What is wrong with you today?” You snap, turning to walk away but he follows.

“You are my problem, walking around just like your mother had.”

“What does that mean?” You whip around to glare, a smirk crossing his features as he finally pinpoints how to irritate you.

“It means you and your mother are whore-” A hand snaps across his face making his head whip back, a shocked look taking over. “Wha-”

“I suggest you fix your tone and implications the next time I see you. Prince.” You snap, storming off. 

You don’t make any eye contact at the wedding. 

Not when you slice your hand open as well as his, not when he rubs his bloody thumb over your forehead and you do the same to him. 

Aemond can’t do anything but stare. 

You had worn one of the finest gowns in westeros, hand stitched by 4 people to fully celebrate the union between blacks and greens. Your hair had been done into one of the most intricate braids he had ever seen, pearls and diamonds braided in. 

He mutters the respective words of the Targaryen wedding tradition before you do the same, leaning to touch your nose against his as told, finally looking at him. His heart stops in his chest as he attempts an easy smile. You ignore it. 

You sit by him at the feast, smiling at all the guests that had come to congratulate you both on the union and peace treaty. 

Though when once a particular lord comes up he feels your entire being tense as a faint recognition travels through him. 

“I congratulate the two on a blessed union, and I hope them well in the children department.” He mutters, head bowing as Aemond nods, trying to remember where he had seen the man. “Let us hope that Y/n carries the bastard blood to save her from the Targaryen curses with pregnancy.”

The room silenced almost instantly, everyone holding their breath as Aemond finally recognized the man in front of him. It was the lord from a couple years back, the one he had mocked your legitimacy to. 

“Hold your tongue Lord Baratheon-” His father snaps, casting a look to Rhaenyra who was holding her own stomach. 

Targaryen pregnancies were a curse indeed, for his fathers first wife had gone through multiple and the only one to come was Rhaenyra herself. 

“I wouldn’t worry about any future heirs , Lord Baratheon, it’s not my style.” Aemonds entire tone is tart, casting a side look to see you clenching your fist and biting your lip. 

You must have been embarrassed from the bastard comment the lord made, and for the very thought of being bred like a horse. Aemond hated the thought himself, he would not be providing an heir unless you yourself asked for one.

The lord is dismissed with a group of guards under the pretense of them taking him home, but Aemond knew that Daemon had already ordered he wasn’t to leave the grounds alive. The second the group disappears through the doors the festivities begin again and Aemond finds himself standing up when you do.

“Did you want to dance-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as you slap his outstretched hand away. 

“I’m not feeling well. I shall be going to my chambers.” You reply, moving to walk past him but he stops you with a hand on your elbow. 

“People will talk-”

“Oh please. They have been fed enough gossip to last them months. Lord Baratheon implying that I am a bastard in front of the court and my new husband stating I was not to his taste? I’ve been made a laughing stock tonig-”

“I did not say you were not to my taste. I meant forcing an heir was not to my taste.” He rushes out, getting extremely defensive without meaning to. “When did you become so weak? I can remember multiple times where your tongue was as silver as a snake.”

“Or maybe I just finally realized that you were being serious all those times.” You seethe, hitting his shoulder. 

“And you weren’t?” He is absolutely dumbfounded. You two had been enemies for years? What could you mean you weren’t serious?

“I was a fool who thought we were jesting. And I soon realized that you were just a monster.” You reply cooly, finally making your escape and leaving Aemond at your wedding. 

“Don’t tell me, little princling, you don’t have any friends?” You giggle, coming around the thick tree to see Aemond hiding and reading. 

His eyebrows knot together as a scowl takes over, turning to you. “I hadn’t realized the brothel would be moving into the keep….. Please tell me they put your rooms far away from mine. Only the gods know what I could catch within dragon space of you.” 

“Mmmm. Thinking of ways to catch something are you? Want to ride-”

“What do you need, bastard?” He snaps, a heat traveling his skin as he watches something twinge in your features. 

“I was hoping we could discuss the other day,” You say, tone sounding all too serious. “When I slappe-”

“I remember quite well.” He interrupts, slamming the book shut. The same book you had stolen him a mere 2 weeks before. 

“It was a terrible reaction, I am aware. I just- well you see…. I was trying to impress Lord Baratheon for my moth-”

“Is there a reason I should care?”

“I’m trying to explain why I am upset, Aemond. So that I may apologize correctly” You sigh, looking completely puzzled. “I feel we crossed a line the other day and I had no idea-”

“Crossed a line? How so? It is well within my right to call a whore when I see one.” He snaps, standing so he wasn’t looking up at you. The sunlight perfectly framed your figure as he moved closer, waiting for your retaliation that never came. “What? Don’t you want to make a comment? Something humorous to go and laugh at with your lowlife wasteful siblings.”

“Watch your tongue-”

“Or what?” He snaps, stepping closer. You instantly shove him back with a hurt look. 

“You……this entire time you meant everything….” You looked absolutely torn, some of your hair falling out of your braid as you watch him. “I… oh how foolish I have been.”

You are storming off then, hands clenched as you march past Aegon and go to where your eldest brother waits for you. 

“RUN AND CRY TO YOUR FAMILY THEN! MAYBE YOU CAN TELL YOUR REAL FATHER ALL ABOUT IT SOON!” 

Jace whips around to charge at him and Aegon but you catch your brothers arm, pulling him harshly and muttering something under your breath before you both disappear from sight.

Before Aegon can make a snappy comment Aemond storms off, leaving the book under the tree.

Aemond doesn’t see you for three days after the wedding, but he doesn’t mind that, his brain is still trying to wrap around the confusion of your words. 

What had you mean that you thought it was all a jest, had you been mocking him for a reaction all those years? Had you not been trying to fight him? 

“Prince Aemond, Princess Y/n has sent a-” He snatches the note from the pageboy instantly, unraveling it to read the contents inside. 

‘Heading to Dragonstone to help with the rest of my mothers pregnancy. I will send word before I return.’

“Has she left already?” He asks, standing to get to the door and find your chambers, needing to talk to you before you left. Just to sort some of his thoughts out. 

“She took flight this morn, with her brothers, to follow their Princess Rhaenrya back home.” The page explains. “Left that in the room, maids brought it to me.”

A sigh escapes Aemond as he nods, heading out of the room to find one of his own siblings. He would send a raven asking for a word later, right now he needed to finalize some of the peace treaties issues. 

He was ashamed to admit he sat in the library and waited for you to come in just as you always did and bother him. He waited to start a fight with you, already thinking of insults that would keep up with your own. 

He pretended to read the history book he had snatched that morning as he listened for the door, trying not to seem too excited when he heard it groan. 

It had been a week since the day under the weirwood tree, and neither of you had gone this long without mocking the other. He was beginning to get an anxious feeling. 

“Prince Aemond-” His head snaps up when he realizes it’s not you, angry that it wasn’t your smug voice about to mock him. “Your mother has requested your presence-”

“Tell her I am busy.” He says quickly, turning to the door to make sure you don;t enter without him noticing. 

“She says that she will not let you hide in here all day. She says I must take you to her or the trai-”

“Fine.” He sighs, grabbing his sword and storming out. 

He sees a dash of y/h/c and straightens as he leaves, disappointment filling him when it was just a trick of light. 

Your mother had lost the babe, naming the child Aemma in honor of her own mother, and you had sent word that you would be staying to care for your mother in her time of need. 

That hadn’t annoyed Aemond, what had annoyed him was that you sent word to his mother and not he. 

“Page?” He calls the young boy as his mother stares. “Are you sure I haven’t received any news from dragonsto-”

“Just the one raven My lord. I accepted it myself.” The page says, bowing. Aemond feels a wave of dread and embarrassment fill him as he turns back to his mother. 

“Are my ravens not reaching there?” 

“As far as I am aware they are, dearest.” Alicent sighs, standing to rub his cheek.

“Please let my lady wife know I am patiently waiting to hear from her.” He sighs, teeth rubbing together as he leaves the room. 

“Is there any word on Lady Y/n?” Aemond asks one of the guards, trying to seem casual. “I have not seen her around the keep in a couple days.”

“Lady Y/n has traveled with her father to grab a dragon egg for her future sibling,” The guard explains. Aemond feels a wave of relief at the fact that you had been gone and not avoiding him. That is until, “They left this morning, Prince.”

“Why did she go at all?” 

“Princess Rhaenrya is due to labor soon and they were hoping her dragon would help find the eggs.” 

Rhaenrya was about to have her first child with Daemon, and as Targaryen tradition held the babe would get an egg, the only issue was the lack of eggs. 

There had been a dragon on the island eating all the unhatched eggs, the people beginning to call him Cannibal. 

“Will you notify me when they return? I believe she has a book of mine-”

“It is to my understanding Prince, that Lady Y/n will be staying at Dragonstone with the rest of her family.”

Aemond is at a loss for words, storming off. 

Another week had passed and Aemond had debated flying out to Dragonstone himself and demanding answers, but he quickly remembers that this is a marriage of convenience to you and he does not wish to look like a fool. 

King Viserys dies, and although he is minorly upset, Aemond is delighted that you will have to come back to Kings Landing. 

He waits for your dragon to land, watching you closely as you dismount the dragon and climb down the ladder you had, eyes meeting his instantly. 

He is ashamed to admit that his heart beat wildly as you made your way closer, wearing black for mourning. 

“I am sorry for your loss, Husband.” You say lowly, moving to walk by him but he turns to keep walking with you. 

“As I am yours, Wife.” He mumbles, trying to keep up with your quick pace. “I have not heard from you, I had assumed you to be dead.”

“I do know you wish me to see my father, how very thoughtful you have always been.” You mutter, words sounding venomous as you trail along the courtyard. 

“I was hoping we could discuss-” He could not understand why he was so nervous. What was freaking him out so much? “I must go and attend to my ladies at court, much to do before my mother's coronation.” You interrupt, strutting off and leaving him behind. 

He barely sees you at your mothers coronation, for you were standing with the rest of your siblings to watch closer than the rest. 

While you were watching your mother with wide eyes, Aemond could not drag his eyes away from you. 

His chest ached as he prayed for a chance to talk to you, just for a moment. 

You’re gone by daylight, Aemond asking for you and your father telling him you were caring for an issue left on Dragonstone. 

He is agitated at the news but doesn’t have time to think before Rhaenyra is asking him to fly to Winterfell. “Lord Stark is the final signature needed to back my coronation, I need a good rider to get there and back.”

“After that may I have your permission to head to Dragonstone.” He snaps, trying to keep his cool as Daemons head whips to look at him. “I wish to see my wife and I am aware that Dragonstone is not-”

“You are permitted.” Rhaenyra smiles, patting his shoulder before moving to where his mother stood. 

He does as told, heading to Winterfell on Vhagar to receive the final signature. He stays there for a week as they go over all the final details before a messenger races in, running straight for Aemond.

He doesn’t say anything as he tears it open, reading the contents inside over and over before apologizing to Lord Cregon and rushing for Vhagar. 

It takes nearly 2 days of flying before he gets to you at dragonstone. Landing Vhagar and jumping down from the saddle while racing behind a guard to get to you. 

He doesn’t waste time thanking the guard or waiting to be announced as he burst into the room, making you jump from where you are sat in a bed. 

“Aemond? You should be in Winter-”You begin to yell, moving to sit up. He crosses the room in three strides, softly pushing you back down as you look at him skeptically. 

“I received word that you and your dragon had been hurt.” He states, stepping back to check all the injuries while keeping his hands on your shoulders. “There had been a wild dragon?”

“I was merely trying to protect a batch of eggs.” You explain, trying to remove his hand. “It was fine, you should not have been called-”

“I should not have been summoned after my wife was nearly killed?” He snaps, confusion littering his face as he spots a familiar book on the nightstand. “I knew you stole it.”

“Did you honestly fly out here to accuse me of stealing a book?” You snipe, reaching for it before he can grab it. But you were slow from the injuries and he was already lunging for it. 

“I flew out here because I was terrified you would die-”

“And you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to celebrate it properly?”

“I was afraid that you would die. No snide comments were going to follow that sentence.” He states bluntly, sitting on the edge of the bed to peer into the book. “It’s still so odd to me that you picked this book to impress Lord Baratheon-”

“You think I took that book to impress that trout-faced ass?” You laugh incredusly, still looking nervous at his presence. “I took it to impress you.”

His head snaps up with a blush, smiling softly. “You took the book to impress me?”

“A terrible thought out plan considering I hadn’t quite realized you actually hated me. Did you ever consider that I had been talking you up to Lord Baratheon that day?” You mumble, looking away and messing with the cover of the bed. 

He lets silence consume you both as he flips through the book, stopping when he comes across sketches of himself, all extremely detailed. “D-did you draw these?”

“Awhile ago, yes.” You whisper. “The septa found the book and returned it to me that day-”

“You had been joking all those years, and I had been an ass.” He speaks, voice tight at the truth, watching your face.

“I never meant to offend you-”

“But I had. I had always meant to offend you while you were merely thinking of me as a friend. A friend that you thought was pretty enough to draw.” He states, fingers tracing over one of the sketches. “That entire time I had been a monster.”

“Aemond-”

“That’s why you avoid me now? Because I had acted that way?”

“I figured you’d still hate me.” You sigh, wincing in pain as you try to sit up. Within moments he has one arm wrapped around you torso for support, the other sitting in between your neck and shoulder. 

“How foolish and terrified I have been….”

“You should be in Winter-” You don’t get to finish your words, his lips coming to meet yours soft and slowly. 

You hesitate for a moment before kissing back, hands moving to his hair. 

“I’m sorry…. I’m so sorry.” He whispers in short moments when you both try to catch your breath before lunging back in for another kiss. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

“Aemond…” You breathe out as he pulls you closer, kissing you like a man possessed. He moves you gently so that he his kneeling between your legs and you are resting on the pillows, kissing your jaw with content. 

“I’m sorry..”

“So am I.” You mumble but he shakes his head. 

“I’m a fool. All this time I have wasted trying to hate you and you were merely reaching a playful hand out.” He sighs, kissing down your neck. “Forgive me, please princess, forgive your foolish husband.”

“Forgiven.” You whisper, pulling him back up softly. “It is all forgiven.”

“I do not wish for this to be a marriage of convenience. I wish for you, it’s all I have ever wished for whether I realized it or not. Please- Give me a chance-”

“Accepted.” You smile, pulling him closer and tugging him to kiss you. “You have been granted one more chance.”

He smiles, leaning down and dragging his own lips against yours in a possessive kiss, eye glinting in the soft light. 

Once you are healed he prepares Vhagar, watching you mount your own dragon carefully.

“You feel even the slightest twinge of pain and we head back-”

“Instantly. I know. You worry wart.” You laugh, hair blowing in the wind as he looks at you with a raised brow. “Gonna keep AN EYE on me, Lover boy?”

“Keep taunting all you want…..” He smiles, “You’ll pay for it all tonight, you old maid.”

“Old maid?!” You laugh. “That makes you a corpse!”

You take flight, leaving him to curse and push Vhagar to go, racing through the skies as you begin to track the wild dragon Cannibal. 

It wouldn’t be long before he would need to find a dragon egg for his child, and he needed to make sure there was an egg to procure.

“Come on grandpa! You’re slowing down!” You laugh, looking back to stick your tongue out at him. 

It takes him a moment to catch his breath as he smiles at you, and to think that he missed all of this by being a twit. But he doesn’t apologize again, knowing how you’ve come to hate it, instead he pushed Vhagar faster and calls “Loser won’t be allowed to finish tonight!”

You looked shocked for a moment before he has his dragon sweeping under yours and taking lead. “But considering how much I love you, dearest wife, I will consider giving you at least one orgasm.” 

He laughs and flies off, leaving you desperate to catch up.

(REQUESTS ARE OPEN AND WILL BEGIN BEING POSTED ON MONDAYS)

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[popjunkie42]

Night Falling

For @officialrhysandweek 2024

Read on AO3

After the murder of his mother and sister by the Spring Court, Rhysand confronts his father, longing for punishment and absolution. Instead, the High Lord has a lesson for his youthful son.

Tags: Descriptions of violence, grief, toxic family relationships

I love you @witch-and-her-witcher for the beta read and support! I wrote this during some of the worst weeks at work ever so I hope the brain cells were there.

And I hope you like some Saturday afternoon angst!

Fic under the cut!

Broken.

Everything here was broken.

Shards of cracked and splintered black marble littered the great hall of the Moonstone Palace. Lines of white and gold like veins, the ground splintered like spiderwebs and covered in a layer of dust.

The Prince of Night sprawled against a chunk of marble twice his size, jagged and sharp. Rhysand panted with exhaustion. His head tipped back against the stone, tears making tracks through his dust-coated skin.

Too soon his body was recovering - his energy returning. He had torn the room apart in anger, in grief, begging for the oblivion of exhaustion.

The curse of his dark power - to never yet find the end of it.

Again, the memory and horror washed over him. A dark, endless play in his mind’s eye. Two heads, bloodied and disheveled, faces locked in fear staring up from floating baskets. Their skin the faded color of winter. Every act of cruelty and violence etched on their once beautiful faces.

He turned to the dust-laden floor and vomited.

It was black bile that burned as it came. Nothing left from whatever hours or days he had spent in this fog of grief.

Not just the pain of their absence - but the horror of the violence, the suffering that threatened to pull him under to some murky, vile place he feared he might never return from.

He should not have gone into the mind of the Illyrian patrols who found their heads floating in the river.

But he couldn’t not see. The same as he would never purge the image of their bodies found hours later - stiff and bloodied in the snow, stumps where proud wings had once flared.

The mountain trembled again beneath him.

Would his father let him tear it all apart?

Could he even stop himself?

Ever since he started rending the room into pieces, his power had been seeping like oil through the Moonstone Palace into the rock of the mountain - deeper and deeper until he felt its great cold roots in the earth. Gripped it with nervous tendrils of shadow. Ancient and powerful rock that he longed to pull from the ground like weeds only to tear apart in his hands. An act of primal destruction, like the forging of the earth.

He knew the Night Court was cast in darkness. No moon or stars or rising sun would penetrate the midnight shroud over their lands.

Perhaps it was cast over all of Prythian. Rhysand hoped it reached to Spring - that it wilted flowers and field, a dark portent to whatever fate awaited them.

Because await them it would. But not for long.

Amren had taught him to control his power, but not yet to see the full breadth of it. But he let his power leak, let it drip from him without a care.

The tiny beast hadn’t even come to see him.

Probably for the best. He had snarled at Cassian and Azriel as they found him in Windhaven - winnowing away with a whiff of sulfur, the rushing of air. Nothing in him was ready for their fallen faces, to watch the grief echo back and forth between them.

So he was selfish, leaving them to their own pain. Throwing up shields brimming with sharp starlight and cold winter night in jagged configurations around the Palace, to remain undisturbed.

Two faces again behind his eyelids - his sister’s eyes shut tight, face scrunched in pain. His mother’s - fearful and wide, facing the end with open eyes.

He wondered who they had killed first. Who had to watch the other die before their eyes, hope winking out.

Samara - the proud Illyrian Queen, young but fearless Lady of Night.

Amira - the shining star of the court, the only evidence of his father’s capacity for affection.

His family. His beating heart ripped from his chest. An immortal lifetime of possibility stolen from him forever.

And all his fault.

Whether he would have died with them or ripped the Spring brutes apart - he should have been there. Told them he would be there. Told Tamlin where they would be, before meeting him next week for training –

Tamlin.

He repeated their names in his mind. Cador the High Lord. Rian. Owen.

Tamlin.

The unfathomable betrayal. Or worse - the betrayal he had been warned about, his stupid, arrogant self ignoring his family and friends for the fierce training and tender passions of the third Prince of Spring.

Tamlin.

The name was burning poison in his mouth.

Rhysand let it burn, let it dissolve and corrode inside of him, joining in the heavy despair of his grief.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

He didn’t know how much time had passed in that silent tomb of a hall. As his power rose he tore it apart again, but without his initial vigor, sending stones clashing against each other, but without the taste for total destruction. Like a child playing with blocks, tired and plowing through their towers.

He knew it to be true: he could tear this palace, this mountain to pieces, cast the world into darkness.

But still, his father would not come to him.

He would not stoop so low, even to his grieving son.

When Rhys felt the heat of the sun burning against his blanket of deep twilight, he willed his muscles to move.

Feet carried him unconsciously, the walls of the palace passing before him without recognition as he walked down, down into the Hewn City, wards flickering to his blood and power.

Underground, black banners were already hanging from buildings and the windows of decadent manors. Voices wailed in the city center. Rhysand stuck to the shadows. What did these people ever care for his mother, his sweet sister, other than their fearful obedience?

He found his father in his grand bedroom behind the throne room, a pale attendant at his side.

Emrys had no crown on his sandy-colored head, shot with white around the temples, in the privacy of his chambers, but still power in the room thrummed with his command. His deep inset eyes, dark under his heavy brow, didn’t leave the sword he polished in his hands. Rhys stood uselessly in the door.

“Leave us.” The High Lord did not raise his voice, did not show any signs of sharing the raging grief of his son, disheveled and tear-stained, as he dismissed his servant.

Greased cloth glided over black metal, mottled and banded with swirling patterns like dripping water.

The room was grand and furnished lushly, all rich velvets and silks, the fireplace carved out of stone and large enough to roast a boar. During the day, sunlight streamed in from chiseled pathways and clever mirrors, even this deep into the rock.

But the comfort of the room was lost against the ebbing violence emanating off the High Lord. Sovereignty effortless and pervasive, as if at any moment he would exhale too loudly and blast the walls apart. He took no care now to cast any glamour, to temper himself. Like a glistening diamond uncovered in the rock. After eight hundred years, his son knew he no longer cared what anyone thought of him - even his family - other than that he was terrible and brutal.

Rhysand stood in silence. Waiting. Wordless. What could he now say to him?

This was his long life, stretching before him: only him and his father, bonded together in misery. Wholly without the light of his mother and Amira.

No more would his mother be the fierce but extended bridge between them, or Amira the beating heart of the family. Their beauty and laughter was gone and now from the world. And Emrys with his half-breed son raised in the unrefined wilds, a disappointment at every turn, and a threat with his growing power. Eyes that never looked at him but to find a fault, or a useful pawn, or a nuisance to be dismissed.

How much more oppressive this place would become with the two of them, hating each other for all eternity.

Emrys paused in his rhythmic, unconscious polishing, nicked the tough skin of his thumb against the newly honed edge of his sword. A drop of blood, red as rose petals, slid down the blade.

The High Lord sat there, no sign of tears on his cheek, no rent clothes, only the mating band on his left hand any reminder of what he had lost.

“Finally you come to me,” he said, watching the wound on his thumb seal back, glowing with magic.

Rhysand bit down his anger, his fear, and fell to his knees.

Hard hewn stone bit into his kneecaps. But it was all right - his body was just a vessel now. Just a carrier of pain. He deserved much more.

He didn’t dare to look at his father. Choking swells of tears rose in his throat, rage and shame. Rhysand bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.

“I am to blame. I accept any punishment from your hand.”

Silence reigned. Rhys waited, calm acceptance in his chest, whether it be for the High Lord’s pitiless wrath or to fall under the quick slice of metal on his neck.

But nothing came. Nothing moved.

Rhysand looked up.

His father’s eyes were locked to him, piercing dark blue - a mirror to his own, the only shared feature, the only reminder of their common blood. Filled with disdain, with disgust.

“What would be a fitting punishment for this, Rhysand? What do you propose?”

The Prince of Night clenched his jaw tight. Against the tears ready to spill, another sign of his weakness and frailty for his father to sneer at.

And also in desperation. To be punished, to have judgment meted out by the High Lord, who he had wronged…who else could give him the condemnation he desired, the retribution fit for his crimes? He could disappear into it - the righteous retaliation of the widower, father, High Lord.

“It was my fault. You warned me. Everyone warned me not to trust him. To trust Tamlin.” His name was noxious in his mouth, his vision still of green eyes and a bright smile, a golden hearty laugh, irreconcilable with this act of viciousness. Of cowardice. “I wasn’t there, when I said I would be. I didn’t protect them. And now they’re - they’re dead. Because of me.”

His voice was a hollowed whisper, his throat ragged and raw. Dead. The first time he spoke the words aloud.

Emrys snorted a laugh, no smile found on his face, shadows cast in his hollow cheeks. “My son. Always the fool.”

Rhysand took a sharp breath against his growing anger. I accept the punishment. I will accept whatever he directs at me. I deserve all of this and more.

The High Lord’s stare did not falter. Rhysand could feel the invectives growing and building inside his father, his lip curling in displeasure. “Always swaggering around the world, like this Cauldron-given power was something you earned. As if it would protect you, as if you were untouchable. The lesson you refused to learn from me.

“You think me mistrusting, isolated. You look upon me with the eyes of fervent youth to only find fault and shortcomings. But now perhaps you will listen to me. Now you will learn. What it takes to have power in this world. What it takes to keep it. You are not an immovable mountain, Rhysand. You are a target. And every day, every moment, your enemies will chip away at you, and everything you hold dear, until they vanquish you. That is the life of a fae of power, that is the life of a High Lord.”

Rhysand inhaled deeply under his cutting look, his father: cold and cruel, forever locked away in his Court, rarely setting foot out of its borders. Rhys had longed for the world, after seeing so much in the war, taking every opportunity to attend summits and meetings and respond to summonses. Hungry for Prythian, for knowledge, for the bright crackle of life and the oddities and newness it held. While his father brooded, paranoid and angry, lying and ignoring the rest of the Courts, keeping the Night Court secrets close.

It was true - he had disregarded him. Had thought him twitchy, frightened, closed minded. Always finding enemies, always hearing the threat behind the door when Rhysand longed only to wrench it open.

“I need to know what else you told him. I need to know if Spring knows about Velaris.”

A cold fist of offense grabbed hold of his heart.

But wasn’t he right, to suspect? To be cautious?

Weren’t his mother and sister more precious to him than the hidden city? And he had given them up without a thought.

“No. He knows nothing beyond public doings of the Hewn City, and some old stories of Illyria.”

“And he knows of your powers? Of your dissatisfactions, of your youthful emotionals and desires to use against you?”

Rhysand swallowed. “Yes. He was my friend.”

Emrys grunted as he sat down again at the foot of his bed. Picking up a stone and a short knife, its handle a soft polished wood inlet with pearl, and started to sharpen.

He was quiet again for a while. Rhysand felt his legs cramp, his kneecaps ache against the stone. “Fortunately for you, you are now my only heir. And while I never sought to have you, I won’t deprive my court of the stability of succession. No matter how little you might deserve it.

“And if you are lucky, you’ll have millennia ahead of you to punish yourself. Or to ask your High Lord to, as you have done with everything difficult in your life. But now is not the time.”

Rhys kept his head bowed, breathing through his despair.

“Get up off your knees.”

“So you will not give me what I desire?”

A hiss emanated from his father. “You are full of grief, and yet still you would fight me instead of listening,” Emrys clenched his jaw as he examined the gleam of the edge of his knife in the raging fireplace. “I will not say I was remiss in your education. I had to forge my legacy alone, as you will, Rhysand. You will learn or you will fail, as the Mother sees fit. The crown will rest on your head. There is no doubt that when I am gone the power will go to you and only you can choose how to handle it. Only six others know what it is to be blessed and tied to the land, and we’d rather cut off our own hands than speak to each other. So do not expect lessons, or a helping hand, when you grapple with the power. ”

He sighed, finally done with the sword, his eyes locked to the flickering flames. “I know when the weight of the court is on your shoulders and the centuries have made you tired and brittle, you will remember me. You’ll remember your foolish, youthful spite and when you finally recognize the solitary prison of your throne, I will be long gone, and unable to assuage you.”

He exhaled again. Sheathed the knife at his side. He brought his sword to his back, strapped across from shoulder blade to hip, unlike the spinal column blade of the Illyrians. “Such is the way of it.”

Rhysand stood still as marble, fists clenched.

He couldn’t believe his father - he would be a different kind of ruler someday, not so cold, not so vicious and merciless. He would dream and work create a Velaris of the whole world.

Emrys laughed, as if sensing his thoughts.

“It is the undeniable truth of being High Lord - that your power came from the death of another. The poets and the historians may dress it up however they like, but a High Lord’s power is forged in death. To be a High Lord is to be fatherless. To be a High Lord is to be alone.”

“I don’t believe that.” All the reaching he had done, his heart straining across long quiet dining tables, aching for the eyes of his father to fall on him, to show even the hint of softness underneath. That hollowness inside made Rhysand brave. “You had your mate. You had your family. You chose to be alone.”

Emrys hummed, dismissive. “I will not argue with a child. Now is not the time.”

“When is the time?” Rhys snapped. If he could not speak plainly with his father when their whole world was broken, could not find a drop of love or care in him even at the death of his family, was there anything decent to be found in him at all?

“I believe you are as fond of this performance of grief as you were of your mother and sister.”

The words hit him like boulders to his chest.

The old man must truly not feel anymore, had lost all ability to understand anything beyond himself and his own power.

Leave it to his father to drag him out of grief and into rage.

“Do I shame you my lord, by mourning for my own flesh and blood? My deepest apologies, I should have known better than to think you would care.”

A snap of power arced across the room, across his face like a blow.

“Do not test me, boy,” the snarl of anger, of pure violence Rhysand had been craving since he set foot under the mountain. Hand on his burning cheek, Rhysand looked up. Saw his father’s knuckles white with restraint. “There are many things, an entire world of things you know nothing of. To lose a mate –” Emrys eyes flickered away, a snarl twitching at his lips. The only sign he was affected. More emotion than Rhys had seen from him in years.

The High Lord closed his eyes. Took a breath deep into his lungs. The tension did not leave his shoulders.

When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You will never know, Rhysand, what it is like. If you are ever cursed and blessed with a mating bond then I wish you better fortune than I. To have a mate is to no longer belong to yourself. To have pieces ripped and torn from you that can never be returned.”

All the hatred Rhys had ever felt for his father gathered at once, roiling in his stomach, acid and poison burning from within. “So you resent her? The Cauldron chose a mate for you and all you feel is regret?” Too late he realized he spoke of her as if she was still here…the pain of remembrance crumpling inside him all over again, even amidst his rage.

“You do not understand.”

Canines, tearing through the soft flesh of his mouth, an iron tang on the Prince’s tongue. “She loved you. I don’t know why, but she did. And all you ever gave her in return were orders, as if she were some servant, as if she were some possession of yours to move from palace to palace. And that was when you weren’t ignoring her outright. Did you ever even –”

The slap on his face this time wasn’t from magic, it was the hard sting of flesh, the rings on his father’s hands bruising his cheekbone.

Rhysand fell from the force of it, hard hewn stone on his back, his father towering over him like a dark storm.

“You don’t understand. There is a part of me now that is gone. Forever. It’s in my chest and there’s a –” another deep breath, his face scrunched in pain.

Emrys fought again to master himself, chest heaving as he stood over his son.

“I don’t understand. How can you be so calm? How can you be so accepting”

The High Lord sighed, burdened and angry. “I carry heavy weights every day. I have grown accustomed to them. The weight of the court is upon me always, the power, the care, the suffering. Obedience and betrayal. A plot at every corner. Sycophants and assassins. And all the while the people who rely on you, open hands, hungry mouths. Their cries of suffering are at your hands, their pain, your failure.” Rhys was surprised at the candor, at the care in his father’s words.

“You are my son, Amira was my daughter, but every Night Court member is my child. My responsibility. This you will learn too one day, if you can someday overcome your natural selfishness. There is no choice or thought…if you are a good High Lord, you will bleed for them a thousand times over and it will never be enough. You learn to protect the inner parts of you, the last bit of blood to keep you going another day.”

“So this is what you have to teach me, father? That I’m doomed to a life of loneliness, that a mating bond is a curse, that I’ll be crushed daily under my duties and responsibilities? That there’s no joy or love in the future, only duty and pain?”

Emrys shrugged. A thoughtless gesture, so boredly casual Rhysand almost laughed. “You will make your own life, Rhysand. One day you will have to make your own choices without me. I will not fight for your understanding if you continue to be a fool. Come, we’re wasting time. The sun is setting across Prythian and night is coming to the Spring Court.”

“What?”

Emrys stood, flipping another sword in his hand to inspect, then sheathing it at his side. He offered a hand to Rhysand. His son flinched.

A steady look passed between them. Filled with stars, filled with eternity. And a question. Rhysand finally took his hand and stood.

The Prince of Night eyed his High Lord with wariness. Although he knew him to be powerful and a fighter in his youth, it was rare for him to be the warrior, to set aside his power and step away from the Illyrian legions to hold steel in his own hands.

“I hope you will be strong. I hope you have learned something from those damned Illyrians. I could have taught you more, but you would’ve made a poor pupil. And I a poor teacher.” Rhysand cocked a brow, at the strange admission. “But it’s too late for that now. Let me teach you the final lesson - how to treat with your enemies.”

Rhysand’s blood went cold.

Yes, he had plenty of thoughts of blood on his hands, of Spring running red with it. And in his heart he knew there was no other answer from his father.

But now it was real.

And Tamlin…his mother…

“It’s high time you put to use these supposed powers of yours. You will show me what everyone whispers across the court about my Cauldron-blessed son.” A command. “You will serve me in this, and work to clean the debt now upon you. You will hold their minds, we will not give them an instant to summon any defense. And they will know the terror that lurks in the darkness.”

There was relief, shameful but sure and calm, at the order of the High Lord. The Prince would have no choice, he would obey orders, he would be a weapon for his father and nothing more.

And yet –

“We cannot kill the Lady of Spring. Every male must bleed, but we cannot be like them.”

Emrys shook his head, his blond hair brushing onto his forehead, strangely disheveled. “You’re still not listening.”

“I am listening. If I had a mating bond, I would not wish the death of my mate. And I would not wish it upon another, if it tears you apart. The death of her family would be enough suffering for all.”

Rhysand saw the resistance, dismissive in his father’s face.

“Promise me.”

Emrys eyes flashed. Rhysand had never demanded things of his father, never had the bravery.

So he watched while the High Lord considered. Nodded. “It will be as you say.”

Emrys stopped the sure movement of his hands, which had been buckling belts, smoothing the front of his tunic, tightening the sheath of his weapons. His gaze upon his son was suddenly heavy, knowing. Rhysand felt the full weight of it. Longing was prickling in him, to winnow, to dive into the violence awaiting them before he had time to balk.

In a matter of hours, maybe minutes, Tamlin would be dead. The Spring Court decimated by Night. A High Lord killed for his crimes, descendents wiped from the earth.

No matter the thrumming power of the order of his father, Prythian would know what befell the Spring Court. Who was the only one who could hold minds and overpower High Lords and their sons. This was the beginning of his legacy. His father would lead the way but Prythian, and the world, would soon only know the son of Night as the terrible angel of retribution.

Slowly, Emrys unsheathed the knife from his side. Flipped it in a smooth motion. Offered it, gleaming wood handle, to his son.

An order. A question.

Rhysand breathed. Traced the inlet pearl in the handle with his eyes, glimmering like starlight.

Two faces, contorted in pain. The tinkling of laughter, the warmth of wings encircling him. The soft sound of his mother’s voice as she sang him to sleep.

Rhysand reached out his hand, and grasped the knife.

Read on AO3

[lesbianpepsi]

Meant To Be Yours

pairing: amber freeman x fem!reader

summary: amber has tricked you into killing one student, you refuse to be tricked again; something amber doesn't like.

words: 2.165k

warnings: canon scream stuff, death, description of murder, knives, violence, blood, swearing, toxic!amber, manipulation, bad writing

authors note: a double whammy tonight for y'all. i have no regrets.

"All is forgiven, baby. I promise I'm not mad about what you said to me." Amber said through the call making your jaw clench as you shake your head, not believing a word that comes out of her pretty mouth.

"Stop calling me, Amber." You told her in the most demanding voice you could muster up, covering it up with your growing fear as your eyes glanced around your living room. "I've not forgiven you so just leave me the fuck alone." 

Amber scoffs through the device. "Why are you saying these things, Y/n? You've practically thrown me out like I'm fucking trash!" Her voice became more gruff as her anger quickly replaced her fake kindness.

"Because you are, Amber, you're fucking trash. You tricked me." You remarked as you ran a hand through your hair, staring intently at the dark corners of the room. 

"Is that what you think? That I tricked you?" Amber asks you in an overly heartbroken tone making you roll your eyes. "You did trick me, Amber, you manipulated me into doing something vile."

"Baby, you know I'd never manipulate you, I love you too much." She says her voice is becoming quieter. 

Tears swelled up in your eyes as you shook your head, your jaw still clenched tightly. "You manipulated me into killing, Wes." You whispered through gritted teeth, your heart beating erratically in your chest. "You said it was going to be a harmless prank to scare him."

"It was harmless." She defended, the sound of her shuffling around being heard on the phone. "Wes was a bitch boy anyway."

You scoffed as you stood up from the couch, your anger towards your girlfriend and the grief and guilt of Wes's death making your blood boil in a disgusting way.

"Fuck you." You whispered before hanging up on her, turning your phone on silent mode before tossing it onto the couch. 

It was only supposed to be a prank; that's what she told you. 

Wes was notorious for his hatred towards horror movies, especially Amber's favourite Stab. 

Amber suggested to you that you and her should play a little prank on him after he was "too touchy" with you as Amber said.

The prank being you and Amber would dress up in the famous Ghostface costumes and give him a little scare.

You were reluctant in the beginning but after Amber's persuasive words you eventually agreed.

Amber had already planned it out and told you how the prank was going to play out. 

You would call him as Amber would sneak into his house and scare him before taking off her mask and showing her friend it was a prank.

That isn't how the prank went. 

You were in Amber's car on call with Wes as Amber sneaked into the house late at night in the Ghostface attire.

In the beginning it was going smoothly, even funny to you at times. Then in a blink of an eye everything changed.

As you uttered the iconic line "What's your favourite scary movie?" you didn't get a panic response or even get hung up on; instead you heard fighting.

Screams so loud and guttural you had to pull your phone away from your ear.

Immediately you ran into the house to see what had happened to your absolute horror. You saw Wes on the floor covered in blood as he gargled on his own blood, his throat cut lightly, as if Amber was teasing him an easy and quick death. 

You didn't even know how it was possible that Amber could hurt him so much in less than thirty seconds. 

His eyes met yours as he whispered out his final words, a look of betrayal on his face.

"Y/n?" 

Amber killed Wes, and you helped her. 

You screamed at Amber as she gazed at Wes's dead body, taking off her mask as a look of pleasure swirled in her dark eyes.

She was proud. 

When you threatened to tell the police what she had done her proudness was replaced with smugness as she waltzed at you, a bloodied knife still in her grip. 

"You're an accomplice to my crime, baby. You call the cops on me and we both go down." 

Her words hit you like a wrecking balls with reality. You were an accomplice to her crimes.

The Bonny to her Clyde.

You didn't know what to do - you still don't know what to do, confess the truth to the police and go to prison or keep the entire killing an unsolved mystery; let your best friend become an unsolved case.

One thing you have been doing is avoiding Amber, hell, you've been avoiding everyone. You haven't left your house in days as you rotted away; the guilt slowly killing you.

Sighing, you ignore the vibrations from your phone as you move towards the kitchen, going to make yourself a glass of water in a weak attempt to calm yourself down. 

Grabbing a glass you headed towards the sink to fill up your glass. As the cold water slowly filled it up your eyes were focused on it as your thoughts were plagued by Wes.

You didn't even notice the person standing in the corner of the kitchen.

"Y/n."

You gasped as you dropped the glass making a loud clatter as it landed in the sink. Turning on your heel to your horror you see Amber standing a few feet away with a soft smile, the one that used to make your heart swoon. 

"Don't run." She asks you as she takes a step forward. 

Without hesitation as you do the exact opposite of her words, sprinting away as you headed towards your front door.

"I said don't fucking run away from me!" Amber yelled as her heavy footsteps were heard right on your heel.

Using all the strength and speed you could muster you force yourself to run even faster, but it wasn't fast enough. 

Amber's foot trips yours making you collapse to the ground as the view to the front door just reaches your eye sight.

You whimpered in pain as you tried scrambling back up but was stopped by Amber jumping forwards and standing in the hallway heading towards the door, blocking you from escaping the house; blocking you from escaping her.

She sighs as she runs a hand through her hair, looking down at you. "My love, please stop being like this. We're in this together, you can't leave me alone." 

Her soft spoken words wither into your heart as your glare softens, staring up at her as you slowly stand up. 

"Why are you here, Amber?" You demand as you take a wary step backward, your eyes focused on her body the entire time.

Amber's eyes gleam as she smiles crookedly at you, taking a singular step closer to you. 

"You left me, Y/n." She whispers, taking another step closer as you take another one back. "I fell apart without you and you've fallen apart without me."

You shake your head as you glance back at the stairs that would lead you to your bedroom before back at Amber's innocent looking face.

"Don't lie to me, sweetheart, you and I both know we can't live without each other. It's what made me realise something." Amber whispers, taking another step closer as you don't take another step back, breathing heavily as you stare at her.

She smiled sweetly as she reached you close enough to place her hand in your cheek, caressing it gently.

"We're meant to be." She insists.

You smile back at her as you lean into her touch, Amber visually relaxes as her smile softens.

"No we're not." You say before punching her in the face with all the strength you had in your body.

Amber stumbled back in shock as a small ooze of blood began spilling from her nose. One of her slender fingers touches the blood before pulling away to examine it.

Her jaw clenched as her eyes connected with yours, a look of pure rage in her black eyes.

You swiftly turn around as you run up the stairs as you head towards your bedroom, the only place you know has a lock and a secret weapon.

"Y/n!" Amber yells as she chases after you, right behind you as she tries grabbing you, her fingers skimming over your back. 

Scrambling towards your room you unlock it and throw yourself inside before slamming your body against it, shutting it as you locked it. 

Amber's fist pounds against the door as she screams your name.

"Y/n, don't lock me out! I was meant to be yours, we were meant to be one." She yells through the door, her palm laying flat against it.

You jump towards your dresser where a small pocket knife Amber gifted you was hidden.

Tears are free falling from your eyes speedily but you paid no attention to them, your only focus being on your life.

"You were meant to be mine." Amber growls from behind the door, banging against it once again. 

You flinch at the sound as you flick the blade out of its pocket, backing up against the corner wall as you sobbed quietly.

"I'm all that you need, Y/n, me. Not Liv, not Chad, not even fucking Tara; but me." Amber insisted in a raucous voice as she yelled. "You carved open my fucking heart, Y/n, you can't just leave me to bleed!" 

Your heart is going a hundred miles per hour as your hand becomes shaky, the small knife with Amber's and your initials on the blade shakes.

"Y/n!" She screams in a guttural rage, leaning her forehead against the door from the other side. "Open the door, please." Amber whispers but is loud enough that you hear it.

"Y/n, open the door." She begs again in a pleading voice, her own voice becoming shaky.

You frowned at her hurt voice as you unconsciously took a step closer to the door.

"Y/n, can we not fight anymore, please?" Amber whimpers, making your heart crack at her voice. 

You shake your head as you try to force yourself to stop getting closer to the door. You know she's only doing this to make you open the door, yet you still can't help but feel bad. 

"Please, baby, can we not fight anymore? I get that you're scared and that's my fault, and I'm so sorry, Y/n." You don't say anything as you remain frozen in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do.

"I've been there, feeling the guilt, I was there with you, remember? Do you really think I haven't been feeling horrible about it too?" Amber wailed from behind the door, her voice cracking.

Amber has been feeling guilty about it? You thought she didn't care?

"I can set you free, Y/n. From all the guilt and pain. I know how to." Amber states making your eyes widen in hope. She could make you feel better?

You're silent as you try to process her words, something Amber sees as a sign of rejection.

"Y/n, don't make me come in there." Amber says, her voice becoming louder and angrier the more she spoke. "I'm gonna count to three and if you don't open this fucking door I won't help you." She yells banging the door once again to emphasise her point.

You don't want that, you want Amber's help, if she wouldn't lie to you again, would she?

Wordlessly, you quietly walk over to the door, unlocking it as fresh tears still flow down your cheeks.

Amber immediately opened the door as her eyes locked with yours, her furious expression fading away. 

"You opened the door." She says breathlessly as she takes a step closer to you, her eyes averting  from yours to the knife in your hand.

You nod your head slowly as you drop the knife, your heart beating for Amber and Amber only now.

"Will you help me?" You croak out in a strangled voice. Amber nods her head as she smiles at you, placing a hand on her cheek just as she did earlier, the blood under her nose dripping onto her shirt but she didn't care.

"I'd do anything for you, baby, you're mine and I love you with all my soul and heart." Amber says as she uses her free hand to grab yours, interlocking your fingers together. "We're meant to be." She insists with her crooked smile.

You look down at your hands noticing the bruises on Amber's knuckles along with a few healed cuts. 

God, you caused that. You might've hated Amber but you also loved her. 

"Say it." Amber asked as she tugged your cheek making you look at her with tearful eyes. "Say you're meant to be mine." 

You swallow nervously as you gazed into Amber's dark eyes, blinded by her beauty and soft words.

"Meant to be yours."

[writingjourney]

how it feels | cardinal copia x reader

summary: You've been struggling with your body image lately, Copia notices and tries to comfort you.

content: 2k words, emotional hurt/comfort, tw for body image issues, reader is gender neutral with no physical descriptions, established loving relationship, Copia is an absolute sweetheart angel baby.

This is absolutely self-indulgent, but I kept it very vague so that it’s as relatable as it can be. It’s more on the emotional side for sure but (I hope) still ends with a positive message. Please don't read this if you’re acutely triggered by negative self talk.

Ao3 link – Masterlist

It happens by chance.

You have been avoiding the big, ornate mirror in your room for a few days now, pretending to wear blinkers. If you weren’t sharing a bedroom with Copia, you might have covered it with a sheet. But this morning, as your love gets ready for work, humming to himself in the bathroom, you can’t find your habit. Panicked that you can’t immediately cover yourself, you start a frantic search and your gaze gets caught by the reflection of your hectic movements. Your eyes meet your full-length mirror image, not the small one you’re used to seeing in the bathroom, and it’s like looking at a stranger. For a second you’re in shock, wondering who this body you feel so unfamiliar with belongs to. But then you realise that it’s yours. Instead of walking away, your eyes focus on every single part of it and the vile thoughts that enter your brain meet you like old friends.

You know the image in your head, the view in the mirror and your real body are three separate things. You know that what you’re seeing is distorted by the pain and self-loathing you’ve been harbouring for the past week. And yet no rational thought fully settles in. They pass, they don’t even puncture the disgust you feel.

You startle when you feel two strong arm wrap around your midsection, when the smell of freshly-applied cologne hits your nose. Copia pulls you into his chest and it takes you every ounce of restraint not to flinch back, not to fight your way out of his arms and hide like a wounded animal.

“Hmm, you look beautiful today, amore,” he whispers, then stamps a wet kiss to your cheek. “You always do.”

The disconnect between his reaction and your own perception is enough to make you frown. Copia’s eyes widen, like he’s afraid he said something wrong. He stares at you in the mirror and he must see the tears that colour your eyes red.

“Car-"

You slip out of his grasp, in search for the habit. It sits on a chair next to the bed, waiting for you, your saving grace. But before you can pull it over your head, Copia takes your arm, gently holds it in his strong grasp.

“I need to get ready.”

“Something is wrong, amore,” he states. “You are upset.”

“I need to get dressed, Copia.”

He shakes his head vehemently, nearly dropping his red biretta. “Is it about last night? You said you were tired, too.”

“I know. I was.”

You truly were. But if you’re being honest, exhaustion was not the reason you were glad that he didn’t initiate anything last night. There is no way you would be able to let go right now, to allow yourself any pleasure.

 “I know, I have been busy lately, we did not have much time for… for intimacy.” His thumb rubs a slow circle over your wrist. “But that does not mean I desire you any less. Ti amo, ti desidero, con tutto il cuore. Always.”

His words caress the wounds on your soul. But even so they can’t heal them, not after you ripped them open for days. “I know.” You try to force out a smile. “It’s okay, really. You did nothing wrong.”

“Che cos’è? You are almost crying, amore. I don’t believe it. You don’t even say you love me back.”

You desperately want to, you wish you could find words for him. But instead you vaguely shrug, not sure what to tell him for fear of lying, of abusing his trust. You stare at his hand on your arm. Even though his grip is loose now the black leather of his gloves makes it look almost violent. As if he has the same thought he moves his hand down in favour of linking your fingers together. You wish he would just let it go, that his touch wouldn’t make it all worse, even with the leather as a barrier. How is he not repulsed, how would he willingly be close to you?

“Maybe I am a little upset,” you admit, finally.

“With me?”

His soft voice breaks your heart. You look up at him and see the insecurities plainly written on his face. Of course he assumes that he is the reason. Even now, after being together for so long, he is still so scared of messing up.

You squeeze his hand. “No, not with you. Never with you. I do love you back, so much.”

His shoulders visibly relax and he pulls his brows up into a pleading look. “Can I hug you?”

Despite feeling so ashamed, so miserably vulnerable, you nod. You cannot refuse him, no matter how scared you are of what his touch will do to you. So you wrap your arms around his neck, feel him sink into you. The fabric of his cassock is stiff, hiding the shape of his body and making you feel even more naked. His hands rest on your bare skin, the leather warm as his fingers spread over the small of your back. You feel his warm cheek on yours, the only true skin contact, his sideburns tickling when he nuzzles your neck with a deep sigh.

“Tell me why you are so sad, amore,” he whispers. “Help me understand.”

You know you would never have told him if you’d had to look at his face. But here, hidden in his embrace, your senses busy taking in his scent, his warmth, you feel infinitely safer. Completely filled with the affection you don’t feel like you deserve, you whisper your question. “Copia, do you think I’ve changed?”

He lets go just enough to look at you. “Changed how?”

You shrug, averting your gaze as you fiddle with the buttons just below his neck. “Changed… physically?”

“Your body?”

“Mhm.”

He frowns and you regret the question. This must seem so trivial to him, so pointless. He may not be able to see any changes, he may not even have payed attention, so swamped with work and more important things to worry about.

“I don’t think so,” he finally says. “Did I miss something? You did not get a haircut? New clothes?”

“No. No, that’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean, amore?”

You fight back tears. Satanas, you feel pathetic, so embarrassed by the situation. How is he still asking? How is he not giving up and telling you to get a grip, that he needs to go to work? You cannot help but feel a bit crushed, undeserving of this love that he has for you, of his patience, all the comfort he offers. You wish you could love yourself like he loves you, be gentle and kind with your body.

Copia takes your chin between his fingers and gently tilts your head up. 

“You know I think you are bellissimo?” he asks. “That you are a gift, not only for my eyes but for my soul?”

You close your eyes, trying to let his words sink in. “Yes. Yes, I know.”

He clicks his tongue. “No, you forgot. I made you forget because I was so busy. I did not love you enough.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not a lack of compliments or displays of affection, not when he seems so happy to have found a solution. How could you explain that you’re just messed up sometimes? Maybe it is unfair to let him try, to exploit his affections. You can’t let him think he’s lacking in any way.

“You did, you alway love me enough. You–“

“No, it is alright.” Copia shakes his head. “I will make it better, amore.”

His soft, plump lips press against yours. Before you can reciprocate, he moves them to your jaw, to your neck, featherlight touches that make you shiver. For as long as his body covers yours, they feel wonderful, but then he lets you go and you’re exposed again. Copia sinks down before you and his lips dance all over your chest, leaving a trail of black lipstick.

“So beautiful,” he whispers against your sternum. “Sono tanto fortunato.”

His words, as genuine as they may be, ring hollow. Your mind is telling you that he’s lying. That he can’t possibly mean any of it. He’s saying it because he has to, because he wants to cheer you up, because he is kind and generous like that.

“Tesorino, sei tutto per me. More than I could ever deserve.”

His hands trail down your sides as he kisses your belly, moving down to your navel. That’s when you tense up completely. You can’t take it, it’s like he’s trying to extinguish a flame by adding more fuel. His words, his kisses, his obvious display of his undying devotion, they are too heavy.

“Stop,” you say, barely able to breathe out the words. “Please.”

He looks up at you in utter confusion, chin resting against your stomach. “Amore?”

“I’m sorry,” you blubber out. “I’m so sorry, I don’t think I can do this right now.”

“Nonono.” He moves his hands up and down the backs of your thighs. “I am just trying to show you how beautiful you are. How much I adore you. We don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s not it. Its’ just…” You feel the first full tear rolling down your cheek. “I don’t think I can believe any compliments right now. They are wasted on me. You are wasted on me.”

You can practically see his heart break at your words and you cry silently – for yourself and for him. 

“What are you saying, tesoro?”

You know the question is rhetorical. He perfectly understands. “You deserve so much better, my love.”

He stands up and you watch as he takes off his gloves. With his now bare hands, he cradles your face, wipes the tears away. He’s too slow to catch them all and you wish he would not have to see you cry, he would not see you puffy and pathetic. But you are too weak to move, too weak to fight him when your whole body and your very soul are so desperate, so hungry for his love.

“Can you feel this?” he asks. “How my hands feel on you?”

You nod and he strokes your cheeks. He is so gentle, his fingertips massaging your skin like he’s trying to rub the sadness out of you.

“When I touch you, do you think about how it looks or how it feels?”

“How it feels.”

He brings his face closer, waits for you to flinch, to pull back. But you don’t. So he kisses you, firmly, tenderly, and beneath the salty tears you can taste his love for you.

Ever so patient, he doesn’t pull away. His lips linger, barely grazing yours, as he whispers against your mouth. “And when I kiss you, what do you think about, amore?”

“How good it feels.”

Copia smiles, a pained but beautifully heartbreaking smile. “What about when we make love? What do you think about then?”

“I think about how much I love you, how good you make me feel.”

“Me too. It’s all I think about when we’re together. But it is more of a feeling than a thought. You agree?”

Again, you nod and he nuzzles your nose, keeps his hands on your head. He pushes them into your hair, angles your head up just slightly so that he can kiss the tears from your cheeks. For the first time today you don’t want to leave your body, you want to stay exactly where you are.

“If you cannot believe my words, then maybe you can accept my affection? My love?” he asks. “Can you accept that it is not tied to your body but to all of you, even the things you cannot love about yourself?”

You take a shuddering breath. “I don’t know, Copia.”

“Let us try, amore. Let us try every day to love each other the best we can, sì? To focus on how good it feels?”

You hum in agreement and he hugs you again, pulls you so close that you barely even feel your body anymore, just him and what he does to you. Maybe you can accept his love, even if you are not always capable of understanding it. And maybe by loving him with all your heart you can find a way to extend that love to yourself as well. One day.

Thank you for reading! I hope you're feeling okay and that this story helped a little bit – and if not, my inbox is always open. Take care now, I love you, I like you. Get sleep, get well etc etc ♡

[phonydiaries]

Darling, Dearest, (Dead) - P x Reader

Warnings: MEGA-ANGST. DO NOT continue if you don’t want to see P bite the fucking dust or if you’re generally put-off by kind of graphic descriptions of death or injury. Also, once again set way early in the game because I am slow and just can’t confidently write environments and enemies that I haven’t encountered yet. If that all sounds cool to you, read on!

---

The inner chambers of Venigni Works seem to you an absolute nightmare to traverse, and quite frankly a shitty way to organize a factory. You wonder if it could’ve been much easier to navigate back in its glory days, you know, before it was crawling with frenzied puppets lurking in each shadowy corner. In its current condition, you don’t much care for the constant flickering of lights or the disorienting heat of steam which blasts unceremoniously from faulty pipes as you pass them by. You’re almost annoyed at the ease with which P navigates, head held high as he ushers you down a creaking fire escape. 

“If I’m being honest, I’m not entirely convinced that some puppet is worth all this…” you mutter under your breath, your grip tight around the rusty rungs of the ladder. The back of your mind anticipates a surprise attack any minute now; the factory is huge and cavernous and home to some of the most vile creatures you’ve had the displeasure of meeting. Personally, you would be thrilled to pack up and book it out of this place, dragging Mr. Venigni by the scruff of his beard but no. No, Pino is of course the more honorable and dutiful of you two, politely accepting the man’s fetch quest for his missing butler. 

P looks at you over his shoulder and gestures between the two of you with one finger, his brows crinkling in accusatory question, mouth pulled into a pout. You groan, rolling your eyes. 

“Obviously you would be a different story, don’t be daft. I’d sooner die than leave you in this dismal place.”

He huffs a bit at your response, shaking his head, but you know he’s grinning slightly beneath it all, pleased to know you think highly of him. Your feet meet the ground with a damp thud and you allow P to take up the lead again, starting down a winding tunnel. The sound of your steps carry here, and ripple like ghosts through the thick air. It’s dimmer here as well, and makes you a bit uneasy, though you would not admit this to P. Instead, you pipe up, hoping to distract yourself from the eerie feeling which settles uncomfortably in your stomach. 

“I think when we get back home the first thing I’ll do is sleep. All day.” You say, imagining that you are not here in this sweltering labyrinth of rust, but instead wrapped in cool silk sheets at the hotel, lazy and dozing. Any excursion for stalking purposes was bound to tire you out, and you often yearned only for rest upon returning home. Being a puppet, P couldn’t fully appreciate this, but he seemed happy enough to stay with you while you slept, reading at your bedside or sometimes even curled up with you, an arm thrown lazily around your waist. 

“What will you do?” You ask. Your puppet thinks for a moment, then holds both hands out in front of him, fingers splayed in playing position, thunking against the air. He presses his lips together and hums a few somber notes, his eyes lighting up at the idea. 

“Of course, you and that piano. Ever the tortured artist, you are.” You tease, nudging him in the ribs. He nudges back. You both chuckle softly and allow your gazes to linger on each other, just barely, before your attentions snap swiftly back to the task at hand. 

As you endeavor through the claustrophobic halls, a hollow sound of tittering stops you in your tracks. Your head turns, but you see nothing moving in the dark. You tug at P’s coat and place a finger over your lips. He heeds your warning and glances around, eyes narrowing as he peers down the hall. The tunnel is all echoes and distorted reflections. It’s quiet suddenly, too quiet, as if whatever you’d overheard was now acutely aware of your listening. 

P’s hand hovers over his weapon, and you follow suit, both drawing your blades slowly. A few beats of silence pass. Then a few more. At last, P’s posture relaxes some, and he motions down one of the winding paths with a tip of his head. You nod along and move carefully, but with the echoes of your steps the tittering returns, louder, faster, reverberating ceaselessly through the cramped space. Looking over your shoulder you’re met with the chilling visage of several bisected mannequins crawling towards you, their time-worn faces turned up in mindless anger. One clammy hand reaches for your foot and you frantically crush it beneath your boot, the sick crunch of fingers ringing in your ears. 

As P’s eyes dart back at you, more of the wretched creatures are already piling upon each other, their creaking limbs tangling together like spider’s legs as they stretch towards you. You lurch forward, shoving your puppet sharp in the back shouting, “Shit! Go!”

The two of you sprint down the hall, the ugly click-click-clicking of the mannequins trailing close behind. As you nearly crash head-first into a dead end, a standing enemy, fully formed and armed, makes a swing for your head. With a yelp, you smash the hilt of your sword through its head, leaving a deep crater in place of its dead eye. 

P whistles quick and sharp and points in the direction of a flashing light in the distance, offering refuge from this particular chamber of darkness. He ushers you towards him, frantic and wide-eyed with concern. You waste no time making a mad dash for the exit, your feet close on his heels. Just as you’re about to escape miraculously unscathed, practically touching the end of the tunnel, something pushes you to the ground.

The thing lands on your shoulders, a mechanical hand shoving your head against the floor, its worn-down fingers snagging in your hair. You make a cheap grab for your blade, but it’s knocked out of your grasp, skittering across the floor and away through a grate. A dull and throbbing pain begins to radiate from the center of your face. You reach madly behind your head, clawing away at whatever nightmare is currently wailing on you from above. As it lifts your head, rearing back and preparing to slam your face into the floor once again, it’s ripped away from behind. 

Gasping, you push yourself up onto your elbows and watch as P grabs the mannequin by its arm, bashing it brutally against the wall. It shatters to bits in front of you. You scramble out of the tunnel, still reeling to catch your breath. 

As your palm presses into the ground, seeking stability, P approaches and extends his arm to you. His face is streaked with worry, but he offers you a familiar twinge of a smile, oil-specked cheeks rising just-so. You know it’s meant to be soothing, and in a way it works; you do feel safer with him around, even at the worst of times. A thick curtain of dark hair falls over his eye and you resist tucking it away behind his ear. You grab him by his outheld forearm in a less-than-elegant roman handshake and he hoists you swiftly to your feet. His face hovers around yours, inspecting it meticulously for signs of harm. He pauses for a moment, and his finger sweeps delicately across the bridge of your nose, coming away bloody. 

“Dammit…” you mumble, and swipe the back of your hand across the broken skin, leaving a thin smear of blood in its wake. You grimace, unsure if it's broken, but you wouldn’t be surprised. P tips your chin upwards in both hands, tilting his gaze every which way. His brows knit in concentration, assessing just how much he should be fretting over what is -in the grand scheme of things- a miniscule injury. You capture his hands in yours and squeeze gently. 

“Pino, it’s fine.” You assure him. “And could’ve been much worse. If not for you.” 

At this, his eyes waver towards the ground, humble as ever as he offers a one-shoulder shrug. His modesty is infuriating. Your palm cups his cheek, turning his face back in your direction. 

“I mean it.” You say, with fierce sincerity. You’re not sure he ever truly grasps the scope of his own bravery. Perhaps to him it seems only the dutiful thing to do, but you hope some bit of your appreciation, of your deep fondness for him is conveyed. He has stood between you and death more times than you can name. 

Your thumb drags softly along his cheek and your head dips in to meet him. From so close, you can feel his breath just barely grazing your skin, and as your lips brush there is an awful succession of sounds one after another. 

First, is the dreadful creaking of a long-worn machine, rippling along the walls in fruitless warning. 

Next is a gut-wrenching crunch, and the awful scraping of metal against metal. 

Last is a voice haunting and hopeless, some pained cross between a gasp and a choke, forced from Pinocchio’s lungs. 

The chilling sound touches your lips, and for a moment you’re not sure if you or he are its origin. But this soon becomes achingly clear as you look down at the gruesome scene before you. A great rusted hunk of scrap, at least a foot wide, protrudes from P’s chest. The very edge of it grazes your clothes, just barely piercing your skin. You turn your gaze upwards and your heart falls. P looks back at you, through you, his eyes wide, mouth agape, the corners of his lips twitching in shock. You can’t recall ever seeing him so frightened, not even once. 

The hand that’s still holding you tightens to such a degree you feel bruises begin to form along your arm as the weapon is yanked cruelly from its lodging in the puppets chest. A deafening shing reverberates around you. 

P crumbles to his knees immediately; the weapon being the only thing holding him upright. A hulking enemy emerges from behind, spurting steam, it’s heaving limbs clanking together in awful dissonance. You reach instinctively for your weapon but find it missing from your previous dust-up. Thinking quickly, you pull P’s sword from his belt and land a blow to the monstrous head of your attacker. It’s not fatal, but you have not the time nor wherewithal to execute a proper hit. The thing staggers backwards long enough for you to haul P’s arm over your shoulder. You kneel beside him and lift with all the strength you can muster, grunting at the exertion. As your enemy advances, you manage enough of a standing position to move forward and you. Fucking. Run. 

You don’t know how you do it. You can’t explain what numbs the burning in your legs, the throbbing pain in your head, or the sandpaper-rough raggedness in your lungs as you book it down the hall. You’re still terribly lost, and in a frenzy you duck frantically in and out of alleyways, taking your turns sharp and reckless. Frequently your clothes catch on the lip of a door or a bit of exposed machinery and your skin is quickly rubbed raw, paper-thin streaks of crimson cross-hatching your limbs. 

As you move, your surroundings begin falling into a haze, your mind slowing to accommodate the wickedness of  physical strain. Puppets creep out of the darkness and you raise the sword of your fading companion in defiance, hacking away with a blind fury. You’re plagued by faraway cries of anguished exhaustion and far too late realize that they hail from your own mouth. Oil spatters across your face, stains your hands and clothes, mixing so easily with the streaks of blood which run from shoulder to wrist. 

As the unceasing sounds of the factory’s monstrosities die down, finally outrun, you collapse against a wall. You throw your head back as you gulp down air, and even this stings. Hair clings to your face, sticky with sweat, and you tremor under the weight of Pinocchio’s body. You look at him, struggling to stand, and imagine him a staggered princeling, a circlet of blood and silver dripping from the crown of his head. You push his hair back away from his face. He’s in a state like you’ve never seen him. The vibrant blue of his eyes is dulled, a stormy gray overtaking them as they peer bleakly at everything and nothing. His mouth comes in and out of a tight grimace, allowing only staggered breaths which sound to you more like the wheezing of a dying machine. His head lolls against your shoulder, his eyelids fluttering. At this, you swat at his cheek with your open palm.

“Hey- stay awake, now! I’m not done with you!” You snap, shaking his heavy head in your hand. He shudders with exhaustion but obeys, his weary gaze falling to you. The guilt swelling in your gut nearly kills you. It’s torture, you think, bearing witness to the condition of this poor boy, hardly conscious. You wrack your brain as your eyes dart wildly from wall to wall. There must be a way out, a path to safety, somewhere he can be tended to before it's too late. With a start you realize you recognize one of the winding paths before you. You’ve seen it before, yes, yes! You came this way at the beginning; the stargazer can’t be far away. 

“I’m getting you out of here.” you mutter, in honesty more to yourself than to him. “Everything… everything is going to be just fine.” 

Groaning, you heave yourself away from the wall, P tumbling unceremoniously along with you. You feel sorry for making him stand, much less run in such a fractured state, but you have no choice. You persist, and his heels drag heavier and stiffer with each step. The enormous weight of it all staggers you both, practically doubled over. You trudge through a tunnel which eventually lets out at a murky pool of corrosive water. You stumble through the shallows, readjusting your weight in a fruitless attempt to find some configuration that doesn’t feel so unbearable to the both of you. 

As you do this, P’s arm slips from its place over your shoulder and he crashes into the water below, knees buckling. Panicked, you crouch in the muck, wrapping both arms tight around the puppet’s chest. You heave him out of the water, the tendons of your fingers straining as you claw at his soaked clothes. You manage to drag him onto the gravelly shore and immediately collapse beside him. Breathing hard, you cradle his head in your hands, wiping his face clean of all the grit and grime you’ve endured. He hardly responds to this, a miniscule twitch in his eye the only sign of life. Your chest tightens. You’ve come so far, gotten so close, and yet a terrible truth is beginning to dawn on you. 

“Can’t you get up?” You beg, your voice wavering. “It’s not far I can-I could-” you stammer. You can what? What can you do in your condition? The puppet lying before you doesn’t budge, though you swear in his eyes there is something, a longing, a desperation to live; a fear of what awaits him should his story end here. Your eyes sting. “Fucking get up, please!” 

Your throat burns as your idle cries echo across the dark pond. Beleaguered sounds leave P’s cracked lips, pained whimpers, breaths that seem to catch on the mechanical gore in his chest, strained and splintered. His face is that of a strangers, glassy silver eyes and pallid skin, the color in his lips shifted from pale pink to a frigid blue. His gaze doesn’t meet yours, eyes pointed upwards at the cavernous ceiling, seeming to stare past everything. You press your forehead to his, cold and clammy. In your mind you recite prayers, half-remembered, in panicked worship of whatever god cares to listen. 

“Please. You can’t leave me alone.” Foolishly, you hope that guilt, pure obligation will keep him tethered here; perhaps strike up that deep-rooted sense of crushing responsibility. It’s a selfish appeal. You don’t care. 

Suddenly, P gasps and his hand searches frantically for you, tremoring as it clambers blindly up your arm. His fingers bump against yours. Before he’s able to thread them, you feel them fall limp.

Little by little, so does the rest of him. His limbs go slack and his head rolls to the side, chin just grazing the edge of his shoulder. His eyes freeze half-lidded and cloudy, his lips part barely in echo of a final breath. He is the striking image of a fallen angel, lying pale and languid in a puddle of pitch darkness. 

Time screeches to a halt. The air stands still and acrid around you, the unceasing sounds of motors and the turning of gears fade into a dull buzz. There is a dead boy in your arms. 

Where you expect a piercing and unrelenting grief there is nothing. Numbness. An absence of thought or feeling or sense. In an unthinking daze your fingers fold together over his chest, trembling and cold and marred with viscera. The crater of a wound is large enough that it swallows both your hands up, and you stare into the ruins of your companions heart blankly. This feels wrong, violating, like the desecration of a fresh grave. It turns your stomach and still… you press down once, hard. Something cracks under the weight. The boy is still. You push again. Nothing. You push again.

And again. 

And again. 

A sickening thunk accompanies each futile chest compression, along with a shooting pain in your wrist, a hitch in your breath. You don’t let up until the palms of your hands come away sliced and bloody, your face wet with salt and oil and mud. What an awful shame; despair has made a madman of you. 

It’s pure bodily exhaustion which finally forces you to cease this miserable ritual. Your head crashes, throbbing, against your departed’s cold stiff chest. Your hair falls in a matted sweep over your eyes, and you stare through the curtain at nothing. The scene is haunting and dismal in its strange beauty. Your bodies both lie limp, entangled at odd and unnatural angles. 

You hold no concept of what’s to come. Returning to the stargazer alone is simply not an option. The thought of facing Sophia, much less P’s father after this makes you want to vomit. Your eyes fade back into focus. The silhouette of your puppet’s discarded sword in the water whispers to you intelligibly, bloodthirsty and cruel. Your hand, now numb to the dull pain the water inflicts, closes shaking around its hilt. Wrecked beyond recognition, you stagger to a standing position and will yourself not to look at the dead boy at your feet. You can’t bring him back. You may not make it out of here alive. You may not make it out of here at all. 

But you are armed. 

And you are angry. 

And you will kill whatever unfortunate thing crosses your crimson path. 

[lixenn]

Xanxus and throwing stuff

It’s my time to chuck some random KHR headcanons into the wild!

For context: I wanted to write this scene, but during the process several questions came to mind which somehow spiralled into even more questions and now I have a whole new headcanon that’s taken over my brain because of course I do.

I won’t bore you with all the nitty gritty background details. I will just jump right into the good stuff, which in this case is me wondering about Xanxus and his habit of throwing stuff.

Especially I was focussing on Xanxus throwing alcohol.

Because look: We all know Xanxus loves throwing stuff at people be it alcohol, food or whatever else is at hand, but have you ever wondered if there’s some criteria on what he throws? Again with the alcohol, does he just randomly throw bottles on peoples head? Does he just use what is in his immediate vicinity?

And you know what?

NO! I DON’T FUCKING THINK SO!

Because that would be too easy! Where’s the drama? The unnecessary detail? Why think that Xanxus just throws random alcohol when we can make things complicated and develop a whole alcohol throwing language for the lols.

So here we fucking go:

Disclaimer: I don’t drink, so I know shit all about which different types of alcohol would fit certain criteria. So, I’m just going to use vague descriptions for now. If anyone who has a clue about alcohol wants to throw in their two cents and tell me what alcohol would actually fit certain descriptions, PLEASE hit me up so I can add it.

Anyone who interacts with Xanxus for more than 10 minutes will immediately notice his compelling urge of dousing people with alcohol at the slightest provocation. What people don’t know is that Xanxus actually uses different types of drinks for different groups of people.

If you’re just a random minion that pissed him off, he’ll throw the cheap stuff. Not something that’s really horrible but it wouldn’t taste great either. Just generic alcohol you could easily get at the local supermarket, basic shit for basic people, y’know?

Now, if Xanxus absolutely hates someone’s guts (looking at you there, Iemitsu) they will get hit over the head with the most vile alcohol that’s available. Stuff that tastes like horsepiss, something that’s barely fit for human consumption (and might actually be just rubbing alcohol with a shitty disguise) but people buy it anyways because it’s a quick and easy way to head straight into lalaland.

But if Xanxus likes you… hoooo boy, that’s a different matter entirely. Of course, he will still throw stuff because this is Xanxus we’re talking about here, however now he will throw the fancy shit, like expensive wine that’s been handed down for decades in the family (showing my lacking alcohol knowledge here). And if he really reaaalllly likes you *sideeying Squalo* he will reach for his favourites because he shows affection via violence and deeply obscure gestures that no sane person could ever comprehend.

He also has a go-to alcohol of choice when he’s in a really bad mood, so it doesn’t matter what alcohol category you were originally in, if Xanxus is grumpy he will only throw this specific type of alcohol and nothing else. As for what type it is: I’d say it’s just alcohol he personally can’t stand, like there’s nothing really wrong with it per see, but he either has a bad memory associated with it or he just hates the taste so he will never drink it.

That’s it from me and my super specific alcohol throwing headcanons. Any questions, comments and incoherent screams are welcomed with open arms.

Have a nice day and keep being awesome!

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

Keziah Niamh. Ffhjjd. This got so fucking out of hand. I LOVE YOU TY DARLING. 💖💖

König x f!OC (Rivka) / 1.8k words / NSFW

AU where for some reason, there's been a concerted effort to imprison skilled operators in the Gulag. König is used to kill whomever the guards point at--he does not question why. His reward is a visit to a solitary cell, where a woman holds his vile heart in her fist like a benison.

TW: descriptions of extreme violence and gore, machine-translated Russian.

When König’s shackled by wrist and ankle, with a chain running up to around his waist, he knows he’s one sin against his fellow man away from getting his little prize. If he were a rat, violence was a lever, and getting dragged up to solitary was a pellet, he’d stomp that fucking lever into the ground every fucking time.

No one had ever accused him of being smart, apart from one person, but there was not a person alive who had suffered the work of his awful hands that would not hesitate to call him brutal.

He’d been such a fucking problem when he was jumped and dragged to the Gulag all those months ago that he warrants a cadre of six guards in their full tactical gear to escort him down the halls to the boiler room. They like a good little show with a nasty atmosphere. It makes them think of home.

Once there, he’s aimed like a gun at another face that doesn’t matter to him. 

Older guy, beard, body hair like a werewolf. He’s got scars across his face that’ve taken one of his eyes, and when he snarls, he’s got no teeth across the bottom. Without his shirt on, König can make out eyes tattooed around his hips. Eh. Poor fuck, unlucky enough to get tagged for liking dick, it seems. Doesn’t matter. Not much of this does.

No one in the room speaks German, and he doesn’t speak Russian, and they won’t answer in English, so he just gestures for whatever weapon they want him to use on the raging asshole that’s about to become his victim. Sometimes, they get creative—hand him a pair of tongue and groove pliers or wire strippers, once even the broken wheel of an angle grinder. 

They don't give him bladed weapons, or anything that can be used like one. He kills too fast to get their rocks off like that. 

Today, it's simple. A claw hammer. His opponent is given an old skinning knife. It's not quite even odds, and König can remember a few fights that had been easier. 

When it starts, König is fast and ugly in nature and action. He's got reach, a hammer, and a lever to break off the fucking hinges. 

The bastard gets a few good slices in trying to go for his neck—a blood-groove carved over his cheekbone, a valley on his bicep that damn near splits the veins in his elbow. But König lands that first blow, and it's all over but the death rattle.

The claws fit perfectly under the windpipe. Can't rip it all the way out, but he can absolutely mutilate it. 

He's the perfection of violence with every arc of his arm drawing the hammer back—cracking it forward, pulverizing the joint on one side, ramming the claws between skull and cartilage on the other. The blood boils in his fucking veins, finally seeing the world in color, iron flooding his sinuses, thick on the soft palette, heavy on his tongue. 

The old man staggers, slurring, eyes unfocused. Trips on his own feet, goes down hard on his ass, looking around in confusion like a toddler. The guards howl like baboons showing red ass; they close in, smother, wanting a look at the damage.

König doesn't feel pity. That human feeling had been demo'ed and ripped out of him decades ago.

Slams a canvas basketball shoed foot on the gushing throat, crushes him back in a crouch with all his weight bearing down, and beats.

And beats. And fucking beats.

Might be the animal rage of being locked in a cage. Never loved a cage that he was forced into. Might be that he's named with his name, never called by his callsign. Might be that he's on an island in the middle of the Baltic Sea, and anything short of an Armageddon-sized riot would be a death sentence when eyeballing escape. Might be he just can't choose how he kills.

Might fucking be that his unit is dead, and the only thing he's got left is in the hole, and the only thing he's got left is the only reason he'd ever capitulate to these filter-faced fucks instead of killing as many of them as fast as he can, dying, but dying in defiance. 

His chest is heaving, he bleeds from the wounds cut into him, and he sits on the corpse's ribcage. He doesn't ask what the man did—wouldn't get an answer, fucker probably didn't do anything, and König doesn't care. 

Their tones change, and the tasers come out once gore streaks up across the floor and the near wall, hammer striking concrete when there's no more bone to crush.

Fuck—the meat, and blood, and bone chips are hot splattered on his legs, up the wifebeater on his chest exposed by his rolled-down jumpsuit. It burns on his exposed neck and face, and he can even detect it on the numb tissue of his warped burn scars. 

“Odinokiy. Seychas.” His voice rasps, throat hot and dry, wanting water, but he grates out the only Russian he knows, throwing the hammer away. 

Solitary. Now.

Rivka had been dumped in the hole five months ago for influencing the guards and other prisoners. For a woman with a subatomic amount of charisma, she was spilling poison in ears across a dozen languages. 

The only word he recognizes as he's paraded with his chains dragging and hobbling him through the corridors on the far side of the facility is Zabludowicz. It's the only one that matters. 

Her eyes never went back to normal—that scope glass gray he'd know in his dreams and mania now gone forever—and she still couldn't read, but she could still run her engines in the red, burning spite and ugly, fester-fuck rage for fuel.

No one needed a reason to pack her off to proverbial Siberia. They just did. And when they dragged her out of the showers, they beat her. It—broke something. In her head.

The first time König had seen her after, both her eyes were dilated black, and she slurred her words together. Told him in the halting sentences of a child that she couldn't read the Cyrillic on the labels of the guards’ gear. Couldn't read anything in the Latin alphabet, either.

König throws his hideous, hyena-pitch cackle when the guards slam him against the cast iron door casket-lidding her miserable cell, grating out, “Rivki—Schatzi—it's me,” in a gout of German that sends the guards cursing, twisting his cuffs tighter, cutting into his raw skin. 

Death is death is death, and it still stands in the place of a gift in this shithole, but they find a purgatory in leverage levied.

It's on purpose. It's all on purpose, and it all hurts, and the worst things they can do to him, they won't.

Pain upon Rivka is his punishment, and they won't kill her until they reap all the connections they can from her head. Pain upon him is her pound of flesh; they know she stops speaking when he bleeds too much, and they know she'd send him to his death with silence, even if his delivery was torture in all its many natures. 

There's coarse Russian yelling, orders and threats spat, and König is wrenched away from the door, his limbs freed and howling just as it slides open with a bang that should burst his ear drums.

He's shoved in with all the force of an aircraft carrier launched out of dry dock on bad water, and there are thousands upon thousands of fucks he can't give, because there's Rivka, against the far wall. 

Her eyes are black, and they keep shaving her head without even the guise of delousing, just degradation. Stupid shit to think they could ever degrade her. 

Not sure which one jumps first after that microsecond of recognition—the space at the bottom of lungs between breaths, where dying eventually finds its way, where the lungs prepare to intake the scent of home—but the crash is painful, and Rivka is the shrapnel edges of broken glass with her starvation-raised bones digging into his bruised muscle.

Here, in hell, is his health. 

Her hands find his wounds, and her voice is a sharper cut than the knife used against him, “The fuck are they giving out now? Scalpels? You-you-you need glue t-to close-close-close.”

Her words are precious now, so he does not interrupt, but Rivka wouldn't know the difference between a limb severe by saw and a neck slit with a straight razor, and the love König carries for her would crush him to death the moment he stopped asking it to.

“I missed you,” he says in place of a reply, feeling the quarks in his atoms want to break apart in the face of his relief and full-body shaking, “fuck, I missed you.”

Her eyes snap back to him, and her expression crumples. Her features—austere, alien, fae—animate as her humanity bubbles back up through the cracks, too strong facing him to remain trapped even with her ruthless burial.

“Missed you bad,” she says, nose wrinkled snarl-like at her recovering vocabulary. Where she lacks in words, she masters in movement, arms around his neck, pulling body against body. She grabs the strap of his wifebeater, warping it, yanking him close, and he doesn't care. He listens. She's the hand on his collar, he'll always arrive when she signals him.

She gropes for hair at his temples that has long been buzzed away. She searches for silver that exists only in stubble. She kisses him like she'll take the soul from his body, devour it bloody, and carry it for safekeeping. 

He gathers her up like there's still some chance in hell that he can protect her, dropping on her miserable bare cot of a bed, dragging her onto his chest, and between his legs, and under his arms. All he can do is wait for her vengeful brain to heal, then there will come a plan, and he will faithfully (faithfully, faithfully, faithfully—as blinded by loving obedience as Abraham on the mountain, with wood for the pyre meant for his sacrificial son) be the finger on her trigger. He will be her executioner. He will carry out her will.

Her body is too tired and worn for fucking, and he wouldn't ask or accept it anyway. If it was a matter of too many eyes, they possibly could swing it from sheer savagery, but it's not. He can't make himself ask her to expend the energy. She has so far to go still. 

But her razor-slide lips are a refrain. We'll make it through, we'll make it through, we'll make it through. 

Rivka is the only higher power König believes in.

[katyspersonal]

if you could ask Miyazaki a single question on Bloodborne lore and he had to give you a complete and non-obscure answer, what would you ask?

"Why the Doll from Bloodborne is dressed like this?". In a heartbeat.

There ARE some other things I really want to know, of course! All Fromsoft, not just Bloodborne. Like who was Djura's third companion, because it is absolutely not obvious since Joseph is not unique but just a summon variant of a generic invader enemy 'Izzy's Follower'! Or exact list of parents of Gwyn's children, so the family tree is solid! Or how exactly Rom ascended, because whereas Micolash claims she was given eyes by Kos, she is a Spider (Nightmare/Amygdalae affiliation) AND is found as a corpse near weeping Ebrietas in the Choir! Or who exactly Gloam-Eyed Queen was... All that!

However, simply answering all these with theories and headcanons and interpretations does not have consequences! The Doll's clothing discourse, however, does!

It is obvious that we as a fandom are not ready for Miyazaki's genius, and above all, not ready to be mature enough to respect each other's takes! Doll discourse brings out the worst in people! No other unresolved lore question makes people block each other on the spot for """wrong""" reading of this. People even block Gehrmaria shippers as if to distance from "impurity uwu" instead of just blocking the ship's name, like Tumblr allows to do! No other question makes them vagueblog absolutely vile shit about another, or sometimes put their hate for character/ship in the tags. No other question makes people call their opponents misogyny-apologists, braindead, weirdos, media-illiterate or straight up claim they "just want to woobify the cis white man" (seriously what the fuck RACE has to do with this?) ..... this is the part where I should address the wrongdoings of people with charitable Gehrman reading as a 'both sides bad' matter but I can't recall anything lolololololol

Yeah, I might not believe there was any sort of misogyny tradwife stuff planned for the character. It is not just a matter of "even the doll should it please you" and "his curious mania" being inventions of localisation team:

Doll says '私をお使いください' ('Watashi o o tsukai kudasai', so, please use me), referring to using her for channeling Blood Echoes! Gehrman says '君さえよければ、あの人形もね⋯' ('kimi sae yokereba, ano ningyō mo neso', so, 'doll too if only you are okay with it', or '...if that is alright with you') in the context of talking about the Hunter tools in the Workshop, again, pointing us towards the fact that she is, too, a 'tool' in a way. Some tools fortify your weapons, others (herself) turn blood echoes into your power.

The "mania" mentioned in this line also uses the word 狂熱 (kyoonetsu), which refers to madness and insanity. Meanwhile, the "mania" mentioned in the description of Doll's clothes uses the word 偏執 (henshuu), meaning to be absorbed in the process very much, being very fixated etc. So, he was so absorbed in his work on the clothes of the Doll that he lost track of time!

It is... everything. Him being put up as a tragic character with a tragic song, when Fromsoft is always blunt when they want someone to be a weirdo or disliked. It is Doll crying a tear of joy upon feeling how Gehrman cared for Maria through Hair Ornament. It is Doll being based on Victorian grief dolls and not being a sex doll or whatever Reddittube said and Twitbr parroted. It is bifauxnen archetype being more often about a woman who did not even want to be masculine but something, or someone, pushed her to, than about plain masculine woman, paired with how much Maria regretted joining the hunt and her hunter attire being the 'masculine wear'. If not and transition was genuine, grief doll implies Maria at least used to be this way, and Gehrman clings to the past version of her, away from what killed her.

But in the end, it doesn't matter which! I try to not have biases besides 'what works better' or 'what feels more natural'! But even if Miyazaki said that yes, he did imply misogyny tradwife forced femininity whatever whatever for this character, what would matter is a concrete answer! Again: we as a fandom, heck, as a species, are not intellectually ready for the concepts like 'up to interpretation'. But removing interpretation factor from THIS thing would've saved so, so, SO many unnecessary petty dramas and conflicts!

[amortentiainmyfirewhiskey]

|marrón pt.1? | imagine

post-azkaban sirius x reader with brown eyes

w.c:+2k

warnings: eventual smut?, cursing

description: reader is an ex-auror from america who joins the order

pt. 2

00000    

Brown eyes watched as tattooed hands scraped against dark stubble, and it was one of the most exhilarating sights she had seen in a while. Something was arousing by the rings he wore on his fingers and the wrinkles forming around his eyes and mouth. She wanted to trace the vein on the right side of his neck with her tongue before shoving him down into her bed. Holy shit, she was horrible. This man was over ten years her senior, and his Godson sat right beside him while she was having these vile thoughts.

 They didn’t even know each other that well. She looked over to where Remus sat on his other side and frowned. It was odd. Usually, she fell all over herself for guys like Remus, the cute nerdy type. She had never liked someone like Sirius, someone like herself.

She had been an auror for MACUSA until about a year ago before she was asked to resign. It was late August when she and her friends decided to drive to Montauk in the middle of the night. She used the term friends, but they had been more like family, well, the only family she had ever had anyway. The only thing she remembered from that night was Connor's arm being thrown in front of her, the sensation of falling, watching a man searching through their destroyed car from the pavement, and then waking up to them all being dead. Those who had made her shit life somewhat better were gone and never coming back.

She looked back to Sirius, who laughed at something Tonks said. When was the last time she had truly laughed? How could he laugh after he, too, had his only family taken away, his youth, his essence? How had he not given into the dementors?

After all her friends died, she had been forced by the auror department to go to therapy; they said she had gotten dangerously violent with perps and that she wasn't allowed out in the field until she got the all-clear from the assigned therapist- that obviously didn't happen. She didn't just sit idly by and work on her 'mental health' or whatever; she got her ass out there and worked. But she supposed this 'work' wasn't very honorable... or legal for that matter.

Somehow Kinglsey found her one night after a job. He knew she was a witch immediately, even though she refused to use her wand for a job just in case MACUSA tried to trace it. He said it had been the weed she was smoking, funny enough. Magically grown marijuana has a distinct smell that differs from regular weed significantly.

  “ I’m sorry dear, where are you staying again?” asked Molly Weasley from across the table, “ I can’t remember for the life of me,”

“ Oh, I didn’t say say, “ (Y/N) said with a polite smile. She supposed the conversation shifted over to her without noticing; great, “ I’m kinda just hopping around from hotels to erm friend’s places,”

Arthur smiled, " Ah! So you have friends here? That's great to hear!"

(Y/N) couldn't help but snort as she thought of all the hookups she had had while being here only a little over a month. Did she really call them friends? She slammed her hand over her mouth before collecting herself and clearing her thoughts, " Excuse me, " she said, fighting a smile, " Sorry, um, inside joke, " she clarified, " I don't really have friends here; I kinda just float around and meet new people-,"

" You've been staying with strangers!" screeched Molly, (Y/N) turned to her left to see the older witch clutching her coat in her hands and looking at (y/n) in absolute horror, " That just won't do. Maybe you can stay with us-,"

(Y/N) jumped up and laughed awkwardly while holding her hands in front of her chest, " Oh no, I'm fine!" she assured the older woman, " I. . ."

What the fuck did she even say? I like fucking people I don't know? I like going out and waking up in random places?

(Y/N) was beginning to panic now. She had paused for too long, and now the conversation had gained the attention of everyone in the room. The (y/h/c) settled with smiling and repeating what she had just said, " I'm fine, "

She convinced absolutely no one.

Tonks raised a pink brow before her eyes lit up as an idea crossed her mind, " Well you can just stay here, hell there's plenty of room- if that's okay with Remus and Sirius, since their here most ...I suppose," she turned to them with a bashful smile.

(Y/N)'s heart practically skipped a beat as Sirius's pale eyes widened. Fuck this was embarrassing. What the fuck did she do? And why was part of her excited, oh dear God, she was acting like she was thirteen, wasn't she?

She settled with an airy laugh, " I can find a hotel or something- or hell even an apartment if I have to, " As if she could fucking afford that.

Sirius shook his head and allowed a kind smile of sorts to play on his lips, " That's not necessary, (Y/L/N)- I mean you are more than welcome to stay here, even if it's just until you find a place,"

Okay, that sounded good, yeah, she'd do that. " Are you sure?" she asked him, eyeing Remus as well. (Y/N) might have been somewhat obnoxious and loud, especially while drinking, in the past but she had gained a type of weird anxiety. She absolutely refused to impose herself or any of her baggage on other people.

" Alright, you can stay on the second floor, I think Molly and the kids cleaned out the third room, yeah?" asked Sirius to Molly, who simply nodded.

Tonks stepped in once again, seemingly recovered from sticking her foot in her mouth, " Do you need help getting your stuff from your hotel?" she asked.

(Y/N) thought about the one charmed bag she had full of clothes and toiletries, " I think I can handle it," she said with a small, perhaps obvious fake smile.

The kids seemed oddly excited about her staying with them, and maybe they were just happy to have someone other than each other and Tonks. Or hell, maybe they liked her. She was pretty fucking cool when you looked past the depressed alcoholic side of her.

“ Could you tell us some auror stories?” asked the youngest Weasley, Ginny, fuck yeah they thought she was cool.

(Y/N) thought about it carefully, “ I don’t know. . .” She had seen some fucked up shit, maybe she could tell them a funny one from when she was just starting out and she was basically mall cop status.

“ Well, I guess the one about when I had to go undercover, and my friend had to pretend to be my pimp isn’t so bad,” she decided aloud. It was probably one of the funniest stories she had.

While the kids and Tonks were on the edge of their seats, Molly and Arthur shared a strained smile which Sirius and Remus noticed, “ Maybe this story can wait for tomorrow, “ said the werewolf looking at the kitchen’s clock, “ You lot have to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and pick up books, “

Fred and George scoffed, “ Oh come off it, it’s not like she was actually pimped out !” said Fred

Finally Molly put her foot down and sent all the kids to their respective rooms and on their way out she could hear Ron asking Hermione what being pimped out was.

(Y/N) grimaced, “ Well, I thought it was teenager friendly, “ she told the three once the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione went to bed.

Sirius barked a laugh before taking a swig of his whiskey, “ Don’t fret it, “ he reassured, “ Molly is just protective is all, “

Remus nodded his agreement before looking down at his watch, “ Right, We’ve got to head to West Street and patrol, C’mon Dora,”

Soon it was just the two of them sitting in the once refined kitchen, “ You said you were recruited by Kingsley. . . what made you join?” asked Sirius.

(Y/N) sighed and offered a half-way shrug, “ I guess I just wanted to do some good, I feel like I haven’t done anything for other people in a long time,”

His silver eyes narrowed, “ I thought you had been an auror?”

“ Yeah I had been, but shit happened and I changed career paths,” she said with a small smile, hoping he wasn’t thinking of her as a possible threat. He didn’t trust her, that much was obvious.

“ Your family know you’re here?” he asked.

(Y/N) shook her head, “ There isn’t any family to tell,”

There was a pause, a shift in the air. Sirius had questions, she knew that much, but she didn’t want to answer them. Sirius seemed to sense her sensitivity to the subject and quickly changed it.

“ Tell me what was Ilvermorny like?” he asked before taking a sip of his wine.

(Y/N) couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips as she turned to him, “ Like a movie,” she hummed, “ I’d never had much stability before Ilvermorny, but it was nice. . . really nice,”

Sirius nodded, “ I know what you mean, “ he muttered looking up at the freshly clean chandelier, “ My parents were horrible, shit heads you could say,”

(Y/N) chuckled, “ I didn’t know mine, I grew up at a orphanage and then was in the foster care system for a while,”

“ It was lonely,” she finished quietly, slightly embarrassed for adding that unnecessary tidbit.

She was staring at the peeling wallpaper when Sirius patted her hand and she met his eyes. He offered her a friendly smile before drawing back, “ Well you’re not anymore with us around, yeah?”

She smiled but rolled her eyes, fighting not to call bullshit, “ I appreciate that,” she said playfully before standing up.

(Y/N) went to bed that night with her heart racing as she remembered Sirius’s hand on her own, she was a fucking disaster. He didn’t flirt with her or look her over- he was a grown man. In his eyes she was probably just some kid.

--

“ I appreciate that,” she said to him, her brown eyes melting just a bit before she stood. Sirius watched her go and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

 He didn’t know why she made him nervous, maybe it was the fact he didn’t trust her. She did kind of show up out of nowhere and had an almost nonexistent past.

Sirius had said those things to her in an attempt to get her to open up to him, to trust him, so he in turn could learn more about her. That had been his intention, but the fact his heart skipped a beat when he laid his hand on top of hers was a shock.

Did he find (y/l/n) beautiful, yes. Was she funny, yeah sure. Was she quite possibly his ideal woman, sure maybe.

Gray eyes slid across the old oak table and to the rim of her wine glass where her dark lipstick made an impression on the crystal.

Sirius shut his eyes and groaned.

“Fuck,”

---

a/n: lemme know if you guys are interested in another part.

[yourfandomfriend]

Thoughts on Season 2 Finale

Did I get what I wanted? Oh, yes.

*spoilers*

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Louis

Firstly, the wish I dared not say out loud: can we reveal Lestat as a hero without turning Louis into a heel?

For the longest time, watching this show put a knot in my stomach. Cuz I knew they were gonna get to The Vampire Lestat era.

I know, it's my baggage, but the one thing I couldn't stomach from TVL was the way Lestat absolved himself of every evil deed or even unflattering description of himself in IwtV by twisting reality, bending every point in his favor, making Louis out to be too stupid, bitter, and self-righteous to be believed, all while claiming to adore him.

It read like an abusive parent saying, "It's my fault they turned out that way. I spoiled them."

Bad enough with the book version of Louis but, dammit, I think Jacob's Louis is better. That's right, I said it and I'll say it again. As a Vampire Chronicles fan from way back, I don't wanna diss the books or make it a pissing contest, but Series!Louis is more compelling and lovable to me.

So I was overjoyed that Lestat's "redemption" (or however you care to read it) was neither a retcon of his season one boyfriend-crimes nor at Louis' expense. In the end, when they reconcile, it doesn't seem like it's because "Lestat is Always Right."

But what about Armand?

Mogwai

If I don't want Louis dragged through the mud for the sake of Lestat's complexion, you would think I wouldn't want Armand -- my absolute favorite character in the Chronicles and the series -- treated that same way for the same reason.

You would think that wouldn't you? But you would be wrong.

You see, I never felt like Armand was much of a character without the retconned misbehavior. A soft, beige pillow. Big brown eyes with nothing behind them.

But with it? He's a bit like a fancy chisel. Cold, cruel, precise... but delicate and elegant. Weird and fragile in a strangely endearing way. Also, in the books, Armand was a cherubic seventeen-year-old when he was turned, so having him act like a fucking at-risk goblin was kind of hilarious.

He's nuts, he'll quietly fuck your life for his own amusement. Rock your shit with a smile on his face. Vile and twisted. But also Cute and Fluffy.

And I feel like Assad is really plugged into that.

The Pipes (Are Calling)

Sickos be cheering now that Daniel has been turned into a vampire. Stalking victims. Wearing black leather. Telling people to fuck off on national television...

Me. I'm "sickos."

[sweaterkittensahoy]

very ironic that your description is about how youre a feminist but youre a vile racist

Oh, honey.

Honey, no. This won't do at all. Oh, this is so sad.

Okay, so first of all, you're on anon, which makes me not take you seriously at all. You're just a rando on the internet who doesn't even have the spine to show your face. But that's okay. I get it. Hate mail is scary to send because you might have to face the consequences of your actions if people see you acting like an absolute fuckstick.

But, let's put that aside. Let's just put that aside for the moment and concentrate on what you've said. And honey, I tell you this because I want you to be better. I truly do.

This is weak fucking shit.

Let's break it down, okay. Let me help you be better at being an absolute fuckstick too spineless to show your face when you say shit to people, okay? Okay.

You CAN'T start out sounding like you're coming at me for being a bad feminist and then left turn into calling me a racist. This splits your attempt to ragebait me. Do I get mad you're calling me a bad feminist? Or do I get mad you're calling me a racist? You want your ragebait to be very focused. That's how you get people to respond without thinking and give yourself the chance to send a second anon to egg them on.

Focus is the key to ragebait. You must focus so that your victim focuses and so that you can feel very proud of yourself for being clever.

Now, if roles were reversed--this won't ever happen because I use my spine, but let's pretend--I'd have just stuck with calling me a bad feminist. Why? Because it's in my description. That means it's something I really value and find important. That means I'd be less likely to think before I replied, thus giving you the ragebait answer you're seeking so hard.

Like, I get it. Tacking racist on there seems like a great strategy. People knee jerk about being called racist all the time. It's a really easy one. And I do love to write long replies to things, so it's really a good way to get a lot of words you could dissect and rearrange to mean whatever you want, thereby trapping me in a rage off.

But you didn't FOCUS. And you also went too hard. You can't use "vile" when trying to ragebait someone. You sound like a super villain, and it makes me laugh to see it used like this, which breaks me out of any momentary anger I may have felt at being accused of things, and thus lessens the chance I will actually ragebait and write a screed about how dare you and such.

Look, you tried your best. But it's hard to be really good at this when you're aiming it at someone who has been around a long time, never sent anon hate, and has seen (and on occasion fallen for--I'll admit it) many, many ragebait attempts before.

But it's okay. No one knows who you are because you didn't have the spine to put your name on being an absolute fuckstick, so you won't have to face any consequences for trying to look tough on the internet.

You take a little time now, okay? You sit with my tips and think about if this is really what you want to do with your time. Really just consider if being an absolute fuckstick with no spine is your goal in life. Spend some time trying some other hobbies, really give yourself space to think.

[hamliet]

I saw your post about Glass Onion, can you talk more about it? What do you think of the movie? Do you prefer it or Knives Out?

I love both movies and will not choose. They are both excellent, hilarious, and extremely well-written where almost every detail comes back to be relevant. Basically, peak writing.

Fun fact: the estate where Knives Out was filmed is actually 5 minutes from where I grew up. I went there all the time. Surreal. Also, I've often walked through the town area that was filmed too.

Glass Onion also does twins well; it's a twist, but it's very obvious Andi and Helen are different people with their own individual goals. So, I was pleased.

Glass Onion might be literally crafted around a metaphor for something appearing to have a lot of layers yet being very simple, but the movie itself has a lot of layers even if the metaphor is an apt description of the plot. Knives Out also has these layers of symbolism and foreshadowing. Essentially, each story can be interpreted as a social quasi-allegory in some ways (Knives Out for immigration and Glass Onion for oppressive structures and systems), as a thematic study on what ultimately matters to humans, as a commentary on money and power, and as a deconstruction (in the HxH or ASOIAF sense of deconstructing, which is to say taking a genre and breaking it apart to examine its tropes and see what works and what doesn't--out of love, not contempt--which generally means arriving at the beating heart at the core of the genre and ultimately affirming it) of cozy mysteries.

Why do humans like mysteries? Put aside puzzles and games and excitement thereof, and think about the core of murder mysteries. They have similar appeal to horror, but also appeal to people because they address several universal questions: how do we live knowing we are all going to die? what is the value of a life? doesn't everyone--which means we ourselves, too--matter? will there be justice?

The justice idea is why these movies are somewhat socio-political allegories, or at the very least address these issues. We're crying out for justice in this world in so many respects. It feels cathartic to see Marta get the house, and keep her kind heart. It feels satisfying to see Helen truly disrupt a vile idiot who doesn't deserve the prestige he gets just for having money.

As for the value of life: compassion is the primary motivation for Marta, and love for Helen. These are values that society in theory holds up as good, but doesn't actually practice even where they should be practiced--see, the Thrombey family, who can't stand each other, and the Disrupters, who have an extremely utilitarian idea of friendship. Society doesn't actually assign sociopolitical value to compassion or love, not even in societal structures like family or friends where you'd think it'd exist, because sociopolitical movements by their nature need power to accomplish anything. That's not inherently a bad thing either, but human nature tends to lose sight of compassion in favor of power.

So then, how do we live knowing there will be death, that justice won't always come in the real world, that not all lives are valued the same by power structures? Each movie offers a different answer for different situations, because there is nuance. Each movie does this, however, through the same metaphor: a game.

Marta wins because of playing the game her "way, not Harlan's way," to quote Benoit Blanc. Her way is the way she wins the game of Go with Harlan right before she's tricked into thinking she's hurt him. She's not focused on trying to beat Harlan. She's trying to make a beautiful pattern.

Helen wins not by playing Miles' game that no one person can solve on their own, but by refusing to play entirely and smashing it apart. Which is also how she wins against Miles in the end of the film, too: smashing the Glass Onion apart.

I genuinely think these are both absolutely brilliant films, and highly recommend the Youtube channel PillarofGarbage, who has created some truly amazing video essays on both movies.

[peachymilkandcream]

Written In Blood|Part 8|Modern Yandere Levi x Evelyn

(A/N: Remember ladies, don't let the Levi's of the world get you, come together and kick them in the balls :) Enjoy and comment to be added to the taglist!)

WARNINGS: noncon/dubcon, graphic descriptions of violence, domestic violence, manipulation, mind breaking, yandere behaviour/themes, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, wishing rape upon someone, misogyny, mentions of child abuse, etc.

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Within the hour Levi had a phone call from Evelyn to quickly come back to her apartment. He had expected her to call him in the morning but never expected it to be this soon. Things must have gone hostile quicker than he thought.

Upon entering the apartment he came onto the scene of the two women screaming and throwing things at each other. Petra clearly on the offence while Evelyn tried to talk her down as calmly as possible.

"He was going to be with me! Can't you let me have anything for once in my life without you spoiling it!? You have everything handed to you and that's still not enough so you lie and steal from me! What had I ever done to you!?"

"He was never going to be with you Petra! He told me! And we're just friends, how is my friendships ruining it for you!?"

"He told me it was you, you were the cause, if you hadn't seduced him like the witch you are he would be with me right now! You're just pent up because you won't let any guy fuck that attitude out of you!"

"How dare you-"

"Oh yeah, I went there- no one is as self-righteous as you are! 'Oh look at me I'm saving myself-' give me a break! You think your better than me!? I hope you get jumped in a dark alley and someone will straighten out that attitude of yours!"

Evelyn is taken aback for a moment. "How could you even say that!? That's horrible!"

"And I meant every word! I don't care! I'm sick and tired of living in your shadow, for once I had a shot at the life you had, the happiness, the comfort, someone who cared about me, and you stole it just to be selfish!"

Before Evelyn could respond Levi steps in between them. "Ladies ladies calm down, take a deep breath."

Petra stares in disbelief. "You called him!? What, to rub it in my face!? You already have a boyfriend and now you're using someone else to fight your battles too?! Someone I cared about and you know I cared about! You are the most vile, disgusting person I've ever met in my life Evelyn, and I'm done with you. But this isn't over."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Absolutely."

Petra storms off, leaving Evelyn to shake and nearly faint she was so worked up.

Levi takes her in his arms and sits her down. "There, relax. It's over now, everything will be alright."

She bursts into tears. "I just lost my best friend, all because she wouldn't listen to me, it's my fault, I should've tried harder to tell her that you weren't interested so she didn't have to be led on-"

"It's not your fault, you did what you had to and she still wouldn't listen, I wouldn't say that's on you. If Petra was really this upset about you having a friend then she wasn't your friend in the first place. Move on."

"How can I? She's going to try and ruin me, I know it-"

"I won't let her, I'll make sure that no matter what you can still do what you love, your writing." He leans in for another kiss but she shakes her head.

"I can't, I already feel horrible enough that I kissed you when I'm still with someone else. It was a mistake based on emotions, I can't consciously do it again. I already have to beg for forgiveness from the last time."

"Why? Why don't you just rid yourself of someone who treats you so horribly?"

"He doesn't, we have arguments but he always has treated me well, and I don't want to lose him."

Levi sighs, frustrated that he couldn't kill two birds with one stone, but that would come later. In time he'd get what he wanted.

"Alright Evelyn, I'll respect you wishes, I just hope in the end everything works out for you."

===============================================

Petra did exactly as Levi hoped, by the end of the week there was a video across social media sharing the "truth" behind Evelyn Glass. A tale of lies, deceit and stealing men while in a relationship. The whole internet was in an uproar, calling for accountability and for Evelyn to own up and not hide behind a keyboard.

Levi had advised her to let it rest for a while and compile her thoughts, him saying it would be best for her to think about what she wanted to say first before publishing it. In truth, he knew it would just make it worse, but he wanted it to get to the point of no return so he could step in and be the saviour. To rescue her from this fate and burying all his loose ends all at the same time.

It was all going according to plan.

There was just one more thing that needed to happen in order to put everything into place.

Petra had kept Levi's name out of the equation, she wanted to protect him at all costs even still since he believed she thought that with Evelyn out of the way he'd come back to her. In fact her fueled it by "accidentally" sending suggestive texts and pictures to her and claiming it was for someone else. He wanted her to keep his name clean so that the rest could work out as he intended. Petra had no idea but little by little we was building a counter attack and case against her and the next problem that was about to arise.

The problem that caused Evelyn to phone him a few days later.

"Levi? Do you- have some time to come over and talk? I could really use some advice right now-"

"Of course, what's going on?"

"This whole- Petra thing, my boyfriend saw it, and he thinks I cheated and just broke up with me- I think he's going to post something about it too. I'm just, I'm really scared and I don't know what to do-"

Levi smiled as wide as he could. "I'm on my way."

[zy-murge]

give me your doc headcanons immediately + thoughts on the fact that doc was in on the betrayal at the end of M:PN (he provided the rocket launcher)

okay focusing on the betrayal part first I was gonna be like "he definitely would not ask Hank to try and kill Sanford & Deimos?" and I completely stand by that. But I also forgot Jeb was there too. Doc would ABSOLUTELY tell Hank to launch Jeb's ass off that fucking tower I KNOW he's petty like that even if he doesn't show it.

Doc and Jeb's relationship I think is constantly a petty battle to show which is better. I think Jeb does this by trying to act like he's "above" everything Doc is doing, (attempting in) showing that he has more grace than to send his goons to do his dirty work (<- hypocrite, has already done so with sheriff & hofnarr) and participate in such vile experiments like what doc's doing for revival (<- STILL a hypocrite. while always against reviving people he like, still made some pretty heinous shit like the sleepwalker program.) Doc on the other hand knows Jeb is doing this all to get a step up on him and absolutely is just doing this to be petty (Ex-AAHW and all that, very likely he worked with Jeb at some point even if not side by side) so pointing out his hypocritical remarks ONLY in places he can't defend himself against (so like, important to say doc isn't saying "oh but you were a nexus scientist!" in response to "ghoulish experiments" but INSTEAD "well, you weren't complaining when i was putting you back together" so he like. literally cant come back from that) and fucking with him by letting hank just maul the shit out of the guy is also a really funny and really petty thing to do. "Thanks for helping me achieve my goal, STUPID! MR WIMBLETON KILL THIS CHARLATAN."

i think hank and 2bd probably bond over this a little bit too LOL. they may be opposites in so many ways but they fucking HATE that little prick. entitled, hypocritical, and most of all a pain in the ass to deal with.

okay finally; ETC DOC HEADCANONS

bottom surgery king

u know that thing autistic people do where they look the most bored out of their mind and in reality they're like actually having a really good time. Yeah

i think not only is her house VERY cold but he has like an abysmal amount of coolers, like from all the dead bodies and organs and shit she has to preserve just to perform all this experiments and most importantly COMPUTERS GET SOOO HOT WHEN THEY RUN A LOT & FOR LONG!! HIS ASS HAS SO MANY.

very warm body though (and also probably why he wears a fur lined coat? u saw the live action trailer ...)

i'll die on this hill forever but he fucking loves experimental music and raves and especially shit like bull of heaven and venetian snares and drill & bass music and anything weirdo and light. probably also felix kubin. my friend is Music Pilling Me

dogshit at gaming. still god at puzzles (minesweeper + crossword + picross ...)

i think at times he has to get with skinner to fix hank up and shit like sometimes it's so bad that shit needs to get peer reviewed.

to add onto that: so in canon the goggles he wears apparently has a HUD according to the arena mode description. wikihow "how to do surgery" alongside "grunt anatomy diagram" on the side

i'll probably do another 2bhank headcanon megapost (likely with repeats but no one really gives a fuck abt that part) bc those are pretty much the rest of my headcanons. maybe even just a hank-only post?! hope you enjoyed 🫶🫶❤️🫶❤️