#the oc might be a manifestation of what I want in a man

[a-small-writer-in-a-big-world]

[yerimsdreams]

Duty is Sacrifice

author's note: chapter 2 is finally here! sorry for the wait, I had an exam period, but that is finally over!

cregan stark x oc (she/her pronouns)

warnings: swearing. sentencing. mention of death and murder. spoilers for fire&blood.

The council chamber was dimly lit by the morning light filtering through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and the muted rustle of cloaks as the nobles took their seats. Cregan sat at the head of the table, towering above everyone else. 

Benjicot, Oscar and Kermit cautiously observed him. Kermit's fingers lightly drummed against the table as his brother and friend awaited the words of the Lord of Winterfell. 

On the other side of the table, the brothers Leowyn and Corwyn Corbray of the Vale sat with anticipation. They'd only arrived that morning in King's Landing after they had received word from Lady Arryn, who occupied a place at the opposite end of the table, her sharp gaze never leaving Cregan. 

He let the silence stretch, allowing it to settle over the room. He knew what was coming, the resistance he would face, but he remained fixed. 

''Unworthy as Aegon the Usurper might have been, his murder was high treason. Those responsible must answer for it.'' He spoke clearly, his hands clasped in front of him. 

The others remained quiet at his words, exchanging uneasy glances with one another. It was a sentiment that most did not share, but none were eager to challenge the northman so directly. 

''My lord,'' Benjicot dared to speak up, ''no one here disputes the crime that was committed, but we must consider the realm. Pursuing vengeance will only breed more unrest.'' 

''What of those who still hold Aegon the Elder's banner? What if they decide to seek a vengeance of their own in response to those imprisoned here?'' Lord Leowyn asked, shifting in his seat. 

''There are still pockets of resistance, but they are of little consequence, my Lords.'' Lady Jeyne Arryn responded to his concerns, before Cregan could. 

Lord Tully spoke up for the first time, scratching his voice. ''The Dance is done. The war is over, and the realm is in shambles. It is time to make peace.'' 

The Warden's eyes flicked to Kermit, studying the young boy's tired features. The desire for peace was palpable in the room, but so was the fear of what Cregan might do if his demands were not met.

''The realm must heal,'' he conceded, though his tone remained firm, ''but it cannot come at the mercy of justice. The killers of King Aegon II cannot be allowed to walk free, lest we invite more treachery.'' 

Kermit Tully’s drumming fingers stopped abruptly. He leaned forward, his expression serious, any trepidation that had manifested itself around Cregan gone. ''Let it be on your head, Stark. I want no part of this, but I will not have it said that Riverrun stood in the way of justice.'' 

Cregan nodded, somewhat relieved they would stop fighting him on this, even if it was done with heavy hearts and lingering doubts. 

''Aegon the Younger will have to make you Hand, my Lord. No lord has the right to put another lord to death. You will need the King's authority to act in his name.'' Ser Corwyn reminded him. If Cregan were to put sentences on the kingslayers' heads, he will at least do so according to the law. 

The Warden gave an unimpressed glare to the Corbray knight. He had no desire to undermine the authority of the King, nor to cast doubt on the justice he sought to dispense. The law would be his shield as much as his sword. 

''Then it will be done,'' Cregan declared, ''I will seek the King’s authority, and with it, the traitors will be judged.'' 

The room fell into a heavy silence. The lords and Lady Arryn exchanged uneasy glances but did little more than nod. They could sense the determination in Cregan, a man who would not easily be swayed from his course. Even if they harboured doubts, they understood that any attempt to change his mind would be futile. Cregan held the authority in court now, whether they liked it or not.

''Where is Visenya?'' Bloody Ben asked. He had waited all meeting for her to walk into the room and join them, her empty seat now gathering dust as the council continued without her.

The question hung in the air, drawing the attention of the assembled lords. Cregan looked over to the Blackwood boy, his keen eyes narrowing ever so slightly. It was not only the inquiry that caught him off guard, but the casual way Benjicot referred to Visenya - by her name alone, without her title. Cregan knew that the young lord had fought alongside her, sharing the burdens of war in ways that few others could understand. But even so, the breach in formalities did not sit well with him. 

Before he could even think of a response, Jeyne's voice had him beaten again. ''It is curious, isn't it?'' She mused, her tone deceptively light, though her eyes gleamed with sharpness. ''The Princess is not one to retreat without reason.'' 

She did not know why Visenya had confined herself to her chambers for days on end, speaking to no one but the young King Aegon. However, she had her suspicions, and they pointed directly to the man sitting at the head of the table.

The lords around the table exchanged puzzled glances, not fully grasping the weight of her words, but Cregan understood. Her pointed comment was as much a question as it was an accusation, a way of nudging Cregan to acknowledge his own part in whatever had driven Visenya into isolation. 

But Cregan would not allow her to unsettle him in front of the others. ''The Princess will join us when she is ready.'' He replied, emphasising her title as he glanced at Lord Blackwood. 

''Or when you are ready for her to join us?'' She'd leaned forward as she asked, further provoking the Warden of the North. 

It was uncomfortable to watch, to say the least. The Maiden of the Vale the only one brave enough to somewhat challenge the Wolf of the North. Cregan would respect it if he was not the object of her sharp words. He knew she was testing him, trying to see how far she could push, but he was not about to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. 

''Whenever that may be,'' his voice was surprisingly calm, ''the council will continue its work. I suggest we resume our other duties now.'' 

The finality in his tone left no room for further provocation. Jeyne, though clearly unsatisfied, leaned back in her seat, her eyes still fixed on him, as if weighing his resolve. 

One by one, the lords rose from their seats exchanging quiet murmurs as they made their way out of the council chamber. The clatter of boots and swords filled the air, the heavy atmosphere easing as the chamber slowly emptied. 

Cregan lingered for a moment more, staring at the parchments in front of him. He realised his control over the court was slipping out of his hands. His plans to march on Casterly Rock, Storm's End, and Oldtown had been cast aside, undone by Visenya and Corlys's pacts of peace sent before his arrival. The trials for the traitors in the dungeons was the only thing that remained to him, and he would not let go of it. 

The room had emptied, save for one. 

Jeyne Arryn had no intention of letting him leave without a final word. She rose from her seat and approached him, her steps slow. There was an air of quiet authority about her, the kind that came from years of ruling her own domain with both strength and wisdom. 

''Lord Stark,'' she addressed him, ''a moment, if you would.'' 

Cregan paused, turning to face her with a guarded expression. He was not in the mood for more of her probing comments, but something in her demeanour told him it would be a bit different. 

''What is it you wish to discuss, my Lady?'' He acknowledged, standing up from his chair that scraped against the floor. 

She held his gaze, the silence stretching between them for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. And then, with a tone that was both knowing and subtly accusatory, she spoke a single name.

''Visenya.''

Cregan's breath hitched for a moment, not expecting such an outright answer. The name hung between them like a drawn sword. 

''What of the Princess?'' He replied, his voice carefully neutral, though he knew it was a futile attempt to shield himself from whatever insight Jeyne was about to lay bare. Cregan could feel his pulse quicken. 

Jeyne tilted her head slightly, a look in her eyes that seemed to see through his composed exterior. ''No one has seen her or spoken to her in days. The court has taken notice, as have I. One might wonder what has driven her to such isolation.'' 

His jaw tightened, the recurring mention of her absence stirring emotions he had tried to bury. He had thought of little else but her in those silent days, his thoughts a storm of conflicting feelings. 

''Perhaps the Princess simply needs time for herself.'' He said, his voice low, though the uncertainty in his tone betrayed him. He didn’t sound sure of himself, and he knew it. 

The Lady's gaze softened, feeling somewhat pitiful for him. ''When the council is in need of her mind, she precludes herself? My cousin's daughter does not run when her presence is required by others.'' 

Cregan's expression remained stoic, his face a mask of controlled indifference. He wasn’t about to let Jeyne, or anyone else, see any sign of doubt or guilt. ''War has taken its toll on all of us, my Lady. I trust the Princess knows what is best for her.'' 

She noted the evasiveness in his voice. She had seen many men in positions of power adopt this same diplomatic tone, a way of deflecting blame while maintaining an air of authority. But Cregan Stark, despite his best efforts, was not fooling her. 

Jeyne's eyes narrowed, her earlier pity giving way to a sharper curiosity. ''Of course,'' she replied, her voice laced with just enough doubt to make it clear she wasn’t convinced, ''But Visenya is not one to retreat, as you have seen for yourself, I am sure. She has been through more than most can bear, yet she always finds a way to press on. So I ask again, what of the Princess, Lord Stark?''

His composure faltered, just for a heartbeat. It was a moment so brief that most might have missed it, but Jeyne Arryn was not most. ''As I said, Lady Arryn,'' he quickly recovered, ''the Princess is taking the time she needs.'' 

''She is not a woman to be underestimated, my Lord. Nor is she one to leave herself out of decisions that deeply affect her family, such as a potential execution of Lord Corlys Velaryon.'' 

She was figuring him out despite Cregan not giving anything away, it aggravated him. ''I do not underestimate her, my Lady,'' he said, keeping his tone respectful, ''I know full well what she is capable of.'' 

Jeyne studied him, letting her eyes wander over his figure. ''Do you?'' She challenged, again. 

A flash of frustration crossed his face before he masked it with his usual composure. ''If you are implying something, Lady Arryn, I suggest you say it plainly.'' 

She chuckled softly, a sound that was more calculating than amused. ''Do not let your sense of duty blind you to what is right in front of you, my Lord.'' Her tone was gentle, more advice than accusation. 

Jeyne did not press further, sensing she had said enough. She offered him a faint smile before leaving. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she made her way out of the chamber, leaving Cregan alone with his thoughts and maps. 

As the guards closed the doors behind her, Cregan stared at the empty room and the large table in front of him. She had seen something in him, something he was not ready to admit to himself yet. 

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was eerily silent, the weight of the impending judgments pressing heavily on all present. The Iron Throne loomed in the background, a jagged, forbidding monument to the power that had been fought over so bitterly. But today, it was not the Iron Throne that commanded attention, it was the man sitting before it, on a simple wooden bench, that captured all the eyes in the room. 

Lord Cregan Stark, newly named Hand of the King, though it was less an honour and more a necessity born from the young king's fear and the absence of his formidable aunt, sat in judgement of all the turncloaks and kingslayers that had been arrested. 

The next criminal in session was Ser Perkin the Flea, a man of no great birth but of infamy enough to fill the hall. His shoulders hunched slightly, his gaze shifting nervously as he was brought forward to stand trial. The man who had once risen so high through treachery now looked small and pathetic. 

''Ser Perkin,'' Cregan acknowledged the traitor, ''you rose up in rebellion against your lawful queen and helped drive her from this city to her death. You raised up your own squire in her place, then abandoned him to save your worthless hide.'' 

The Flea opened his mouth to protest to plead his case, but Cregan continued, his voice growing colder with each word. ''The realm will be a better place without you.'' 

Desperation flared in Perkin's eyes. ''I was pardoned for those crimes, my Lord! I was forgiven!'' 

The Warden's expression did not change as he delivered his final, damning words. ''Not by me.'' 

The weight of that statement hung in the air as the Flea was led away, his fate sealed by the undaunted judgement of the Lord of Winterfell. 

Next came Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake himself. The room seemed to hold its breath as the old man was brought forward, his chains clinking softly with each step. Unlike Perkin, Corlys did not cower or plead. His gaze was steady, though weary, as he faced Cregan. 

Cregan observed him for a long moment, his thoughts unreadable. The Sea Snake had been many things - an ally, a traitor, a hero, a villain - but now, he stood accused of murder, and that was all that mattered. 

''You stand accused of murder, regicide, and high treason. How do you answer these charges, Lord Velaryon?'' His deep northern accent boomed through the Great Hall. 

Much to everyone's surprise, Corlys did not attempt to hide his guilt. ''What I did, I did for the good of the realm. I would do the same again. The madness had to end.'' 

Cregan remained silent for a moment, his gaze steady, measuring Corlys’s resolve. The old man had seen countless battles, navigated treacherous waters, both literal and political, and yet here he stood, admitting to regicide without a flicker of regret.

As he stared into the Sea Snake’s eyes, Cregan’s mind drifted, if only for a heartbeat, to Visenya. Their bitter words echoed in his memory, and he felt the sting of her absence more keenly than ever. Seven days had passed since they had last spoken, seven days of not having even seen a glimpse of her. It was a wound that festered, a silent torment he could not afford to indulge.

His gaze faltered for a brief moment as those thoughts consumed him, but he quickly steeled himself. This was not the time for doubt. Corlys Velaryon had committed murder, and murder demanded justice, no matter the cost.

''I declare Lord Corlys Velaryon guilty of murder, regicide, and high treason. For his crimes, he must pay with his life.'' Cregan decided, every word a hammer blow. 

The old man stood silent, accepting the verdict with the same calm he had displayed throughout the trial. His granddaughters watched in horror as their grandsire was escorted away back to his cell in the dungeons, now a sentenced murderer and traitor. 

The price of peace was high, and today, it had claimed the Sea Snake.

The halls of the Red Keep were quieter now, the echo of recent trials still lingering in the air. The heavy weight of the verdicts hung over the castle, settling uneasily in every corner, as if the very stones themselves were absorbing the gravity of what had transpired. 

Cregan walked the corridors alone,his thoughts occupied with the day's grim duties. He was heading towards the courtyard, seeking his men, when a sudden presence halted him in his tracks. 

''You cannot do this,'' Baela's voice was steady, her expression fierce, her hand gripping the hilt of a sword, ''Aegon pardoned my grandsire. He granted him mercy, and you cannot simply take that away.'' 

Beside her, Rhaena lingered, her gaze troubled but determined. Cregan could see that while she did not entirely condone her sister's approach, she had chosen to stand by her regardless.

The Warden regarded her for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that was almost a smile. He recognized the fire in her eyes, a familiar Targaryen resolve that demanded to be heard. But her words, her challenge, it amused him more than it angered him.

''And you intend to force this pardon with that sword?'' Cregan asked, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. 

Baela tightened her grip on the sword, her expression remaining fierce. She had made a show of defiance, but deep down, she knew she would not raise her blade against him. Cregan saw it too, the internal struggle playing out behind her determined gaze. 

He let out a low, rumbling laugh. ''You will not use it, Princess. You are not here to fight me,'' Cregan respected Baela, she had been Jace's betrothed and his late friend had always spoken of her in high praises, ''you are here because you think you can sway me with a threat, but we both know that is not going to work.'' 

Baela clenched her jaw, her pride wounded by his dismissal. Rhaena, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. ''My sister only seeks what was promised by the King. It is not too late to honour that, Lord Stark.'' 

His laughter faded, replaced by a more serious expression as he looked between the Dragon Twins. ''The King may have offered pardon, but I have not. Your grandsire committed crimes that cannot be overlooked. What’s done is done.'' 

Baela's grip did not falter as she held it up to Cregan, her eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. She could see that her words alone weren't enough to sway him, so she aimed for what she hoped would be a weak spot. 

''Is that what you told Visenya, Lord Stark? Or did you wish to court her, but she rejected your Northern beastliness, and you had her imprisoned like you did our grandsire?'' 

Cregan's eyes flashed with anger at Baela's words, a fire igniting within him that he struggled to keep in check. Her comment had struck deeper than she could have known, but he would not let her see how much it affected him. 

''Whispers of the court do not concern me, Princess.'' He brushed it aside, though his voice was dangerously low, his temper barely restrained. He knew she was trying to provoke him. 

Baela's eyes narrowed as she noted his reaction. ''But they seem to concern my cousin, and what concerns her, concerns us, Lord Stark.'' She said, her tone dripping with disdain. 

His temper flared, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. ''Put the sword down, Princess. You know as well as I do that you will not be making use of it.'' 

Baela refused to back down, the fire in her eyes only growing more intense as she stared him down. ''Do you think so little of us, Lord Stark?'' She asked, her voice venomous. ''You dismiss our concerns, our family, as if they are beneath you. You should know better than to dance with a dragon.'' 

''I do not underestimate anyone,'' he retorted, the same way he had said to Lady Jeyne in the council chamber, ''least of all your cousin. Your grandfather was complicit in the poisoning of a King, even if it was the Usurper. A crime he will be punished for.'' 

Her hand slowly dropped from the sword, the fire in her eyes dimming, replaced by a mixture of frustration and resignation. Still, she was not ready to let him have the last word.

''You might believe this is justice, but there will be those who remember this as cruelty.'' She said quietly, only loud enough for him and her sister to hear. 

Cregan nodded slightly, acknowledging her words without conceding to them. ''History will judge us all, Princess.'' 

With that, he stepped past the two women, leaving them standing in the corridor. He did not slow his pace, even as doubt clawed at the edges of his mind. 

Baela's grip on the sword slackened further, her shoulders drooping as she exchanged a look with Rhaena. Her twin put a comforting hand on her shoulder, guiding her away from the cold emptiness of the corridor. 

The castle was draped in silence, the kind that only settled over King's Landing in the dead of night. The corridors were empty, save for the occasional torch flickering in its sconce. Outside, the air was cool, a stark contrast to the stuffy warmth inside the castle walls.

Visenya moved quietly, her steps light as she made her way through the Great Yard. She had been to see her dragon, Sōnax, seeking solace in the dead of night when sleep eluded her. The moon cast a pale light over the paths, guiding her through the maze of hedges and flowers that had once been so meticulously tended. Now, they seemed as weary as she felt, their blooms drooping in the darkness. 

She passed the godswood, pausing against the heart tree. She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs, trying to ease the tension that had settled in her chest. 

It was then that she heard the faint sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate. She turned, instinctively reaching for the dagger she kept hidden in the folds of her gown ever since the start of the Dance, but she relaxed slightly when she saw who it was. 

Cregan emerged from the shadows, his tall figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. He had been patrolling the grounds, unable to sleep with the weight of the day’s decisions pressing down on him. The trials, the confrontations - it all swirled in his mind, leaving him restless.

They had not expected to see each other at this hour or even at all until the Lord of Winterfell would ultimately return to the North. 

The pair stared at one another, neither moving or speaking. The tension that had manifested itself in Visenya's chest had been lifted from her body and into the air between them. Cregan's dark eyes met hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Visenya did not look away.

''Princess.'' He finally greeted her, his voice rough from the lack of sleep. 

''Lord Stark.'' She nodded, her tone equally guarded. She could see the weariness in his eyes, the lines of fatigue etched into his face. It mirrored her own exhaustion, the strain of everything they had endured. 

He loosened the grip on his sword as he took a few steps closer. ''What brings you here at this hour?'' He asked, though he already suspected the answer. 

''I could ask you the same.'' She replied, her tone neutral, careful.

Cregan let out a soft breath, almost a chuckle, but it lacked any real humour. ''I suppose neither of us has found much comfort in sleep lately.'' 

Visenya nodded, her gaze turning back to the large tree behind her. ''The nights are long when ones thoughts are troubled.'' 

''And yours are troubled, Princess?'' He asked, taking a step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. 

Her eyes flickered back to his. ''They are. As are yours, I imagine.'' 

Cregan did not provide her with an answer right away, instead watching her. He looked at her, really looked at her, and he could see the toll that the last few days had taken on her. She was still beautiful, even in all her fatigue and unrest. 

''Yes,'' he said, his voice thoughtful, ''there is much to ponder about.'' 

''The trials, I suppose.'' She was leaning against the tree, observing every step and move he made. 

Cregan stopped his pacing and turned to face her. ''Indeed.'' 

''I know what you think of his actions,'' Visenya sighed, '' and I agree that poison is a coward's weapon.'' Her gaze became distant, as if dreaming. 

The Wolf of the North nodded along, his expression one of contemplation.

''When I flew to King's Landing, I only had one purpose; to kill my half-brother, to kill him as he had my sister, by burning him alive and feeding him to my dragon. You can imagine my anger when I arrived here and I am told that the Usurper is dead, and by poison of all ways,'' she chuckled, though the sound was devoid of real mirth. 

''However, I am glad he got a coward's death. My sister died like a true Targaryen, in fire and blood. Her death will be a grand story told for centuries, but no one will remember his. The story of his demise will fade because it lacked the valour and the strength that he lacked,'' She admitted, almost sounding proud. 

Cregan nodded slowly, understanding the fierce loyalty and pride that Visenya held for her family. 

''But there are others who acted not out of cowardice, but out of duty to the realm, to their family. They deserve a different fate.'' She met his gaze again, sorrow in her eyes. 

Cregan's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing where the conversation was leading. ''Lord Corlys Velaryon?'' 

Visenya nodded. ''I ask you one last time to reconsider his sentence. Yes, he made a choice that many would condemn, but without him, Aegon would not be alive today.'' 

He remained unreadable, though his eyes softened slightly. ''You ask much, Princess. The law cannot bend every time someone believes their cause is just.'' 

She stepped closer to him, her violet eyes locked onto his.''If not for the stability of the realm, if not for the honour of my nephew, if not for the sake of peace, for me. A personal boon.'' 

Cregan studied her, the sincerity in her voice piercing through the walls he had built around himself. ''And if I were to grant this boon, what would you offer in return, Princess?'' There was a hint of curiosity, the first time the mighty Warden of the North could actually sound like his conviction could be persuaded. 

''In return, I will give you whatever you desire, Lord Stark.'' Visenya answered, her voice strong despite the tremor in her earlier plea. 

He could see the desperation in her eyes, the way she held herself with a dignity that was both regal and vulnerable. The offer she made was not one to be taken lightly. 

''What I desire?'' He repeated, almost as if testing the weight of those words. He looked down, thoughtful, then back at her, his gaze piercing through the darkness. ''What if what I desire is not something you are willing to give?'' 

Visenya stiffened slightly, her heart pounding as she anticipated what he might say. ''Name it.'' She said, though there was a hint of apprehension in her voice. 

Cregan took another step, closing the distance between them. ''What I desire is all of you, forever.'' 

Visenya felt the air catch in her throat as Cregan's words hung between them. It was as if the entire world had paused, waiting for her response. His dark eyes, intense and unwavering, held hers captive, and for a moment, she found herself unable to speak.

''All of me?'' She managed to whisper. She was not sure if it was a question or an incredulous statement.

Cregan nodded, his expression solemn. ''Yes. Your hand in marriage, your loyalty, your trust - everything that you are, everything that you could be. Not just for a night or a season, but for as long as we both shall live.'' 

She searched his eyes, looking for a trace of jest or manipulation, but found only earnestness. The Warden of the North was not a man to make light of such things. The very idea was preposterous - her, a Targaryen, bound to the North? Yet, in that moment, it felt as though he was offering something more than a mere proposal. It was an invitation to a different kind of life, one far away from King's Landing. 

She let out a small, breathless laugh, one that held no humour. ''Are you mad, my Lord? A Targaryen in the North?'' 

Cregan's lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. ''Perhaps I am, my Princess. But madness and greatness often walk hand in hand, do they not?'' 

Visenya regarded him, the idea swirling in her mind. It was mad, audacious, and yet... "You would truly ask this of me? To marry into the North, where winter reigns and dragons do not fly?"

He nodded, his expression unwavering. ''I would. The North may be a land of ice and snow, but it is also a land of honour, of strength, and of loyalty. It is a place where bonds are not easily broken, where words are not just spoken but lived, my Princess.'' 

''It is no place for dragons, nor for those who carry their blood.'' She shook her head. 

''And yet, here you are,'' he countered, ''a dragon in King's Landing, a place that has brought you nothing but pain and loss. What has this city given you that the North could not? What has this life offered you, other than endless war and treachery?'' 

She opened her mouth to respond but found herself at a loss for words. His questions struck at the heart of her fears, her uncertainties. The life she had known was one of fire and blood, of power plays and betrayals. But what had it truly brought her? What had it cost her?

Everything. 

Cregan took her silence as an opportunity to continue. ''I offer you more than just a marriage, Princess. I offer you a chance to build something new, something not tainted by the ghosts of the past.'' 

Visenya felt a chill run down her spine, though she was not sure if it was the cold night air or the weight of his words. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine it - a life in Winterfell, far from the scheming of King’s Landing, the endless battles for power. A life with a man who, despite his stern exterior, had shown her a kind of respect and understanding she had not expected. 

But the thought of leaving everything behind, of binding herself to a man she barely knew, was terrifying. ''You ask much of me, my Lord.'' She remarked, her voice slightly trembling. 

''And you asked much of me, my Princess.'' He retorted gently. 

''You are right,'' she chuckled, ''I did ask much of you.'' 

Visenya looked down, her thoughts a tangled web of doubt and longing. She had always been a Targaryen, defined by her name, her blood, her dragon. But what had that brought her? Loss after loss, betrayal after betrayal. 

''What of my dragon? Sōnax is a creature of fire and sky, bound to me as I am to her.'' She could not leave her behind, she'd seen how Seasmoke had acted when Laenor left. She did not want Sōnax to be subjected to the same fate. 

''She would find her place,'' he assured her, his eyes not leaving hers, ''The North may be cold, but it is also vast, with endless skies and mountains that reach the heavens. She will not be confined, just as you will not be.'' 

It did not feel real to her. As a young girl, she had imagined how her betrothal would go. She figured it would be much like her sister's, one to strengthen alliances and no regard for what either the bride or groom want. There was no room for dreams or desires. It was all about duty. 

Despite asking him for a favour, his proposal almost felt like a choice. It felt foreign, strange, like something she was not accustomed to. To have a choice in something so monumental felt both liberating and terrifying.

''And if I say yes, if I agree to this... I want to be your equal. I do not wish for you to rule, while my only purpose would be to squeeze out heirs like a broodmare.'' She was firm and resolute, no room for arguing. 

Cregan took her hand, engulfed by his. ''You would be my equal in every way, my Princess. We do not see women as mere vessels for heirs. I already have one, my son Rickon. We value strength, wisdom, and the ability to lead, regardless of one's gender.  If you stand beside me as my wife, you will be a Lady of Winterfell, not just in name but in action.'' 

Visenya felt the warmth of his hand enveloping hers, a stark contrast to the cool night air that surrounded them. Her heart raced as she met his gaze, his grey eyes filled with a depth of sincerity she had not encountered before. 

With a deep breath, she nodded, her decision crystallising in the quiet of the night. ''I will marry you, Lord Stark. A hand for a head.'' She agreed, grinning. 

A genuine look of joy and relief crossed Cregan's face. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. ''Then it is settled,'' he said, his voice warm with emotion, ''I will have my men release Lord Corlys from his cell when the sun rises.'' 

''Thank you, my Lord.'' She expressed quietly. 

''Cregan.'' He corrected gently. 

''What?'' Visenya blinked, caught off guard by his sudden informality.

''You may call me Cregan.'' He repeated, his smile softening. 

Visenya hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small smile forming on her lips. ''Then you may call me Visenya.'' She offered in return. 

The familiarity between them, though still new, felt strangely comfortable. 

''I will be leaving for Winterfell once the sentences have been carried out.'' Cregan informed her, still holding onto her hand. 

She nodded, the gravity of his words not lost on her. ''So soon,'' she murmured, squeezing his larger hand as if to hold onto the moment a little longer, ''I will have to stay here longer. For Aegon, he needs me here for the time being.'' 

''I know,'' he mumbled back, ''your duty to him comes first. But when your time here is done, Winterfell will be waiting for you...and so will I.'' 

There was a tenderness in his words that made Visenya's heart ache. She gave him a small nod, her grip on his hand tightening for just a moment before she finally let go. 

''We will discuss the formalities once we both have found some rest. I am retiring for the night.'' She announced, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the past week catching up with her as she leaned against the tree. 

Cregan noticed the weariness in her posture and stepped forward. ''Allow me to escort you to your chambers, my Princess.'' He offered his arm, for her to support her weight. 

Visenya smiled softly, touched by his offer but aware of the distance between their quarters. ''You are kind, Cregan, but your chambers are far, and you need rest as well. We have both endured enough for one night.'' Her words were gentle, her refusal a considerate one. 

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, understanding her reasoning. ''As you wish,'' he accepted, ''goodnight, my betrothed.'' She could see a hint of a smirk on his face. 

''Goodnight, my betrothed.'' Visenya echoed, the words feeling both strange and comforting on her lips. 

With one last look, they parted ways, each retreating to their respective chambers. 

As Visenya walked away, the weight of their conversation settled over her like a heavy cloak. She had made a decision that would change the course of her life, and yet, she felt a strange sense of peace. It was not the peace that came from certainty, but the kind that came from acceptance, from choosing a path and committing to it. 

Cregan watched her until she disappeared into the castle, a mix of emotions swirling within him. He had asked for her hand not out of a simple desire for power or alliance, but because he saw how fiercely she protected those who had stood by her sister and their family.

He wanted to be the object of her loyalty, amidst other things. 

taglist: @oxymakestheworldgoround

[summercreolefanfictioner]

the scent wafts in, her name making him beg on his knees chap 1.2

pairing: dabi / todoroki touya x fem!oc / reader (MODERN AU)

summary: He mentions her name after 6 months in therapy, absentmindedly narrating vivid memories of her. She was the only good thing during his darkest times.

(In which Touya returns home after rebelling against his family for 7 years. And no, it wasn't about forgiveness. He wanted to fix himself because of a certain someone.)

themes: nsfw, domestic abuse, violence, alcoholism, cigarette smoking, toxic relationships, mental health, co-dependency and other related themes (YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)

notes: for this one, pls keep in mind that touya didn't have much scars on his face; mostly are on his body to accomodate the plot; charas might be ooc since this is modern au

It was after 4 days that he finally revealed about the Todoroki family, the scandalous story of Enji Todoroki, and the abuse they have endured in his hands based on what he had experienced until 19. To be honest, everything wasn't really how they started. Touya grew up seeing Enji so proud of him, prancing him around as his firstborn, the one who will continue his dream of being the number one corporation in Japan with the best workforce and highest earning. Touya was actually more excited to learn more about business at a young age, studying how money worked through stock exchange games and trying to beat his father through crossword puzzles.

Then the next year, Fuyumi was born, and they were almost the same age, separated by months. One could even say she became his twin, and they shared the same room, the same bed, the same food, the same unisex clothes, the same words—just not the appearance and gender. When it was just the two of them, they somewhat understood each other even if Fuyumi sometimes find him annoying because of his silly pranks.

As he tells this to his therapist, he realizes a shocking truth.

Their family was okay back then. There were a lot of good times, and he had a hunch Fuyumi was the one who remembered most of them when it was supposed to be him, the oldest of the bunch. That's why it was a lot easy for her to forgive him. That's why she hoped so much for him to come back.

His favorite memory was of Fuyumi asking him to create a large drawing of the four of them because she wanted to give something to them. She was holding the same blue flowers their mother liked, and after everything was done, the two siblings met their parents at the living area where they were having tea. Enji ruffled Fuyumi's hair and told her to wash her hands after, noticing the dirt around her hands and in her fingernails. Meanwhile, Rei giggled melodiously, her laughter making Touya embarrassed as she patted his head. They were all happy. Everyone was happy.

When did everything go wrong?

"I think it was when... when Father found me pushing myself so hard because I was so devastated at my achievements that he had enough of me," Touya continued. "Whenever things won't go my way, I tend to neglect my body's capabilities. I stay up all night. I don't eat until I get the equation right. There were times when at a young age, I ripped my hair so bad due to stress. They manifested so bad that I resorted to violence."

A child who throws a violent tantrum. Torn apart posters of comic characters. Ruined picture frames and shattered glasses. Fearful eyes halting in time and unable to stop him from overworking himself. Scattered test papers with scores of 99, 98, 97, and 96 flooded all over like a burning reminder.

"I should've listened to Mother and Fuyumi-chan when they told me to have fun instead."

------

After two weeks, the therapist had the guts to ask him about Natsuo and Shouto. He used to evade questions about his two brothers, usually opting for silence or quickly dismissing the man with answers like, "I don't want to talk about them," or "It's not good." The therapist thought maybe Touya would never be able to discuss things about them, but he knew he had to bring them to the table. After all, the eldest Todoroki had mentioned before that seeing them born had been the small flicker of fire that burned their family down.

"Father thinks me and Fuyumi-chan were failures; it doesn't mean Natsu-kun wasn't either," Touya started, remembering the infant Natsuo and his cries ringing around the Todoroki household. Of course, disappointment was etched again in Enji's face, realizing that Natsuo did not live up to his expectations.

Touya could hear his familiar sigh in head, the way he was stoic but Natsuo was trying his hardest to please him. It broke Touya's heart, the way he could only watch his two siblings casted aside like him, thrown away like a garbage because their potential were wasted. In Enji's eyes, they weren't his children; they were experiments with his wife.

"His masterpiece was my younger brother, Shouto," he concluded.

"Do you hate Shouto?" the therapist asked.

Touya could only shrug, not clearly having a definition of what he felt towards his youngest brother. True, he felt so many things about his brother. He was the bane of his existence, after all. He despised him the day he was born, and yet he felt guilty the moment baby Shouto wrapped his stubby hand around his long finger, cooing at the warmth as he opened his heterochromatic eyes and gazed at him cutely. That day, Touya instantly felt a responsibility as his oldest brother, but at the same time, there was bitterness. He knew the youngest would be Enji's favorite; he just knew it, with the way he watched him all this time while he thinks he's not aware.

It will never be Shouto's fault that they weren't the favorites; but blaming him was so easy Touya could get away with it.

Shouto was unyielding, though; confused as to why Touya didn't like him but still trying his bestest to get along with him. He would trail behind him, meekly asking him to play with him, to ask their father if he could play with them for a bit because he wanted to be like the other kids and play. "You should be grateful he's spending time with you," Touya snarked at him, not speaking the next words. Because he wouldn't do that with us; with me. Of course, Shouto was so pure-hearted he just replied him with, "But being with Touya-nii and the others is a lot better. You all get to play other than study."

But studying and being the best was the only thing that kept Touya driving; it would be his downfall, though. Enji found out what he did to himself, knew from his teachers about his wellbeing. Touya goes to school with deep eyebags. Touya gets sulky about his grades. He snaps at the other kids at school. He almost got into a fight with another classmate for trying to cheer him up with his grades. And the next thing, Touya will be dragged to the hallway and Enji would not hesitate to slap sense in his face, disappointment and anger in his face as he beat Touya up for bringing shame to the family, for acting all so childish over some silly grades.

This was his usual routine. His parents would fight. His siblings will help him up to his feet. Fuyumi-chan will take the first aid kit and tend to his bruises. Natsuo-kun will try to shield Shouto away from the scene even though the youngest was already crying his eyes out, not wanting to see him hurt so bad. Don't cry for me, Shouto. Don't be that way with me. I hate you. I hate you the most. Please, don't be like that.

Afterwards, he would play the good son card, would keep his bursting feelings in check, watch over everything he would say and play right in Enji's palm. He needed his approval again, even if the attention was all showered on Shouto. It was damn frustrating, suffocating him the more he watched Shouto endure the beatings as he treated the three of them like nothing. At that moment, Touya wanted nothing to do with Shouto. If he did, he might unleash all these intrusive thoughts.

Fate was a trickster, and Touya would always find Shouto pleading for help, especially to him of all people. "Touya-nii, save me! Please!" It kept repeating like a broken record, haunting him in his dreams. The wet streaks. The runny nose. His tight fisting on his shirt. The way he would hiss his name. The eyes that cried so many times. Touya will never give in; a lie he told so many times.

Touya did give in, and without much thought. Shouto brought back those feelings he wanted; how it felt so happy that someone needed so much from him. He liked it. He felt appreciated. He felt blessed. He felt so free Shouto had no idea how much Touya wanted this for so long. That's why Touya tutored Shouto in secret, teaching him a thing or two about business, about stock exchange, about the Todoroki family, about the Endeavor Corp.—heck, he even laid down the basics of algebra and science on him, ensuring Shouto would be able to comprehend everything at the age of 5 and 6. It wasn't the same as when Enji acknowledged him, but for Touya, this was enough.

Enji knew about it, of course, and he didn't mind... at first. After all, he thought Touya was just helping his brother learn, keeping his mouth shut as he let them be. This aggravated Touya, pushing him slightly to the edge.

"The least he could do was acknowledge me," Touya stated bitterly to his therapist, remembering how Enji praised Shouto's performance instead of telling him how good of an older brother he was.

"So you used Shouto's kindness, is that it?" the therapist clarified.

Touya nodded. "But sometimes, I pity him. I felt those things only an older brother would feel."

There was a palpable tension as Touya gripped his knees to even out his breathing. The memories were getting more vivid than ever he swore it happened yesterday? Or the other day? But he was a lot younger back then. He was 14 when it happened, and he felt his bruises and scars getting more painful, his skin shivering from a certain coldness. Maybe it was Enji's eyes on him. The same eye color he and Shouto shared. He didn't know. He didn't care.

"Sekoto Peak," he mumbled in a trance, flashes of memories where Shouto held his hand and gazed at the view below him.

"Touya-nii, this is where you go often? It's so cool here!"

"Sometimes, I sleep here under the stars."

"R-Really? Do you bring Fuyumi-nee and Natsu-nii here?"

"I haven't."

"Let's go here, the four of us."

"..."

"Please?"

"I'll see what I can do."

"I couldn't bring them all," Touya admitted, gripping his head to force himself to remember. The therapist recorded his responses through his notes as he muttered everything in a fast pace. "I tried to make a plan. I brought Shouto there a few times without anyone knowing. I asked Natsuo and Fuyumi for help. Before we could all go, Father found out. I couldn't speak. I couldn't fight. I was hit by the bokken. They were all crying. Mother tried to protect me but Father slapped her. I could feel his kick and punch in my gut."

"... did he—"

"No. NO. HE WASN'T DONE!" Touya gulped nervously, imagining the scars on his body burning. "They were hot on my skin. It burned my flesh. I couldn't move. I cried and cried and cried. I begged for him to stop. I want him to stop. The hot iron. Everything. I want the world to stop. I couldn't become the son he wanted. I couldn't be Shouto's big brother. I couldn't give them everything."

And when he ended the story, that was when Touya finally cried, sobbing as fuck. He couldn't care about the world or the pitiful gazes. The boy cried so much from bearing all the sins he didn't do.

------

Touya spent a few months in isolation, his thoughts circling around his childhood and all the painful memories. When he was alone, he would write them all down, narrating that one moment in his and Natsuo's shared bedroom where Shouto secretly snuck in and apologized over and over. He kept blaming himself for Touya's pain. Everything was his fault that Touya was hurt so bad, and Touya wanted to agree. It was true, though. He hurt when he was born. He hurt when he got all the glory. He hurt when he became Enji's pride.

He just went silent about it.

Why did he?

It was never Shouto's fault.

"Shouto," he whispered, his hand reaching out to ruffle his hair despite the searing pain in his arms. There was a weak smile gracing his lips, bruised and battered yet patched up clumsily by a crying Fuyumi. "As I thought, I couldn't be your good older brother. Not anymore."

(Touya never knew but after a few years following his rebellion, Shouto went to Sekoto Peak and stared at the same view Touya admired so much, slept under the stars when everything became too much, and wished the four of them could be there together.)

ps. I removed the last part and placed it on the next chap in case y'all confused bcos the post is too long to read

next chap

masterlist

[drinkyourvillainjuice]

Secretary's DYVJ OC

Or, a study in character design by the secretary.

Hello my audience of fools and creatives, this is how me, the Secretary, designed past characters for Drink Your Villain Juice. I've designed a couple of the beloved gamers such as random one-off heroes (hello, Portrait, my beloved), and the one and only Wil (which some of you really love).

The background:

We have a free spot on the SCUM team, which is essentially a super-violent villain team doing very atrocious team for what appears to be no reason in particular. While this isn't entirely true since tragically people have motivations to hurt others (even if it's just fun!), SCUM attracts, well, scummy people and also people who may or may have no other choice than to choose these sorts of groups. They may be groomed into a role, forced to rely on violence to keep certain people at bay, or might just have been repeatedly failed by the systems than they were supposed to be protected by.

With this free spot in mind and the other characters already having fixed roles, we need a character to fit a specific niche.

The niche is secret for the audience, but essentially, we need a female character that counterbalances the other female characters within the team + illustrates a typical trope of villain characters. As you might have noticed, many of the characters within the story kinda play on tropes: Surpass is super(wo)man but a jerk, MC is a trope on the chosen hero being a villain, etc.

I'm pretty interested in making a character who might unironically have some sort of sex appeal going on. So let's brainstorm:

The base concept:

I think female characters within superhero fiction often have to rely on sex appeal to keep an audience engaged. It's rare to find a character like this within TV or comics or books that has any sort of depth to them - but the thing is, this is a one-off villain so how do I give the audiences the tool to discern the character's backstory. I have a couple of ideas:

Lack of armor and mask: This is a reckless character. She lacks foresight in protecting herself. Maybe she doesn't view herself in a good light, and maybe she doesn't even care if her face is shown to the world. Maybe she lost too much to care about her body being hurt and her face being plastered on every wall - or maybe that's exactly what she wants to punish herself.

Collected jewelry from her victims: A means to intimidate, really. If this is someone who has lost it all, gaining these small possessions mean that she holds controls over somebody. It might be tied to her power - or not! - but it is obviously tied to her psyche. Maybe she was riding the high life and it came crashing down, or maybe it's a physical manifestation of all the lives she had taken in the past as a physical mark on her body.

Trashy expensive clothes: To really solidifies the concept of someone who has lost it, maybe anchor the physical manifestation of the character by trashed wealth. Clothes that are too expensive or reserved for special occasions are being torn apart. They are mish-mashed because the character is holding down to past wealth despite the lack of coordination. What if she is also taking the clothes of the female victims? Could she be green with envy that someone is living the life she wanted to life or had lived?

With these three characters point, let's move to appearance.

The physical manifestation of her psyche, and what it means to be her:

She is an attractive woman down on her luck. She fits the specific standard of beauty within the region. She wears clothes and jewelry that are expensive, but obviously aren't hers by the way they don't fit. Her clothes are poorly mended clothes, showing that she tries to put forward a tidy image, with blood that doesn't seem to wash out, implying not everybody gave their clothes willingly. She also has too many necklaces, bracelets, and rings, especially wedding rings. If someone shone a light on her, people would be blinded by the dazzling. She wears too much makeup, caking her features, and it hides her real emotions from the cracks and drip of sweat that she is obviously exerting. Her lack of armour reveals a body that isn't honed for combat or physical exertion, implying that whatever makes her able to keep going is more psychological than physical. She may be a tad overweight, and "letting herself go" would most likely be what she would say about herself, but someone with a keen eye might be able to grasp that she is comfortable in this new life. She carries herself with a lack of confidence that makes herself appear as arrogant. She doesn't flinch, she doesn't get scared, she doesn't run - but she is clearly despondent at whatever her fate might be.

It would take a miracle to fix her, but by that point, she might have killed too much to go back.

Tying it all together with a knot:

I opted for the name Spring Breaker. Spring Break is a time for young people to go out somewhere sunny and get tanned - or at least, that's what I've learned from Jersey Shore. I think this character might be a past college student, having ignited during her spring break, and losing what was making herself. Her power should also be based on water. It would make sense with the theme of womanhood being a failed state for her since water is often seen as a feminine and passive element. But she isn't passive, she only has an image of it to probably protect what she holds on to - which is her appearance. Maybe, her power could involve drowning people which a lot of sirens, which one could say that she is, are known to do to take the riches of sailors.

So what about a young woman who was on spring break and was involved in someone's death by drowning. She might have pushed them into the ocean, or maybe have forced them underwater, due to her envy for their wealth. She ignited with the ability to constantly relive that trauma that ruined her life. In a way to punish herself, she names herself Spring Breaker, lacks a real civilian or mask identity, and puts herself in situations where she finds herself forced to drown people. She also wants to go back to before, when she was able to buy expensive clothes and have the jewelry she liked, but every time she grabs someone's chain and puts it on her neck, she finds herself back in the pool causing her downfall.

Her place as a villain:

Spring Breaker is an infiltrator in SCUM. She is what one could be best described as an assassin, taking out targets in the surroundings of the fight, and slowing going toward the fight. She takes out people from the back and makes her way forward. Her power is simple: she coats anything she touches in a thin film of water, dry drowning those with the misfortune to be grappled by her. Her ignition gave her the compulsion to steal valuables - or maybe she had it all along but now has a very good excuse - which enables her ability to rob people. Her costume changes based on what happened last time. She might wear a two-piece swimsuit with a feathered boa one time, or a see-through babydoll dress with lace underwear, or maybe a full-length gown with three bullet holes she couldn't mend around the abdomen. In every case, she leaves behind her drowned and drowning bodies, stripped of valuables.

She is obviously a bad person, but it's hard not to pity her by the way she sulks around. Some may say she should be put down for her own good, but others think she should taken out for the bodies left in her wake. Spring Breaker thinks it's a bit of column A and column B.

Final notes:

i think i can fix her

[thebigolbee]

hello i am here to say two things

i want marlow as a companion so badly please let us know if you make a mod i'd cry/pos

Please tell me anything about your ocs one of my favourite things is hearing about people's ocs or what they're interested in. just rant at me like you've got a red string conspiracy board if you'd like

1. Ahhh you are just the sweetest! Sorry it took me a bit to reply, I really appreciate your words!

2. Thanks so much for giving me an opportunity to share things about Richie. I’m don’t know the best way to put OC lore out there so these kinds of asks help a lot! More to read below :)c

A fact about Richie is that he tried isolating himself in the Glowing Sea before his long trek out to the Mojave Desert. He had just cut all ties in the Commonwealth and heard the earth-shattering news that Mr. House was still alive. He thought the tough conditions in the Sea might calm him down and set him straight, but it turns out manifesting about the man who doomed you in a twisted hellscape isn't very healthy. His time spent there only turned his heartbroken anger into a full blown revenge quest. Surely killing an old flame would make him feel better...right?

The fact of the matter is, even if he hadn’t passed the point of no return in the Sea itself, it would have happened somewhere else eventually. His steady decline was inevitable because he is just... so hard on himself, refusing to accept any kind of help or prolonged companionship. Under his confident exterior, the guilt and grief is eating him alive, and sadly all this self-destruction leeches out onto his friendships and lovers as well.

The sorrows of a man who needs to feel love to be okay, but snuffs it out before it can grow...

[majorasnightmare]

3, 6, and 23 for Dirge pretty please!!

kicks my lil feets on the bed because this ask combo is a GREAT way to elaborate on how faeruns biggest god killer is a HUUUUUGE loser LMAO

3) What song describes your OC?

he has MULTIPLE playlists so this is a toughie. theres one for his relationship with minthara, where Take Me To Church and I Bet On Losing Dogs are pretty standout entries. Theres one thats just for shit HE'D listen to which is predominatly heavy metal and also some Ghost and King Gizzard. and then theres the one i listen to to think about him which. ngl its early 2000s amv cringe. theres a lot of Korn. theres some Disturbed im p sure. in general if its a heavy track with lyrics about how you are Deeply Fucked In The Head then itll PROOOBABLY be a good Dirge fit.

6) If your OC is in a fantasy setting, what profession would they be in the modern day?

OH MAN THE MILLION DOLLAR QUESTION

in any scenario where he isnt a deeply driven religous zealot trying to end the world that ISNT the plot of bg3, he just ends up listless and aimless and struggles to set longterm ambitions and goals for himself. this typically manifests as being a loner shutin glued to a PC 24/7 cuz even without brain damage he has insomnia. hed be living in a basement making competitive meta Elden Ring PVP builds. responding to angry forums on reddit i want all of you to know the man who canonically dominated an elder brain is more of a loser than his sister. its quite literally nerf or nothin with this guy. he ironically has a really great resume-ready skillset that he wouldnt use in any capacity. he COULD get into doing freelance programming shit but he cant be motivated besides doing Prime Malenia Boss Fight mods. absolute nepo baby bullshit

23) Is your OC reliable? Can I call them up at two in the morning if I have a flat tire?

if he doesnt know you: absolutely not thats how you get Jeff The Killed. if he DOES know you, hes genuinely one of the most reliable people you could have in your corner. call him up at 2 am, he isnt sleeping. he'll move you out of your apartment, get you an uber and pick your car up in the morning, hell help you fuck over your ex and steal your cat back AND bust you out of prison and cross state lines. he is so ride or die its ridiculous. zero questions asked, already getting dressed while on the phone with you. its part of what makes everything else so awkward because hes genuinely a great person to be friends with but he also has zero regrets about the torture murders that you might find distasteful (unless your based like Minthara)

[maulfucker]

I saw you had a post where you thought abt Dathomirian culture and I was wondering if you had any thoughts on how specifically Dathomirian queer culture manifests. I'd like to come up with things myself but I don't actually know a lot in general abt Dathomir yet, so I want other opinions. I've got two ideas tho

-Dathomirian queer ppl call each other "family" like some queer ppl did in our world

-Trans men might like earn their horns thru hunting and using animal bones and stuff as their horns? Idk like I said I don't know much

Good question! I haven't actually thought that much about queer culture in Dathomir despite having a gay nightbrother oc,,

I think the calling each other family thing probably wouldn't work very well since they already treat their clan as family and call each other brother and sister even without blood relation, but I love the idea of trans nightbrothers earning their horns! Dathomirians as a whole seem to be pretty open to body modifications, with tattoos being so natural in their culture, so hunting animals to use their bones or teeth or something to produce "prosthetic" horns sounds very fitting. It could be a whole thing for both trans and cis nightbrothers, using the extra horns as a way to show off their strength. plus it opens up the possibility of nightbrothers implanting horns in whimsical shapes such as smiley faces, stars or penises

I think as a people composed of multiple isolated communities, there's probably not a uniform queer culture across the planet. But also as people who tend to live in single-sex communities they are likely far more queer on average than what we see in the rest of the galaxy, like how cowboys were famously queer. They supposedly spend most of their lives around the same gender, so it wouldn't be unusual for that to be the gender they express attraction to more often. Though, much like how cowboys have been "reinterpreted" as a symbol of straight white masculinity, there's probably also a popular misconstruction of their culture as extremely straight, and/or extremely celibate. The "Nightsisters rule over Nightbrothers" reading of their culture is very obviously meant to show them as a reverse-sexist society, making the nightsisters a sort of "girl power" icon — they are strong independent women who can pick any man they want (implying that they do want men), which is like saying cowboys are strong fearless men who woo every damsel that crosses their path. which. sure, cowboys did have sex with women. sure, nightsisters do have sex with men. but more often than not they will be around other nightsisters, so they will more often than not have relationships with women (even if they're not really gay).

but I am not usamerican and my brain has the consistency of molten ice cream, so my knowledge of american cowboy culture is. basically just that. (the brazilian cowboy culture is quite different, especially considering there's like three distinct cowboy "sub"cultures, each with their different history, territory, and associations) So that's as far as I can take the cowboy comparison, but cowboys can be a pretty good source of inspiration I think. maybe look into that?

A quick look into medieval monasteries (another famously gender-segregated culture) says they were also pretty gay. And that the sexual persecution that is so commonplace in christianity today was not really a thing yet back then, which is also something to consider when trying to conceive the queer culture of a people who have nothing to do with our modern (overwhelmingly christian) society — do they have a reason to reject queer people and relationships, or are we just projecting our own worldviews and experiences onto a people who have none of the sociohistorical context that shaped our experiences?

I think homosexual/romantic and even polyamorous relationships would be pretty normalized, since there's not really any reason to only accept hetero relationships if they rarely ever live in mixed-sex communities. That said, there's probably still some expectation of heterosexual activity, in the form of the Selection and its implied procreation purposes. Dathomir is a very isolationist world, so to keep their population stable they need to procreate, even if it "goes against" an individual's sexuality. And this is where I think polyamorous relationships have reason to be encouraged: if a nightsister or nightbrother who already has a partner takes part in a Selection, why not bring their partner(s) into the relationship as well and increase the likelihood of producing offsprings?

As for the gender side of queerness.... well that's probably A Lot more complicated than I have time to discuss here. The gender binary seems pretty enforced in their culture from what little we see, and their sexual dimorphism probably makes trans and/or intersex people stand out A Lot more

I've mentioned this before, but I headcanon that the skin color difference is not a sex-chromosome-bound characteristic, but instead a sex-hormone-related expression of pigmentation, like in some birds such as peacocks. Both males and females are shown to have a range of skin tones, but in females it manifests as grayscale while in males it manifests as a color scale from red to yellow. So intersex people might have colors that are in-between, or that don't "match" their apparent sex, and trans people who undergo their equivalent of hrt might slowly change skin colors over time.

As for how nonbinary people work.... well as someone who is from a latin american country and speaks a romance language, I would like to imagine their "nonbinary" is a lot like ours — there is no "neutral" gender, they simply play with their presentation to be between one and the other, leaning towards whichever one might be considered more "transgressive" at the moment.

I don't think trans people would be forced out of their clans for being a different gender than everyone else, but it's possible their role in the clan might change to something more "befitting" of their new gender I also think there's probably a lot more contact between different clans than just the Selection, so it's possible for people who decide to start over as a new gender to take one of these moments of contact as an opportunity to "visit" another clan and never come back.

..... aaand it's almost 2 am so I gotta hit post

[the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒯𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐸𝓎𝑒𝓈 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 39 Unwelcome Cone Call, Remembering To Whom View Belong

Pairing: Alastor x F!OC (Theia, The Demon of a Thousand Eyes)

Chapter Summary: After Alastor's lackluster proposal, the three of you arrive in Cannibal Town and decide to take place in the festivities that had been planned for the day before he was to propose. While leaving one of the shops, your phone rings, and it prompts some feelings that you've been avoiding to bubble to the surface. Alastor and Ombre remind you that you are theirs until the end of time and beyond, and that no one can take that away from them both.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: Tentacles, biting, blood, mentions of cannibalism, smut

The three of you materialize with the corpse formerly-known-as-Edgar in tow a short distance away from the square of Cannibal Town. There are red and black ribbons tied in bows with eyes on each knot on every tree and lamppost in sight, matching wreaths above every shop entrance, and the gazebo in the main square has one on every other rung, red and black fabric draping from the awning. It’s a flurry of red and black and eyes in every direction. It’s captivating, mesmerizing, and an interesting blend of the two of you. Your heart aches a little from the amount of effort that this all must have taken, to decorate this whole town just for you.

Alastor uses his powers to carry the corpse behind the three of you, and only a few strides later, Rosie notices, coming to greet you. She’s all smiles as always, pulling Alastor into a hug and then yourself, until she catches sight of the ring on your finger. “Alastor,” She gives him a pointed glare, her hands on her hips disapprovingly even as a smile still graces her face, “what happened to the plan? Did I decorate all of my little town for nothing? I wanted to see her face when you popped the question!”

Alastor’s ears pin back against his skull again, and you chuckle, but then come to his defense. “Auntie Rosie, it’s my fault. I’m the one who jokingly asked him to marry me first, right there in front of the corpse. How was I supposed to know he would pull out a ring and propose?”

“That’s hardly an excuse to ruin our lovely plans.” She says, but she’s still smiling. “Now let me see that ring of yours.” You hold up your left hand, and the stones glint in the afternoon sunlight. “Is that a sliver of shadow I see?” She raises an eyebrow, curious.

You nod. “Ombre wanted to include it.” You say as you reach up to scratch their head with your other hand. “They are a part of this union as much as Alastor and myself, after all. It’s only fitting.”

Her smile softens and she nods, not quite understanding but knowing that you have found Alastor in his entirety. Then her eyes and nose catch wind of the fresh meat. “And who might this fellow have been?” She says with delight, and Alastor uses his powers to bring the corpse closer to her.

“This would be what remains of the sinner that was my first kill back on Earth. Alastor hunted him down just for me, so I could kill him again.” You have a smitten look on your face and he looks noticeably calmer.

“Ah, romance.” Rosie says with a nod. “I can see why you’d abandon far grander plans of proposing in the perfect light after a full afternoon of enjoying yourselves in my humble little town.”

Alastor blanches again, and you tell her, “Oh, Auntie Rosie, he does feel bad. There’s no need to rub it in, and besides, I doubt this day is ruined. So he can’t propose in front of everyone. I’m sure we can still do everything else. Dancing, eating, hell, if he wants to, I’ll even listen to the speech he prepared.”

His eyes brighten then, and your smile warms, delighted to see him so. Rosie smiles brighter too. “Very well, young man.” She says with a teasing glint in her eyes. “Put on a good enough show and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

You can see the smirk in eyes as he manifests and twirls his microphone. You can practically hear his thoughts. Challenge Accepted, Rosie dear! “I’ll leave you to do what you do best.” He says, gesturing to the corpse.

Before he can whisk you away, you tell her, “Auntie Rosie, could you be a dear and box up the head for me? It’s a present for his late wife.”

She laughs and nods. “Of course, Theia, darling! Now go have fun!” She makes a shooing gesture. Alastor holds out his arm, you wrap yours around it, and then the two of you are striding about town taking in the sights, Ombre still draped about your shoulders.

The more you look, the more of that black, red, and eyes motif you see, though you notice as you draw nearer to one that it is actually an intricate lace pattern, red with a black overlay, the eyeball a bauble sewn on top and painted to look like one. Hand-painted, if you had to guess. The amount of work that it took to make these, hang them up all over, makes you feel guilty for some reason, though you’re not sure why.

“Miss Rosie did an excellent job with the square. It’s a shame we couldn’t have waited any longer to do the proposal here.” Ombre murmurs.

You shake your head even as you somewhat agree. “I loved your proposal. You called me ‘Iris,’. I’d have to have given you permission to do it here, and so many people to specify. It was quiet, and perfect, and now you can give the grand performance that you’re craving.” You chuckle. “You can even broadcast it on the radio, if you’d like.”

Alastor’s eyes turn towards you in shock and glee. “You’d let me tell you how much I love you on air?”

“I’d let you broadcast us making love if it meant that I get to keep you forever.” You say with a devilish smirk, and he chuckles as he pulls you to brush your lips against his. 

“You saucy woman. I can’t have that on air. What would the papers say?”

“Surely it’s not much worse than those terrible radio romance dramas they used to run back on Earth. At least this time, it’d be real. It’d be us.” You say insistently, though you’re not sure why you’re pushing this. “Of course, I’d settle for you telling all of Hell just how much you love me.”

“Anything and everything for you, nostre âme soeur, nostre fiancé.” He kisses you again.

Ombre purrs into your ear, “We do mean anything, our majesty. Anything in existence for you.”

When the kiss is broken, the three of you are in front of that little bakery and sweet shop that Alastor had purchased those candied eyeballs from for your second date. Alastor opens the door for you and you stride in with Ombre, and then he follows after. A clerk comes up to you immediately. “Alastor, Theia! We have a few delightful selections for the happy couple to begin such a lovely day! While it’s not quite lunchtime, feel free to look through our selections of eyeball delights! We have everything from candied to jellied to chocolate coated!”

When the three of you are left alone to look, your gaze is, as always, focused on Alastor. “Mon point focal,” you tease him with that old expression you haven’t used in what seems like forever, and you see a faint blush on his cheeks, “if you hadn’t already proposed I would have known already. This is far too catered to me in particular to be anything but a proposal.” You smirk. “You do have excellent taste, however, and I do enjoy being pampered.”

“Always and forever, nostre reine.” Alastor says and kisses you again. You hear cheering in the back of the shop. You flush, feeling a little caught in the act. Your expression is sheepish, but you feel a nagging sensation in your gut. You try to ignore it.

You clear your throat. “I’d like to try the chocolate covered ones. The salted, though, not the sweet.”

“Excellent choice as always.” Alastor agrees, and when he selects one and starts to stride towards the front door after giving the manager a wave, you give him a confused look.

“Don’t we have to pay?”

“Rosie has deemed any and all purchases made for the sake of our day today as part of your belated birthday gift, since she’s, to quote her, ‘missed being able to have a reason to spoil you.’” He says with a genuine smile. You can tell because it hits his eyes, those crimson orbs with so much love for you within them.

“She would say that.” You turn to the shop manager, “Thank you!” You call out, “May many other patrons stop by and purchase from you today!”

You loop your arm with his and he opens the door for you to exit again. As you hear the door shut behind you, a buzzing in your pocket begins. When you reach inside to see who’s calling, you recognize the number. Does she have a tracker on my phone, that whenever I’m near this lovely little shop she gets some alert that I’m here or is it just mere coincidence that she’s calling again? You deny the call and put it back in your pocket.

“Who was that on the phone, our majesty?” Ombre asks, and Alastor raises an eyebrow, as he’d been busy looking away to decide where to go next.

“Someone who wants to be family but never will.” You say rather ominously, “Someone who I’d rather not have to answer her calls—today, or ever, really. She’ll ruin my good mood.” How did she get ahold of my number in the first place? You think to yourself as you stop suddenly in the street. Alastor turns to look at you worriedly, but waits for you nevertheless. Then, in an instant, it all makes sense. The problem with Greed is that everything comes at a price.

When you’re still silent for a while, haven’t moved from the spot you’d stopped in, Alastor takes your chin in his fingers and tips it so your middle eye meets his gaze. “Is everything alright, nostre reine?”

“No, but I’d hate to ruin this perfect day.” You say quietly as your phone begins buzzing again.

“Does the individual on the phone pose any real threat to you?” He asks earnestly, concerned, and you bite your lip.

“I doubt it. Her name is Sissela. She is Hyaloid’s sister—sister to the man who my father had arranged for me to marry. ” You shrug. “She’s more of a nuisance than anything. She knows that the only way I’d become queen is if I produced a son, so she holds that over me any chance she gets, not that she’d ever have any shot at it either. She seems to think that I am still going to become her sister-in-law and  on the off chance that I produce a son, I’ll become queen, and then in about seven hundred years, she plans to take the throne in my stead, or at least all the money and power that comes with it.She called the same day I met my uncle, must have bribed someone in Greed to get my number. I was just so excited about meeting him that I forgot about it.”

“While I look forward to meeting your uncle tomorrow, bien-aimée, I wish I’d known about this sooner. Now hand me the phone so I can talk to this simpleton.”

You chuckle and hand him the phone. “Alastor, you have my permission to refer to me as Iris to Sissela, Duchess of Hell.” You tell him simply, and he kisses you on the forehead before he opens it and answers the call.

“Iris’s fiancé speaking. May I tell her who’s calling?” You giggle as you hear what likely could easily be described as outraged bitching and moaning from the other end. You wince as Alastor does, and proceeds to hold the phone a foot from his ear for a few moments. “That’s hardly a way for a lady to talk to anyone, especially someone she ought to consider family, from what I understand about this little interwoven blackblood hierarchy you have going on, my dear.” He says when he deems it appropriate to return the phone to his ear. 

More bellowing, and Alastor pulls it back farther this time, but his gaze stays fixed on yours. “Oh so you are aware that she goes by Theia now. Good. Perhaps you should refer to her as such from now on, as that is how she prefers to be addressed. Do not call again today, or we will turn off her phone. This number is for wanted attention, not individuals who masquerade as family. I have a proposal to finish, and I won’t have anyone mucking that up. Good day!” He says after he returns it to his ear again. This is followed by more squabbling, which is cut off as he hangs up and hands it to you. 

When it rings again, you frown, but then you see it’s not Sissela. 

“It’s Rana.” You explain as you answer it. “Hi, Rana.” You say happily, and the two of you start walking again.

“I missed it?!” She exclaims, deducing from your deliriously happy tone that he has already proposed, and you laugh.

“Technically everyone did. Despite all his preparation, Alastor proposed to me in front of Edgar’s corpse.”

“He didn’t have the decency to wait?!” She exclaims again, and you laugh a second time.

“Hardly. I jokingly asked him to marry me and he took that as a challenge.”

“Of course he would. So does this mean I’ve gotten on my best dress and headed my way to Cannibal Town for nothing?”

You shake your head, even though you know she can’t see. “Of course not. We’re still enjoying the festivities that have been so painstakingly put together, and if my suspicions are correct, Al is still planning on giving the speech he’d no doubt meticulously written. I’m going to tell him ‘yes’ again, just because I can.” You smile at him as he glances in your direction, before choosing to take you towards the center of the square.

“I look forward to it. I’ll be there with shades on!” You know she’s smirking, and you laugh harder at one of her favorite jokes.

“See you soon, Rana!” You both hang up the phone, and you raise an eyebrow at Alastor as he heads towards a little cannibal café.

“So who else is supposed to be in attendance for this event this afternoon?”

“Why, everyone, of course.” Alastor says simply. “Everyone except your uncle. I don’t exactly have someone of such high esteem on my contact list, and I’m afraid I couldn’t wait until tomorrow.” He replies as the two of you are escorted to a table immediately. After he pulls out your chair for you and sits down on his own, you take his hand and interlace your fingers, kissing where the deal that sits between you glows in gold.

“I understand, Al.” You say with a pleased smile. “So everyone from the hotel is coming too?”

He nods. “Our dear Charlie was a little disappointed that we chose to hold it here instead of at the hotel, but I assured her that we’d consider holding the wedding there instead.”

“We spend so much time there already,” you say as you take a menu from the waiter, “and besides dancing, there isn’t much to do all day. Unless your shadow minions installed a candy shop in the lobby while I wasn’t looking.”

He chuckles and replies, “Speaking of dancing, allowing for those ten minutes of digestion you’re so fond of, would you join me for one after lunch?”

“What kind of dancing are we considering, ma moitié? The answer is yes no matter what; I just am curious as to your choice of song and style.”

“No foxtrot this time, ma très chère. I’d like to just do some simple waltzing with you.” He says easily, and you lean across the table to peck him on the cheek.

You still haven’t looked at the menu in your hands, but you know you’ll get to that in due time. “May I request a song choice, if you don’t have one selected already?”

“I had, but I’ll take your song selection instead.” He says simply as he accepts the sparkling water from another waiter and pours for you both.

“‘We Three,’ by The Ink Spots.” You say with a soft smile. “In recent days, it has been on my mind. It reminds me of the two of you.” You scratch behind Ombre’s ears, eliciting a pleased purr as they rub the side of their face against yours.

“An oddly sad song to choose for a proposal dance, but considering you’re the answer to that song’s burning question, I think it can be arranged.”

You flush and let half of your eyes look at the menu, your hand still intertwined with his, and you give it a squeeze wordlessly as you take a look at your options. For some strange reason, your entire menu is exclusively eyeball appetizers, entrées, and desserts. “I’d like it to be the first song we dance to today.” You say when your full attention is back on him. “I don’t want it to be the last or the only.”

He kisses where the deal glows on your fingers. “Absolutely, nostre fiancé. I would dance with you every day if it would please you.”

“Every day spent curled around you is a pleasant enough dance to satisfy me, our majesty.”

You flush and look down at the menu in your hands again. “Did they give you a venison-heavy menu, or is every location in town forced to cater to my ocular consumption preferences today?”

“‘Forced’? Hardly, ma très chère. The whole town volunteered. This is an excuse to celebrate, and they’re all so fond of you. It was an easy and unanimous decision. You know how Rosie’s little town jumps at any occasion to party, and when I mentioned it was for us, no one in their right mind would have said no.”

You bite your lip. “You don’t prefer eyes.” You point out. “You’re partial to a nice flank of venison. I don’t even have to eat eyes.” You sigh.

He raises an eyebrow as he moves his chair next to yours so he can take your chin in his clawed fingers again. They lightly prick your skin. “I thought we weren’t going to let anything ruin our good mood, bien-aimée. I know that you don’t have to eat eyes, just as I know that you enjoy it. Edgar was your first taste of that freedom, and it fit with your persona as a sinner to continue to feed off of them, so you used it as a habit to give yourself some sense of control over your life. So enjoy them, nostre reine. Enjoy them with me, and let me see that captivating smile again.”

You take a breath and force a smile. While his words are sweet, there are too many spiraling thoughts that you’re having trouble ignoring. “Al, do you even enjoy eating eyes? Are you subjecting yourself to this for me?”

“‘Subject’ myself? Ma très chère, where has all this negativity come from? Are you feeling alright?” He runs his thumb across your knuckles. “You once told me that communication is crucial for healthy relationships, bien-aimée. So please, tell us what so evidently has your mind in a tizzy.”

A low rumble emerges from Ombre, but it’s not words. It’s almost a growl, like they’re too upset to speak.

His hand is still on your chin, or you’d look away, so instead, you let your gaze soften. You think your vision is blurring to disassociate, but it isn’t until you feel the tears falling on your dress that you know that you’re crying. “Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones. Maybe it’s the stress of seeing my uncle tomorrow. Maybe Sissela rattled me more than I’d like to admit. Maybe my brain likes to torment me. I don’t know.” You sigh and let out a bitter laugh as the tears continue to fall. “I just keep thinking: when’s the other shoe going to drop? When are they going to realize that being with me isn’t worth the effort, that dealing with my family is too much to handle? When are they going to change their minds and decide to abandon me?” Like everyone else always has?

Alastor beckons to a waiter. “We’ll be back later. Something more pressing has arisen.”

“Very good, sir. We shall await your return.” The waiter bows.

Alastor’s gaze stays fixed to your face, his hand never leaves your chin. He leans towards you to whisper in your ear. “Do you trust us, Iris?”

“Always,” You breathe out with a shiver. It’s the truth. No matter how terrified you are that they’ll leave you, how fearful you are that they’ll decide to toss you aside, to throw you away, you will never stop trusting them both. You’d let them lead you off a cliff and you’d dutifully follow, if it meant they’d continue to love you, to want you.

Alastor kisses you again, and it’s soft, gentle, and you feel as if you might break. “We are going to remind you who you are to us, our majesty.” Ombre finally declares, as if they had forgotten what words are and memories of them had just been reawakened.

The shadows surround and swallow you up, but just like always, you are unafraid, unassuming. They deposit you somewhere you haven’t been in over a decade and a half—Rosie’s guest room. It has all her usual homey touches and decor, plus the large comfortable bed you had slept like the dead within the first night she’d managed to coax you to stay. You’re about to ask why you’re here, why here, and then you see the basket of goodies in the corner. The champagne has been swapped out for something bubbly and non-alcoholic, but you’d recognize a ‘Just Engaged’ gift basket anywhere. Rosie had this room prepared for after the proposal. You flush.

“We’re going to take advantage of what she offered for us afterwards, but we’re going to use it now instead.” Alastor says as he pulls you close, kisses and nips at the bite on your neck. “You seem to have forgotten who you belong to. We’re going to remind you of that.”

You’re fully dressed, and neither of them are even touching you all that much, but you moan instantly and feel yourself start to leak. You’re at a loss for words as Ombre pushes you onto the bed and starts nipping at that same spot and the pulse point there. Alastor divests himself of his clothes as he speaks. “You are ours, Iris. You will always be ours. No matter what anyone has ever done or will ever do, you will always belong to us—curse be damned.” His bowtie hits the floor and he undoes his suit coat. Ombre nips at your ear as he says, “Open your dress for Ombre, Iris.”

A moan you don’t expect leaves your lips and you nod, tugging on the collar of your dress so it falls open for them both. Ombre palms your breasts gently and kisses a full circle around the eye between them. Whimpers spill from your lips as Alastor continues. “We will love you when you have thirty-one eyes. We would love you when you had a hundred, five hundred, or nine hundred ninety-nine eyes, and any number in between, but we will break this curse long before you would ever see such numbers.” He drops his suit coat to the floor. He starts for the buttons on his shirt and you open your legs as Ombre nips their way across your torso to your hip bones. Drool slips from your lips as you see his always-stunning scarred chest, and your hands fall into Ombre’s facsimile of hair as their tongue parts your already soaked folds.

As Alastor starts to speak again, you moan and buck your hips into Ombre’s waiting mouth. “When you cum, it will be our names on your lips.” He undoes his trousers and slides them off his hips, and you watch as he springs free once more. He crawls onto the bed and his massive cock slides against your side as he threads his fingers through your hair, pulling your head back to look into his gaze. “Do you understand, Iris?” You open your mouth to reply, and he grips your hair tighter. “No words; nod your head if you understand. The only words I want to hear are Alastor, Ombre, or ‘I’m yours.’”

You moan into the tug of his hand against your scalp. “I’m yours.” You say as you nod.

“Yes, Iris, you are. You’re ours.” He kisses your lips softly as Ombre starts to lick into you with intense, deliberate strokes that send you keening. “Ours for all time, and beyond. We proposed to you not because you aren’t ours already, but because of the wonderful nature of the formality of it. The ability to tell you in words what we crave to have for the rest of our existence is a gift that we do not take lightly.” He interlocks his fingers with yours and the deal you made glows as he nips at your neck. You moan, and he says,“Somehow it seems like you forget the deal we made, nostre âme soeur.” You whine as Ombre teases your clit with their teeth, and Alastor keeps murmuring words of devotion, those same words he’d said to offer you the deal. “‘I am yours, mon âme soeur. Just stay; spend the time you have in this existence with me.’ That is what I asked of you, and I meant it. You never would—nor ever will—tire or bore us. Such a task is impossible for you. You’re different.”

You don’t answer, but you furrow your brows in confusion, keening as Ombre finds that spot inside you. “No one has ever or will ever compare to you. They are merely words. You are poetry.” You sob as he says this, and arch into Ombre’s tongue as they take a semi-permeable claw and circle your clit with it.

“Ombre, Alastor, I’m–” You stutter, then exclaim, “I’m YOURS!” Your orgasm hits you and you wail, scream it out as you arch into Ombre’s mouth and they chuckle as you cover their face in your juices from it.

“Good girl, such a good girl for us.” Alastor croons, and Ombre cleans the mess on their face with their tongue and keeps licking into you, never stopping, never needing to stop to breathe. “Ours, always ours.”

Alastor is heavy and swollen against your hip, but as you reach for him, he takes your hands and puts them over your head, pins them with one hand, then reaches out a tentacle to do the work for him. You whine, wanting to please him. “Alastor,” you plead with the only word he’s allowed you to have, and he chuckles at your desperation.

“This is about you, nostre fiancé.” He murmurs as Ombre nips at your clit again, and you sob. “I’ll be inside you in due time. For now, just relax.” He presses his teeth to your neck and then bites hard enough to break skin. You howl as you arch into Ombre’s tongue, and Alastor drinks from the wound, uses his tongue to reel in the blood that leaks from the corners of his ever-permanent smile.

“Al-Alastor, Ombre….” You murmur as you reach impossibly closer to your second peak, “O-Ombre, Al-Ala-STOR!” You wail as you cum hard into Ombre’s mouth again, and your back bows as you shake through your second orgasm.

“Always so perfect. Always. No matter what your thoughts tell you, we will never stop wanting you, needing you, craving you. Theia, bien-aimée, you are the mother of our children. You are the love of our life. You are our everything.” He croons as you come down from your high, and Ombre drinks everything that pours from you.

As you’re breathing sighs of relief at the wave that crashes around you, Ombre slips from between your legs and kisses you. You taste yourself on their lips as Alastor licks the wound he made, then he slides down between your legs to slip his own tongue inside. You whine. “Al-Alastor…” You want his cock instead, but you will follow their rules to the game they have set. He chuckles into your folds and you groan, fighting the tentacle that still holds your hands in place.

Ombre pinches your nipples and murmurs into your ear, “I want to affix myself to your skin and never stop touching you. I want to live in your chest next to your heart so you will never forget about me. I want to carve my name into your flesh so you will never be rid of me. You are my everything. Say my name, Iris.”

“O-Ombre!” You cry out as they pinch your nipples harder, as Alastor’s tongue slides through your folds and another tentacle snakes around your legs to circle your clit. You whine and arch into Alastor’s mouth as he does, and when the tentacle hits home, you wail at the contact.

With a few broad strokes across it, he dips his tongue deep inside you, and paired with the brutalizing of your nipples and Ombre’s devastating words, it sends you over the edge a third time, wailing and whining and writhing, screaming, “I’M YOURS!” You’re muttering their names as afterthoughts, just their names over and over again as you struggle against the tentacle that holds you still. Alastor chuckles into your folds as he nips at your oversensitive skin, and you feel your body shaking with the intensity of it. When you’ve come down from your high enough to form words again, you mutter, with a soft breath, “I’m yours.”

He slides up your form to kiss your lips, and Ombre shifts aside so they’re next to him. You taste yourself on Alastor, and then they ready themself to slide into you. “Ombre!” You exclaim as they enter you first. “Alastor!” He fills you immediately after, full of the two halves of the man that you have devoted the rest of your life to, the man who you would break the world for if they asked.

“Tell us who you belong to.” Alastor commands as they both start at an achingly slow pace.

“I’m yours!” You wail. “Alastor, Ombre, I’m yours!”

You want them to pick up the pace, desperate for them to pound into you until you break, but you can’t ask. As if sensing your want, your need, they quicken their pace, and you arch into it, sobbing their names like a prayer. Ombre goes back to pinching your nipples and Alastor sinks his teeth back into your neck. A wail escapes your throat again as Alastor’s tentacles find your clit and prod at your ass again. Tears prick your eyes as you feel it slide inside you, trying to buck into it as it begins fill you so achingly slowly.

It’s their words, in unison, that send you over the edge.

“Never forget who you belong to, Iris.”

“You are ours for all of time and forever after.”

You’re a wreck, sobbing and screaming and wailing and writhing, their names leave your lips as a mantra, a prayer, the only song your mouth knows how to sing. “I’m yours; I’m yours; I’m yours; I’m YOURS!” You bellow; they cum in unison shouts of their own, and when you pass out, the eyes in the room watch them both kiss you, murmur into your flesh words of praise and devotion that would make you cry all over again if you were conscious enough to do so.

When you come to, they’re both still inside you, Alastor on his side beside you, Ombre curled up on your chest. Alastor frees your hands from his tentacle, and you wrap your arms around them both in an instant.

“How are you feeling, nostre fiancé?” He asks as he kisses that spot he’s so fond of marking.

“Better.” You murmur as you kiss them both in turn. “Thank you for reminding me to whom I belong. I’m not sure what came over me.”

“Whatever the reason and whether or not it happens again,” Alastor begins,

Ombre finishes, “We will always be here to remind you of it. Always.”

You believe them, in that moment, that they will always be there for you, always by your side. Little do any of you know, not long from now, that will not be the case.

A/N:

I return, yes I haven't abandoned this story; I know it seemed like a long time for me. Chapter 42 was misbehaving. I have wrangled it into submission, and look forward to 43.

So now we know who called Theia the day that Uncle Noctua showed up in Cannibal Town, and Theia feels a significant bit better after Alastor and Ombre's little reminder.

Chapter 40 is the wedding proposal, and everyone's reactions to it, plus an unexpected guest.

Things:

Theia has many spouses, and not just Alastor and Ombre!

In a reality in which she was in the same universe as Carla Gill from A Mother's Devotion, her eldest son, Harry, would be Theia's husband. On the masterlist, the oneshot smut snippet between these two is posted, but soon it will also include Devotion of a Thousand Eyes, the crossover story between A Mother's Devotion and The Demon of a Thousand Eyes.

In addition, I will soon post the first preview of Theia and another one of her husbands, Peppermint Patches, a crazy jester OC that my bestie from the Discord made and I immediately wanted to kill anyone and everyone for the instant I had even heard of him. He hasn't even been fully drawn yet and I would kill everyone and then myself for the little ringmaster who stole Theia's heart. The fic is called Eye Candy: All in View Time, and it is a metric fuckton of smut. I hope y'all enjoy that when it comes out too!

Ta for now!

First || Chapter 38 || Chapter 40 (soon)

[justagalwhowrites]

im pretty sure you've been asked for all the ocs at this point separately but i have a tiny pea sized brain and cant remember LMAOOO but who are your fcs for the ocs? doc/andrew/jess/derek/kristen/marta/elias/etc. (im sure im missing some)

my brain definitely manifests them a certain way but im curious to who you imagine!!

AHHH YES OMG HI!

So I left a lot of these non-existent or vague so people can plug in themselves and people they love BUT here’s who I picture 😍

Doc: I don’t really have an actor who fits her so I made this AI thing when I was thinking up the character? But I’ve pictured her as fairly petite (5’2”-5’4” ish?), small but not skinny, rounded but not thicc. Basically just the personification of softness and femininity. She’s got a lot of hair that’s wavy/curly that gets out of control easily and her personal style is the thrift shop version of Jess from New Girl. She looks like someone the apocalypse will chew up and spit out.

Andrew: my sweet baby angel! When we first meet him, he is 110% Lucas from Stranger Things. Fairly baby faced but brave in the face of it all - and still able to find happiness and joy. By the time Doc leaves the QZ, I’m kind of leaning Donald Glover? Someone mentioned they cast him as Andrew Garfield and I kinda love that too lol

Jess: Our third member of the codependency squad (who was honestly way understanding of her boyfriend/husband’s weird attachment and we love her for it) and resident comedian is, in my head, Doctor Who era Karen Gillan. Red hair, vibe of sass and strength but also naïveté (and so pretty that we can’t blame Andrew for gawking at her for months) we love her.

Derek: the good guy who might have been if it weren’t for trauma and Joel! He’s 40 year old James Marsden. Just… *chef’s kiss* Look between him, Joel and Tommy? Doc can PULL. Someone said they cast Oscar Isaac here and look… Oscar is like maybe the one man I might find more attractive than Pedro, it depends on the day BUT I cannot cast him as anything but a leading man. Oscar and Pedro can only be end game in my book (but I will accept any and all HC castings lol)

Kristen: Our favorite, competent as HELL trauma nurse! I pictured her as being unexpectedly feisty coming from a small, pretty, blonde package. Does she seem like someone you’d underestimate? Poor choice on your part but that’s her. Malin Akerman is who she is for me!

Marta: our tough still figuring it out assistant turned expert nurse! I wanted someone sweet but strong who could be both naive and brilliant, so Ana de Armas it is! Only realized just now that her name in Knives Out is also Marta lol I FORGOT THAT BUT OH WELL!

Elias: Our stalwart dogooder under the umbrella of FEDRA turned exhausted man trying to keep people alive, Elias is a kind hearted leader trying to do the best he can with what very little he has. His caring and drive I think are exemplified in Jimmy Smits - especially West Wing era Jimmy Smits at the beginning of the fic.

So yeah! That’s how I see all these lovely lovely characters! I hope this enriches or informs the reading for you. Thank you so much for reading and asking! Love you!!

[multifandomfanfiction]

Warrior of the Mind

TITLE: Warrior of the Mind PAIRING: Oberyn/Goddess!OC RATING: T CHAPTER: One-shot SUMMARY: Facing off with the Mountain, Oberyn has more than just luck on his side.

[A/N - Inspired by "Warrior of the Mind" from Epic: The Musical.]

Oberyn stepped into the arena. Today was the day he would face off against the man who had raped and murdered his beloved sister Elia and her children.

You must be careful, my Viper, her voice whispered in his mind. He glanced up at the sky.

Guide my spear, my Goddess.

Follow my instructions and you shall have your vengeance. I have guided you to this moment. You will be able to sleep at night and you will no longer require me.

I shall always require you, my Goddess. He heard her laugh.

You’ve no need to flatter me, my Viper.

Through the years, she had become more than a mentor. He saw her as a friend, as foolish as that sounded.

I want to see you again.

Win for me. Take down the man who took the one you loved the most. Then we shall meet again face to face.

Oberyn had only seen her face-to-face once in his life when he was much younger.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Dorne, there were legends of a mighty boar in the Wilds. Whoever went searching for it never returned or if they did, they soon died of injuries.

So Oberyn took his spear and went searching for the boar, despite Doran and Elia trying to talk him out of it. When he came upon a clearing, he felt like he was being watched.

“I know you’re there. Come out,” he called. He looked around, pretending to be searching for the boar until he stopped. “There you are.”

A woman manifested out of the shadows. She was dressed in a flowing white gown with hair the color of dragon fire and cool blue eyes.

“How could you see me?” Oberyn smiled.

“I couldn’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You must be very clever or very foolish to try and trick me.”

“I’d like to think I’m a little of both.”

“What is your name?”

“Tell me yours and I will tell you mine.”

Finally, the woman sighed. “I admire your wit. For that I will give you my name. I am Maean.”

Oberyn’s eyes went wide. “An Old God?”

“We still live among you. Despite what the mortal rulers of this world would have you believe.” Her eyes zeroed in on his spear. “You are a warrior.”

Oberyn expertly twirled the spear in his hands. “I don’t like to boast…”

“Dedicate your life to me and I will make you the most skilled warrior in this world.”

“Dedicate my life to you?”

“You will best every opponent if only you pledge your life and your spear to me.”

Oberyn considered it for a moment, before finally kneeling. “I pledge my life and my spear to you, my Goddess.”

“I vow to serve as your mentor until the time comes where you no longer need me.” She placed a hand on his head. “Rise, my Viper.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Oberyn was shaken out of his recollection by the thumping footsteps of the Mountain.

The trial by combat began.

Oberyn danced around his opponent, like a viper toying with his next meal. Maean talked him through it the whole time, pointing out weak spots in armor. Oberyn struck the killing blow and the Mountain fell back dead.

The arena was silent for a moment.

Oberyn threw his spear aside as Ellaria ran to him. She kissed him passionately.

Tywin Lannister stood up. “Prince Oberyn of Dorne is the winner.”

“And Tyrion is free to go?” Oberyn asked.

Tywin’s smile was tense. “Of course. You’ve won the trial by combat.”

“He’s lying,” a female voice said.

It was a voice Oberyn frequently heard in his mind. He turned and saw her there.

She had appeared out of thin air, dressed in a flowing white gown. Her neck, wrists, and ankles were draped in gold.

“And who might you be?” Tywin asked.

“I am Maean, Goddess of Conquest.” She came to stand in front of Oberyn. “You will let Tyrion of House Lannister go with peace.”

“Or what?”

A flaming sword appeared in her hand. “Or you will lose your head. Along with anyone else who stands in my way.”

Tywin and the Goddess stared at each other for a few moments before he sat down.

Maean led Oberyn, Tyrion, and Ellaria out of the arena, flaming sword in hand. Once they were safely away from any that would harm them, Maean let the flaming sword disappear.

She turned to Oberyn. “You have done well, my Viper. You no longer require my services.”

Oberyn shook his head. He knelt down before her. “I pledge my life and my spear to you, my Goddess.”

“You have fulfilled your oath.”

Oberyn took her hand in his. “I will continue to serve you in whatever way you need me. You are not just my mentor, but my friend.”

Maean cocked her head to the side, making her seem a lot younger than she was. “Friend? Gods do not have friends.”

Oberyn smiled. “You have made one of this mere mortal.”

“Friends.”

Oberyn nodded. “I hope to have the blessing of your company every now and then.”

“Very well. I shall visit you, but my obligation to you has ended. I will no longer be able to ensure your protection.”

“I think I shall manage.”

Maean smiled. She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Goodbye, my Viper.”

“Farewell, my Goddess.”

Maean faded with the wind.

Oberyn stood up and turned to Ellaria, who had a smirk on her face. “A Goddess? Oberyn, you have left me out of all the fun.”

Oberyn looked at the sky.

Even though she would no longer be a voice in his head, he knew Meaen would not leave him.

[rom-e-o]

Liable to Fall - Chapter 2 (Scrooge/OC) (Post-Canon)

Chapter 2 is here! Let the romantic tension and ghost banter continue!

Scrooge and Constance set about the awkward journey of relearning how to interact as husband and wife while his memories remain lost.

Read now on AO3

In an instant, the house had turned from an orchestra of scorched cats into a brick and catacomb of uncomfortable silence. Even the ghostly wails of the wind outside proved no distraction.

Magda and Errol tended to Ebenezer, asking question after question to the befuddled man, trying to get a gauge of where holes in his memory had been ripped. Meanwhile, the attending physician had opted to pull Constance aside to speak with her more privately.

“Temporary amnesia is quite common in cases of head trauma,” he said. The man’s hand found purchase on Constance’s shoulder, his thumb working the protrusion of her collarbone with repetitive swipes. “Why, I venture he’ll be back to his normal self before you can say ‘lickety-split’!”

“What’s the longest you’ve ever seen it last?” Constance asked, her hands grasping at her peignoir to nervously hug it tightly about her shoulders and stomach. Something about the swaddling of fabric, even with its lightness, provided a small bit of comfort. It also masked the nervous jitter of her hands.

His smile faltered for a moment. “Well, while it is extremely unlikely in this case to see prolonged symptoms, I’ve seen some cases last a few days, and on much rarer occasions, they can span weeks.”

“But … it’s always temporary?”

“For this level of trauma, yes, that period is a typical diagnosis. The only exception would be…”

“Exception?” Her voice cracked loud enough that Magda glanced over at her in concern, but this raised flag of concern was not noticed.

“Well, the exception would be – and this is a slim chance, I’ll remind you – if there is additional trauma to the brain that isn’t being indicated by external damage to the skin,” he offered, a nervous tic highlighting traces of his Polish accent. “That could complicate matters.”

“Oh.”

“But that is very unlikely!” he said again, tapping the tip of her pert nose to calm her. “The fact that he’s awake and lucid is proof of that.”

She hummed, slightly assuaged. Her lips pursed into a semi-fine line and her eyes bore holes into the buttery walnut floors, as if she was trying to manifest a more desirable answer to slip between the floorboards.

“However, I do ask that you keep an eye on him,” the physician added, glancing over his shoulder at Ebenezer, who was currently seated in one of the more cushioned visitors’ chairs that rested before his work desk. “Should any other symptoms arise, you’ll want to send for me promptly. If his forgetfulness continues, or if he experienced numbness, immediate medical attention will be necessary.”

The nervous tremble spread to her knees. Suddenly, her craving for her pain medication, which she had mostly been able to ween off since coming to London, began to flare. A telltale tightness pulled at the skin of her face, while her chest felt as if it was ballooning.

“I have a bell in my office and home with a sign proclaiming my residency, and encourage any of my clients to give it a ring if peril arises. You are no exception to that, loved one.”

With a sobering swallow, she steadied herself with a light sway. Her eyes fell shut as her chin rested upon the slope of her chest.

Concerned by her reaction, the doctor gave her shoulder a firmer grasp, in the same way one might try to awaken someone out of a deep slumber.

“I’m fine,” Constance said, offering the physician a crooked grin, “Truly, I’m fine. J-Just a bit in shock.”

“A perfectly normal reaction, given present circumstances.”

With another deep, lung-sealing breath, she felt herself touch Earth again.

“Thank you, Dr. Adamczyk,” she muttered. A hand drifted to her shoulder to take his calloused one in hers, cradling it in her hands. “I appreciate you very much for tending to us at such an unusual time of the day.”

The older man beamed, his smile lines perfectly chiseled to cradle his wide grin. “Oh, ‘tis my job, love. Pay it no mind.”

Constance thanked him and went to pay him for his services. The kind doctor attempted to talk him down from the ludicrous sum she offered, but as far as she was concerned, it was more than worth it. After all, he’d come running to help her husband, and has consoled her and even offered to revisit and tend to him in the future outside of normal shift hours. No bill was too large to pay back that act of kindness.

While she made sure he was compensated and made sure he had a carriage to help get him home, Magda was before Ebenezer, eyes boring into him as if he was a suspect and she was the interrogator.

“What is the last thing you remember, dear?” she asked, her fingers tapping his shoulder vigorously, as if she could drum up those missing memories herself. “Spare no details. If you remember anything, please speak it into the universe for us.”

“Magda, I’ve never seen you so frazzled,” Ebenezer teased lightly, hands covering hers to push them off him and gently cradle them. “I think you’re even more wound up than the time you first came here and saw that I did have pepper in my kitchen.”

“Oh, I haven’t pardoned you for that sin, dear,” she replied, her smile wry, “But please, this is not joking matter.”

A silver brow lofted. “Is it…regarding …”

His eyes flickered to the redheaded woman (a beautiful woman, he couldn’t help but notice) escorting the doctor who has aided him earlier out of the house. Second to her appearance, which alone made him blush like a schoolboy, he noticed some … interesting elements about her. First and foremost, her dress. Or, more frankly, her lack thereof – as she was dressed only in a peignoir and matching robe overtop, velveteen and boasting a gold belt fastened at the waist. She wore little to no cosmetics, and her hair was done casually. She looked more like a resident in his home than another visitor.

“You really don’t remember her?” Magda inquired. “At all?”

“I-I’m afraid not, no…” Ebenezer replied. “W-Who is she?”

“Your wife.”

Silence, then a chuckle. A nervous chuckle, accompanied by a concerned furrow of the brows. “That’s … that’s absurd. I’m fifty years old, not some young buck attending balls and galas. I’m not even looking to marry.”

“Well, you weren’t before you met her.”

Another slow blink, as if he was a slowly suffocating fish. He looked over his shoulder to steal one last glance at her before she exited the study completely. He peered at her hands, and sure enough, saw a wedding ring shining brightly on her finger.

The speed at which he looked down his at own hand mirrored that of a panicked songbird hearing the caw of a hawk in the distance. Sure enough, a match gold band glimmered back at him. A shocked laugh tumbled from his lips with the grace of falling river rocks.

“Bloody hell, y-you’re not joking.”

Magda batted him upside the head. “Of course, I’m not, you daft tit!”

While Errol rushed to take his wife’s hand, speaking in flawed but compassionate Hungarian, Ebenezer stared ahead into the middle-distance. His fingertips grazed his reddened cheek as he mulled over the heavy realization that had been loaded upon his still-sore body.

“I’m married?” he mumbled, more so to himself than anyone else, “I-I … I’m married? After Isabel, I…?”

The sound of the study door reopening startled him out of his daze, and he lofted his head to watch the woman from before reenter the room. Not just any woman, he reminded himself. His …wife.

He found himself staring at her, his mind riffling through any memory with ardent desperation. Gods, she looked so kind. So lovely. She didn’t look deserving of having her husband, or any loved one, forget her.

Then, of course, he registered again that she was beautiful. Uncannily beautiful, in all honesty, but he’d never dream of voicing that opinion. She looked out of place in a home belonging to him, some bloke who had wasted decades of his life penny-pinching. Also, her accent … was she American as well? How the hell had they even met?

“I saw the physician out,” the copper-haired woman reported as she came to a stop before them. “He told me ring him if any symptoms worsened, or if any new numbness or pain were to manifest in the coming days. Speaking of which…”

She turned to look at Ebenezer, her gaze tender and soft. Her irises were as blue as oceans from storybooks. Maker, she had freckles too!

“How are you feeling, de—Ebenezer?”

Fuck, his heart practically writhed through his chest. She looked bloody devastated, and he hated that he was the one causing a woman who he obviously loved such torment.

“I-I’m feeling much less dizzy than before,” he said honestly, tipping his head to her. “Much obliged.”

Love. Right. If they had married, then it stood to reason that they loved each other. At least, he knew that he would never marry a woman for any reason other than if he felt an undying devotion to her. The Spirits from that fateful Christmas Eve had warned him aplenty about denying the good intentions in his heart – and in the hearts of others – ever again. He was to be honorable and honest, and he’d embraced that. After so many years of denying himself happiness and joy, he���d found himself again … now, he felt oddly vacant. As if, when he looked at her, something was missing. As if she had something he yearned for, but he couldn’t place exactly what.

She smiled at the chivalrous gesture. There was a definite touch of sadness to her expression. “You’re welcome.”

After another tense moment, Magda was the one to break the metaphorical ice with a student clap of her hands.

“It’s been a long day, and I think we could use a little pick-me-up. I’ll make some pörkölt for supper,” the woman said. “Connie, dear, can you help me with preparing the gray cattle meat? I'll grind the paprika.”

“Y-Yes, of course,” she said, slightly caught off guard by the chance in topic, but not stopping it. It was clear the poor woman was in need of quite a distraction.

Connie? Ah, a nickname. So, her real name would have been…

“Constance?”

The way the woman flashed her gaze to him, it poignancy nearly stunning him to stone. Guilt jabbed at his heart for getting her hopes up, but he had to ask. “T-That’s your name, yes?” 

“Oh.” The disappointment was clear on her face, but she did try to hide it as quickly as possible as to not cause him any guilt. “Y-Yes, you’re correct. T-That’s my name.”

“And…you’re really my wife?”

The questions left his lips before he could stop it. Blazes, he could feel Magda’s gaze boring holes into his body.

“Yes,” Constance answered. Mirroring his gesture from before, she inclined her head to him in formal greeting. “I’m your wife.”

“Constance…Scrooge?”

“Constance DoGoode-Scrooge,” she said, lifting her nightgown and curtseying. “It’s…nice to meet you.”

“Smooth, old boy."

“I cannot bear to hear your insufferable comments right now, Jacob."

As if the scenario alone wasn’t enough to scald his nerves, watching himself blunder every step of way in speaking to her was painful. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t bear to leave her twice in the same day.

“Infinitely more awkward than your first meeting with her,” Marley commented, chains rattling harshly with even the softest of movements. “When she showed up in that butcher shop, hair unwashed and shivering? Panicked as a mouse in a razed field?”

“She’d just survived thirty days in the basement of some horrid boat,” Scrooge snapped.

“Yet, she caught your eye.”

“Of course, she did,” he started, rage simmering down into something more timid. That day … it was crystal clear to him. He remembered stopping in to speak with the owner about getting a treat for Prudence (her favorites were the stuffed bones), and remembering her calm, yet obviously exhausted, voice inquiring about finding work.

The moment he had gazed upon her, he knew he had to help her. There was something ethereally trustworthy in her eyes, and in the way she carried herself with such grace even after looking like she’d crawled through the trenches and gutters. In a way, she’d done exactly that.

Then, to learn she’d also survived the trip without the opium-based pain medication that her ex-husband had all but gotten her addicted to … the paleness of her cheeks and hollowness of her eyes had made even more sense.

Had it tarnished his view of her? Not in the slightest. If anything, he respected her more.

“Well, you always did have a type,” the elder ghost said, bringing a transparent hand up to examine his nails. “Curls. Blue Eyes. Freckles.”

“It wasn’t just that,” he objected, resenting the insinuation that his interest was purely because of her physical attributes (though, they certainly didn’t harm matters). “Jacob. Tell me. You watch over this house, yes?”

“I do.”

“Then you must see,” Scrooge said, “She’s a hard worker! Why, her mind is sharper than some of those old codgers at Lloyds – she could run their numbers into the ground and tally their receipts with her eyes closed.”

“All while being clumsier than a newborn fawn. Or a loose doorknob.”

Ebenezer turned with a clenched fist to clobber his partner but was halted by the sound of Marley’s loud laughter. It caught him off guard, and in one moment, he realized just how much he’d missed the man. Why, they’d spent decades together, and had been friends. Companions through and through.

“I must confess, I’d forgotten what this felt like, old boy…” Marley revealed, the gold obols on his eyes seeming to shine extra bright. “You always were sterling company. Though, I must say, you’re more of a spitfire than you used to be.”

Scrooge frowned, glaring at his partner impatiently. “More of a spitfire to you, you mean.”

“Ah, I suppose that is what I mean,” he laughed. “With me, you were always a bit of a pushover. I supposed you were just more fond of me than others, yes?”

“Well, you did mentor me in many ways,” he mumbled, “Including the habit of holding you in the highest esteem.”

Marley laughed even harder at that, and the tiniest of smirks graced Ebenezer’s face. It was a moment of respite in an otherwise hopeless scenario.

As Marley’s laughter came to a natural end, their attention was called away from conversing with each other as they observed Constance bowing to him again and making her way out of the room.

“I-I’m going to help Magda with the stew meat,” she explained somewhat bashfully as she gripped the study doorknob. “I suppose I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Y-Yes,” Ebenezer said. “I-I’ll be there.”

Smiling gently, she tipped her head to him and slid out. Perhaps it was him imagination, but she moved with an uneasy quickness.

As the door fell shut, Scrooge allowed a tense sigh to leave him.

“Ye, gods, what have I done?” he mumbled to himself, a hand smoothing the deep creases in his forehead as he slinked back to his desk chair. Completely ignorant of the ghosts moving away from the desk to make way for the mortal man, he slinked into the chair and practically collapsed.

For a moment, he laid there, silent and still; simply resting his body and mind from the event that had just transpired. After just a moment to rally himself, he shot upright and left the desk. With long-legged strides, he paced around his desk, scanning the documents that were scattered about, including the paperwork he’d been working on before his fall.

None of the names or accounts on the banknotes looked familiar to him; they must have been new clients.

Another cursory examination revealed a familiar name as a key signature on some of the final documents. He recognized his signature, as well as Bob’s, but above their side-by-side names, there was a smaller name written in loopy, meticulous script:

Constance Albany DoGoode-Scrooge, Bank Clerk & Accounts Specialist

She was his wife … and his clerk?

Thinking fast, the man bent down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. It was the space where he kept records of all his previous employees and coworkers (all two of them). He knew he had Jacob’s files, including all the legal documents from his passing, but he also had documents items such as Bob Cratchit’s initial application, as well as identification documents that were renewed annually. As expected, his file had grown sizably following his promotion.

He ventured that, if he had documents about them, he had to have …

“There!”

Sorted alphabetically in the drawer by her surname, he stumbled across her dossier. He opened it and was immediately greeted with the materials he’d used to apply for her job with. A copy of her diploma from Bradford University in Massachusetts, the results of her bank clerk pre-exams (top marks, of course) as well as other documents. Accreditation, test scores, etcetera.

Also included were her age, her upbringing, her family and personal address, and … the name of a spouse. A New York investor with their hand in many national and international businesses.

She’d been…married before him.

Beyond intrigued, he hauled the file to the top of his desk. Turning to the first document, he started at the top and began to read.

If he couldn’t remember her, then for now, the least he could do was relearn about her.

Tag List: @quill-pen, @crimson-phantom-designs, @thedivinelights, @purgratoriat, @bluestarliight, @alolaamii, @vixx-ari

Thank you all for the support! <3

[mara-xx217]

The Escapades of Gelgrish the Deep One (V Rising)- Prologue

I might have found myself addicted to this game lol. It's pretty simple but it's fun playing as an upcoming vampire lord! Gelgrish is my OC and Ventrish is my partner's~

Vampiric houses, both great and lesser, have all been broken. Across Vardoran, creatures of the night are reawakening in droves, fighting amongst themselves to regain the power that they had lost long ago. Ventrish the Vast and Gelgrish the Deep One are no exception, though perhaps they go about acquiring this power in an... unorthodox manner.

Warnings: Past Rape/Noncon Implied, Slavery, Past Animal Abuse Implied, Shitty Coping Mechanisms, Animal Transformations, Dubcon, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Mind Break, Implied/Referenced Death, Blood Drinking, Enthrallment

xxx

A young peasant girl wiped away her falling tears on the dirty sleeve of her dress. Her hands and back ached from long days of hard labour, months long ever since she was captured by the bandits of Farbane, along with the rest of her family. Like most of the women, she was subjected to the bandits’ cruel whims and their fleeting fancies. Amelie’s precious petals had been plucked away by a group of four the first night she was forced to sleep underneath the starry sky, along with those of her sisters and the other village girls that were stolen away alongside her. She hated the forest, the nighttime sounds and the drunken revelry of the bandits, the muddy-wet grounds and the smell of horses especially. Amelie worked in the stables with the beasts, ‘where she belongs’, as she was told by her masters.

Perhaps they were right… Amelie did enjoy the company of animals more than human beings, before her nightmare had begun and most certainly after the tragedy took place. Horses, cows and pigs were docile creatures, ones that she has worked with since she could walk. The smell was poor, but it was familiar, almost comforting to Amelie… The tamed wolves, though, could be vicious, but treated right and with a sliver of meat, they were much more agreeable than their shared masters. They weren’t so unlike the dogs of Dunley, be they the militia war dogs, livestock guardians, guard dogs or simple family pets. Unlike the bandits, they didn’t have a streak of cruelty. Animalistic hunger? Yes. Blatant violence and torture? No… Not that. 

The thought of the feeling of coarse fur against the inside of her thighs made Amelie shiver with anticipation. The wolves had been taken out of camp by the bandits, to hunt, to prowl around looking for rival groups and other unsuspecting peasants that foolishly decided to travel though Farbane without a militia escort. The beasts were unpredictable but they were… familiar, only unpredictable in an animalistic sense, which could be accounted for, unlike human beings who were cruel for cruelness sake. 

All Amelie could think about was the sick thrill she felt as a rough tongue ran against the slit in between her legs… It was so easy to convince a dog to please a human being, even when they were still wild and changed by the dark powers that once ruled the world. Amelie knew it was wrong of her, but she didn’t do these things to harm the dogs! She only wanted a little comfort… Something gentle and sweet and honest instead of what the bandits did to her on a nearly nightly basis. 

These thoughts distracted her from her nightly duties. Bandits came and went, along with other peasant girls, even her own mother and sisters, but Amelie sank back into the stables, hiding herself in an empty stall as she leaned against the wall with her right hand up the skirt of her frayed dress. Was it really so bad, in the face of all the hardships that she faced…? Sensations persisted in ways that were shameful, but Amelie could do nothing to stop them from manifesting. She rubbed the tips of her fingers into the nub that always made her see stars. It was different when she did it, or if a wolf licked it, than it was when a man touched her down there. Amelie knew that it could be pleasurable, but it would never be so with them.

“P-Please… Please just- j-just…” Her voice was a barely audible whisper, quivering as her mouth filled with saliva. Her fingers were wet and her toes curled as her heels dug into the soft, manure covered floor underneath her. 

CRUNCH

CRUNCH

One of the few remaining horses began to nicker nervously, snorting and huffing as it vigorously threw its head up and down as its eyes widened. Amelie immediately withdrew her hand, body trembling as she picked up her pitchfork and began to pick at the dirty ground. The steps were light, with an awkward gait that was too constant to be a bandit, most of which were drunk at a time like this. Amelie kept her head down, but strained her eyes so she might see who had decided to pay the stables a late night visit. 

“H-Huh…?” 

To Amelie’s surprise, there was no man standing outside of her stall, but rather a wolf. It was unburdened by any armour and had some of the darkest, thickest fur that she has ever seen. As dark as midnight and glossy, even in the dim light that shined through the cracks of the stable. Its eyes shined in the light, a yellow-green that was nearly featureless in the way a predator’s gaze always was. Instead of growling at her, it merely observed her, regarding her with a calmness that would be displayed by a beast that was known to her.

Was it known to her? 

“H-Hey… Hello, there…” Amelie clicked her tongue as she leaned against the pitchfork. She examined the wolf, wondering how it managed to sneak into camp. Maybe the bandits are extremely drunk tonight… The horses were sidestepping nervously, falling silent but still eyeing the wolf with fear and apprehension. Against her better judgement, Amelie shuffled closer to the stall door, slowly reaching her hand out so the creature could take in her scent, if it wished to do so. 

Perhaps it would take offense, lunging for her throat and kill her where she stood? Would it be such a terrible way to go? The wolf’s ears twitched, its lips curling slightly as Amelie moved too fast for its liking. She froze in place, expecting to be attacked but the beast’s nose flared as it tasted the air, leaning forward as it took in her scent and taking a few cautious steps forward as it decided if Amelie was foe, food or friend. She sighed in relief and even giggled softly as the wolf licked at her right hand.��

“O-Ohh… Who’s a good boy, hmm?” Amelie cooed softly as she leaned the pitchfork back up against the wall. She gasped as she timidly ran her fingers through the wolf’s fur, in awe of how soft it was to the touch. It was nothing like the beasts that the bandit’s employed, almost seeming… regal, in a way. Well-bred and not at all something that should be- or would be found- running around the Farbane. The wolf grumbled as it continued to approach her, crowding her uncomfortably close and with enough vigor that Amelie nearly lost her balance as she stumbled backwards towards a pile of stinking straw.

“W-Woah-! E-Easy now-!~ Hahaha…!” The wolf began to wag its tail, ears pressed down against its head as it blinked up at her in the way a loyal beast would at its master. It whined at her, snuffling and huffing as it sniffed at her skirts. It caused Amelie to become ticklish and giggly, especially as the wolf became more and more… forward as time went on.

“H-Hey-!~” Amelie gasped as the wolf shoved its snout in between her legs. Her heart jumped into her throat as she felt the beast’s cool nose press into her core. In a slight panic, Amelie tried to push it away, just enough so it wasn’t so unashamedly there, but the creature was stubborn and instead found its way underneath her skirts, its hot breath against her inner thighs and causing her to squirm and moan softly under her breath.

“W-Well… Y-You don’t have to… B-But- O-Ohhh?!~” Amelie didn’t have much in the way of undergarments on, the bandits had told her that she no longer had a ‘need’ for such things. It was something she found utterly humiliating but at this moment, she didn’t mind so much. 

The wolf’s tongue repeatedly dragged against her bare sex as it lapped at her. Amelie struggled to control her breathing, squirming on the pile of straw as she dug her fingers into the beast’s pelt. So soft and thick… Amelie moaned as the wolf’s tongue briefly slipped into her, rubbing against her entrance before being dragged all the way back up to the nub that made her legs kick out against her will. 

“T-This isn’t… This isn’t- O-Ohhh….~” It didn’t feel real. The beast had more dexterity than any human man that Amelie had ever experienced. Her mind was becoming fuzzy and blank, the reservations that she had about doing this with an animal yet again quickly fleeing her mind as the coil in her gut tightened and tightened, until her back was drawn up like a bowstring and her legs splayed open wide. 

Amelie had two handfuls of the wolf’s fur, just behind the ears, that she pulled towards her core as she approached her peak. It slipped in between her fingers, tangling in between them as something began to change. It was too much to consider… The wolf’s mouth twisted, shrinking as its face flattened and ticklish fur was replaced by soft, smooth, cool skin. Lips wrapped around her sex, applying suction that made her hips buck and a shudder to wrack her body as the tension in her lower abdomen suddenly snapped in two as a low groan reached her ears from the valley of her thighs.

“O-OHHH-!!!~” 

Hands gripped her thighs, pulling her hips flushed against a face that was buried in her womanhood. Amelie was cumming, pulling on two fistfuls of hair, not fur, as she locked her legs around a humanoid head. A soft but deep hum reverberated deep inside of her core. A head of midnight dark hair poked out from underneath the skirts of her dress, swiftly accompanied by a pair of ruby-red eyes that reflected harshly off the dim light and seemed to nearly glow with a light of their own. 

“Hmm…~ Such a sweet taste… Only a refined lady would have such an exquisite flavour~” A pearl white smile was flashed up at Amelie that put her on edge. There was an ethereal quality to the man in between her legs- or was it indeed a woman? With features so soft yet so angular, Amelie genuinely couldn’t discern the gender of her nighttime visitor though… Did she even care? 

“A- A… refined lady…?” Her pupils were blown wide and her mouth hung open, panting slightly as the stranger crept their way up her body. 

“But of course. It is plain for all to see. Even to one with the most uncritical of eyes…” The stranger fluttered their long, thick eyelashes up at Amelie, and it made her stomach curl in delight as they looked down upon her. 

She never thought herself disagreeable to the eyes, but she was certainly poorly looking, rather plain and uninteresting through and through with her mousy brown hair, sun kissed skin and doe-round eyes. A smattering of freckles covered most of her face, reaching down her shoulders to her forearms and even down to her bosom. Amelie blinked in rapid succession, looking up owlishly but quickly remembering herself and the position she was in and looked away from the lordly looking stranger. They hummed again and situated themself in between her legs, an audible gasp escaping her mouth as she felt something hard rubbing through the cloth of their soft trousers. 

“Would such a lady allow a lowly wolf such as myself to lay with her…? Would it please my lady?” The stranger purred as they- no, he- kneaded at the soft but toned flesh of her thigh. Amelie’s head swam with warm, clouded thoughts of lust as she bit her lip, not hesitating to nod eagerly as she felt the man free himself from his cloth confines and press his manhood against the soft folds of her sex. 

“A-Ah…~ Y-Yes, m’lord! Yes…~ I-It would please me… It would- M-Mmm-!~” Amelie’s eyes fluttered shut as she felt a pleasant hardness grinding against her little nub. The man smiled above her, something that was far more gentle than the bandits that took turns tormenting her nightly alongside her other family members. 

“Hmm…~ ‘My lord…’ Yes, I am your lord. And you are my lady…” He cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb against her warm skin. Amelie’s eyes lit up with recognition. Never before has such words been spoken to her. Lady… She, a lady…? Her eyes fluttered and she took in a breath of surprise as she felt him pressing against her core, not crossing the threshold but coming close to doing so.

“You want it…? Truly, my lady…? Ah- Your name. I do not know your name… nor you mine.” He clicked his tongue but did not pull away from her womanhood, much to her relief. 

“What is your name, my dear?” Amelie grabbed the front of his coat as she answered.

“A-Amelie! I-It’s Amelie… A-Ahh…~” Her eyes slipped shut as that pleasant spot was again rubbed against. The man hummed, knotting his fingers into her hair as he took in her name. 

“Yes… Very pleasant to the ears… Amelie… My lady Amelie.” Hearing her name spoken from such a beautiful mouth made her shiver with delight. He tapped her on the cheek with his thumb, causing her eyes to flutter open.

“My name is Gelgrish… Gelgrish the Deep One.” Amelie sighed softly.

“‘Gelgrish… Such a regal name… Ah- ‘The Deep One’...? E-EEEEKK!!!~” 

Amelie screams in pleasure as she is suddenly filled to the hilt with Gelgrish’s cock. He sighs pleasantly, humming as he feels her soft walls tighten around him. She was soaking wet and accommodating to him, in spite of the fact that he was larger than the bandits she had taken on a nightly basis for months. Gelgrish held nothing against her, rather, he was pleased that she was already learned in the ways of indulging oneself, both in regards to one as an individual as well as men and women separately and together. 

“Mmm…~ That’s it, my lady. You take me so well, as a lady well should.” He grunts as he pulls his hips back, snapping them back in place with enough force to rock Amelie’s body skyward. 

“O-OHHH-!!!~ M-MMM-! M-LORD-!!!~” 

A chorus of moans left Amelie’s mouth as she was fucked, not slowly, as she expected a lordly man would but rather fiercely and with a primal, animalistic need to fully dominate her, mind and body. It was startling to her, overwhelming her in the majority of her senses. The pressure in between her legs grew to its breaking point once again, causing pleasure to overflow from within and to further dirty her dress. Amelie locked her legs around Gelgrish’s waist, a low chuckle hitting her ears as he tugged her modestly sized breasts free from the confines of her loosely fitted dress. 

“W-Waaait-!!!~ T-That’s-! N-NGGGH!!!~” Amelie threw her head back into the straw, moaning sweetly as Gelgrish took one of her hardened nipples into his mouth. 

“Mmmm….~ So sweet… Every part of you is so very sweet, my lady…” He licked her nipple with the broadside of his tongue, humming as he switched over to the other side.

“I- I-!~ Ohhh!!!~” Amelie felt his teeth graze against the soft skin of her breast. Her toes curled and her hips followed his every movement, deepening his thrusts and grinding against his lap whenever he tried to pull away from her. 

“Heh, so precocious. Is this how a lady fucks her lord? Or is this how a whore fucks her patron?” 

The question took Amelie off guard. She tightens around Gelgrish, dazed and confused as she struggles to lift her head up so she could look at him. 

“W-What…? I- I don’t-? EEEKK!!!~” 

Again she squeaks, scrambling to wrap her arms around his neck as she is picked up off the straw pile and held aloft. With a single hand he is able to balance her small body onto his cock, effortlessly bouncing her up and down the length of his shaft as he brushes the hair out of her face and holds it behind her head so she is unable to hide the pathetic facial expressions she was making. 

“I knew you were something special, ever since I laid eyes on you… I could tell you were nothing like the others that were brought here, certainly nothing like the rest of your family, your sisters-” 

“P-Pleeeaaassseee…~”

“-your mother.”

“N-Nooooo….~” 

Amelie fluttered around him at the mention of her family. The looks on their faces, the sounds they made every night… It was too much for her to bear! A chaste kiss was placed onto her cheek, a stark contrast to the hard pounding she was receiving from below that nonetheless made her shiver with anticipation. 

“You are such a special girl… Bright, cute… a fast learner…” Gelgrish purred into her ear. Amelie flinched away from the intimate contact but her head lolled back and her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she found herself cumming yet again. 

“Your masters broke you in well. I do so enjoy when my little darlings are already well trained…~” Every time something terrible came out of his mouth, Amelie would tighten around him and tumble over into another climax. It felt so- so wrong yet hearing it spoken so plainly made her feel good. 

“My lady Amelie would do anything if it would please her master, would she not? She would see to it any time of the day, during any task she sees herself to-” Something was butted against inside of her that made Amelie throw her head back in delight. 

“-she would even fuck the animals, would she not? Even though she was not taught this-” 

“P-PLEEEAAASSSEEE, M’LORD-!!!~” 

“-but rather found her own indulgence in the matter all on her lonesome!” Gelgrish chuckled as he ground her petite body against his cock. Amelie was weepy faced and red, with tears and saliva and snot streaming down her face as she hiccuped in between sobs and moans of pleasure. 

“Oh, sweet little Amelie…~” Gelgrish cooed as he wrapped both his arms around her waist. Amelie panted, trembling as he rested his cool forehead against her feverish one. 

“Will you be mine? My sweet little lady, who will heed my every beck and call and give herself to me, mind, body and soul?” 

Gelgrish’s long eyelashes tickled Amelie’s as she looked at him through heavily lidded and tear filled eyes. Did she even have to debate such a thing? She nodded wordlessly, sniffling and sobbing as she felt her body weight pulling her flush down onto his thick cock. Gelgrish’s thin pupils were suddenly blown wide, a sharp inhale causing Amelie to flinch before she settled back down with a muffled moan. 

It was exactly what Gelgrish wanted to hear.

The poor peasant girl’s fate had been decided long ago, even if she hadn’t realized it. To ask if a vampire lord would be a worse master than a rogue group of bandits would be to ask if death by burning alive or freezing to death was the worse sentence. It was foolish to consider, as a swift end would always be preferable to a drawn out suffering, but vampires are always the default answer, and rightly so. 

Gelgrish sunk his fangs into Amelie’s tender neck, groaning as he felt himself pulsing inside of her. She wordlessly whispered to herself, unintelligible and silent as her windpipe was held soundly in between his vampiric jaws. There was no real reason why he chose her, out of all the peasants in the camp, in all of Farbane, really. He just quite liked the look of her as she laid beside her mother and sisters, and he rather enjoyed the scandal of her luring the bandits’ war wolves away in the night so she could pursue her own creature comforts.

Heh- 

“Mmhmm… ‘Creature comforts… Yes, I will have to remember to tell ‘trish this once we return, don’t you agree, my dear?” Amelie was pulled off his cock and lowered to the ground, weak in the knees and looking dazed and confused. She was only partially under his thrall, too weak to fight against his commands, if she would even dare to do so if she was not. Her dress was askew and she was still mostly exposed, something Gelgrish remedied with delicate fingerwork as he righted the shoulders of her dress and smoothed down her skirts. 

“There- Much better, wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t wait for Amelie to answer before he walks out of the stall and out underneath the night sky. 

“Come along, little lady! And watch your step! It would displease me to see you ruin your dress more than it already is.” 

The moon was a waning crescent, hidden behind a layer of clouds as Amelie staggered out of the stable. The ground was especially wet outside, in spite of the fact it had not rained for many days. The ground was littered with strangely shaped lumps of all sizes. Amelie had to pick up her feet to avoid tripping and falling, even stumbling a few times as one of her feet caught on the obstacles in her way. A smell of blood was in her nose but it left her feeling calm instead of panicked. 

Her blood? Or was it someone else’s? 

It did not matter to Amelie, much like it did not matter that she stepped over bundles of cloth and long skirts. Her body ached from hard labour and her muscles burned from the passions of sex that still dripped down from her core. All she could keep her eyes trained on were the locks of thick, midnight black hair that wafted sweetly in the wind as her lord stepped before her. It did not matter that she wouldn’t see her family again, all that mattered was that this place would fade from her memory and whatever Gelgrish wanted would take its place… 

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @cherrysodalite, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine, @memoryofheather @horny-3

[iravaid]

💤 🩹💯🎮🖊️ - for (alleged) babygirl Lee 🥰

LEE KINSEY MY BALDING PRINCESS!!!! Amazing excellent. He is in fact a babygirl, a sopping wet sad, incidentally hyperviolent, one 🥰

(this ask meme, for context)

💤 SLEEPING SIGN — is your oc a light sleeper or a heavy sleeper? how are their sleeping habits?

Leander Kinsey has not had a full night's sleep in years and he is a very light sleeper. Watch out! Local man plagued by nightmares of a wolf eating his face sleeps with a knife under his pillow!

🩹 ADHESIVE BANDAGE — does your oc have any physical and/or mental disabilities?

He has chronic migraines babey!! They can make him physically ill every now and again and that motherfucker Still has to go to work because it's 1920-whatever!!

Lee's also got a lot of issues surrounding the violent life he was brought up in, and in turn got immersed in when he left Virginia. It can manifest in hypervigilance and aggression, but Lee also has dogshit self esteem and no sense of self, and that in turn stunts his emotional development.

💯 HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL — share three random facts about your oc that others may not know.

Nice tits. and rack, love it. Shout out to Gen who wants Lee to squeeze into an anachronistic pair of jorts 🫡

Lee learned about the Origin of the Species from an ecologist he was hired to transport from the National Academy of Sciences in DC, to the Sonora in order to study gila monsters. The ecologist was worried rival academics would try to steal his work, and so hired what he believed to be the scariest guy in the bar to keep him safe. Odd little adventure for Lee, and he's long forgotten the name of the ecologist (who has certainly not forgotten about Lee)(don't worry about that), but at least Lee found out more about hogs.

Lee's full first name, Leander, is inspired by the poisonous plant oleander. His mother's name was Isabella, like belladonna. His brother was named Syracuse and his father Abraham, biblical names. The family was always meant to be divided down these lines. There's a relatively large age gap between Lee and his older brother, due to issues with conception and fertility. When Lee was born, he was a small and quiet baby, which was offputting to his parents, and people believed he wouldn't make it past adolescence. Abraham had no interest in Lee, as Syracuse was an early bloomer and grew to be tall and broad, therefore proving useful.

Isabella resents getting the 'scraps' (Lee) very deeply, and Lee has a vivid memory of his mother standing over him as a child, when she thought Lee was asleep. Lee doesn't know whether or not she was debating smothering him, and he never found out, either.

🎮 VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER — what are three of your oc's favorite hobbies?

He likes. uh. hold on let me check the file. So, he likes staring at the wall of his shitty,, musty shack at 2am when he's too exhausted to think and there is a moment of blessed silence. He might pick up whittling one day, but he doesn't think he's all that coordinated enough to make anything of value.

Lee doesn't think he's much of a person right now, so he doesn't have the mental and physical energy to dedicate time towards hobbies, BUT, if things go well and he gets the space to heal and grow and such, I can see Lee slowly learning how to play the fiddle.

In another life, I can also see Lee keeping pigeons. They're sweet little things and they don't ask for much in exchange for a little softness. I'm also very charmed by the thought of a man with hands like his own holding a small bird that trusts him implicitly, unaware Lee is scared of crushing it.

🖊️ BALLPOINT PEN — does your oc have any tattoos? do they want any (more) tattoos?

He doesn't but I wish he did 😔 They're not mister Kinsey's style, but I did play with the thought of him having a chest tattoo of a snake or eagle, in the style that was popular back in the day.

Thank you for the ask!! Buzzing to talk about ocs... tha beasts...

[dates-with-the-void]

Hi, can you do a Kha’Zix 🐝 + 💙Soulmates?

Man I should have done this sooner cuz your ask literally hit me with inspiration! (Also I love the fact Kha'Zix was the first one, very fitting I'd say)

I was thinking over what soulmate trope I wanted to do, and I just got stuck on the idea of sharing each other's aspirations. Which would be cute in hindsight but given who the soulmate is might raise some problems down the line X'D

Hope I explained it decent enough, and sorry if it is rather vague. I want it to be so its easier for anyone to insert themselves (OCs, self-inserts or personas) into these things, if anything I would like for these to inspire you guys to take the ideas and run with them if they hit a cord in you. So, hope I accomplished that

Anyway though, enjoy~

-

Aspirations

In this world, your soulmates are determined by aspirations.

Everyone has things they inspire to be, what they wish to accomplish for themselves, what pushes them forward and so forth.

You have your own aspirations, as well as your Soulmate. You just share a similar drive in accomplishing each other's aspirations with each other.

Often times the aspirations compliment each other, like an artist and an architect.

Sometimes they are completely opposite to each other, like a fisher and a scholar.

You were...different to say the least.

At first things were relatively normal when you were a child, the only thing that stood out was the fact you didn't seem to be trying to follow another aspiration alongside the one you developed.

It was eventually ruled out by your parents and peers, you might be one of the very few who never get a soulmate.

It wasn't until you've gotten a bit older, and you (alongside the town bullies) got locked up until everyone's parents arrive did this other aspiration kicked in.

One day this drive to become stronger manifested in you, you wanted to become better than who you were currently. Not just at your craft/talent, but physically too

You also wanted to learn how to hunt suddenly as well, not just to provide for yourself- but just for the thrill of it and to prove you could do it.

It was quickly deduced to be the aspiration of your Soulmate that pushed you to be a hunter obsessed with self-improvement- which was a unique aspiration for where you grew up (the obsession part anyway).

While your parents were thrilled with you finally having a soulmate, they were concern with the aspirations of them considering how it affected you.

You still had your original aspiration, if anything it was magnified by your soulmates. Your skills improved significantly with it just because you wanted to be The Best.

Your techniques and methods changed a lot too, making it hard for people to follow how you even accomplished what you did.

You were considered a prodigy, given how others with your aspiration would be well in their late adult years, you far surpassed them with just becoming a young adult.

But your soulmate's certainly overpowered yours to a degree. You wouldn't be where you are now if not for their tenacity of change.

After a point, either you yourself, your soulmate, or the both of you had the drive of seeking each other out.

Even with his aspiration fueling you to be a hunter, you were leagues behind him and you wouldn't have found him if he didn't want you to.

You were pinned and subdued before you even realized what happened, with a sadistic laugh soft at your ear.

It was fortunate for the both of you at least, he preferred to play with his food, or else by the time Kha'Zix had realized you were his supposed soulmate was when he diced you up, and the faulty directive he had inside him faded with you.

[encrucijada]

oc questions tag.

tagged by @coffeeandcalligraphy ! thank you, rachel <3 i decided to do this one about piedad narváez from keeps staring and i'll never fall asleep.

5 words to physically describe your oc (do you have a drawing? even better!)

freckles, scars, fair, sharp, light-eyed (we're counting it as one)

i don't have drawings of piedad (unless you count this one my sister did). but i do have a fc for them! lydia graham. and here are some other photos that have their vibe

who inspired your oc?

piedad started as a percy jackson oc so first step was picking a godly parent for her. from the start i wanted it to be a muse because i knew i could give her some orpheus-like powers. i ended up going with urania because ✨stars✨. then because of the nature of my rps with @lethed-of-all i had to find a fc and just... randomly decided it would be lydia graham? then i gave her a violin because as a child of a muse she would need an instrument and i was listening to lindsey stirling at the time so naturally ballet summed to her aesthetic. things slowly developed naturally from there. i did more research on urania for piedad's powers and found out premonition was plausible. and long story short now she's the physical manifestation of fate in i'll never fall asleep <3 i'm not sure where the knives came from, though. i think it might have just been a vibe check that went well with her slowly establishing aesthetic. probably a result of me deciding the bow of her violin could turn into a stiletto knife.

give me a song to define your oc

oh man i can give you a couple of songs. recently i realised most of piedad-core songs are some form of "will someone please make me feel something" while adam songs are more "will someone please pay attention to me". so do with that what you will

shatter me by lindsey stirling (started it all. somebody make me feel alive then shatter me)

gasoline by halsey (quintessential in i'll never fall asleep. and all the people say: you can't wake up, this is not a dream. you're part of a machine, you are not a human being)

kairos by eden (the things only i know... i just keep waiting for kairos. fun fact! kairos is a greek word that means something approximately to "perfect time to do something")

love is a... by pvris (just put your hands around my throat, ain't been to heaven but i'm close)

circles by eden (this is my life i will not run in circles, ending where i start. so hold onto to me we'll burn down slowly)

if i met your oc on the street how would they greet me?

with strangers, piedad keeps her distance. would not initiate the interaction but would give a polite smile and greeting. with people she knows it's a bit of a range but usually she goes for a hug with her friends.

can your oc be your best friend? why?

i don't know lmao. i don't think so. no reason other than vibes i don't think we would connect enough to become best friends. maybe something like... coworkers or classmates that get along.

1 adjective and 1 noun to describe your oc

starry & blue. i dunno, piedad is just very silver and blue in my mind. with some green from her eyes.

and i'm tagging @onomatopiya @saltwaterbells @teddywriting @cannivalisms @moonssugar @cream-and-tea and anyone else who might want to do this!

[daydream-cement]

Hi! If you're still looking for prompts/requests to do with Fern X Larissa, I would love to see maybe the two of them walking around Jericho on a date or something and getting heckled because they're outcasts?

Also this might be a weird question but do you have a Kofi or a tip jar or something like that?

Freaks

Larissa Weems x OC (Fern Rogers)

Authors Note: This was an adorable little idea! Song for this oneshot would be Spurs by Madeline Edwards.

For those that don’t know, I have Buy Me A Coffee. So if you would like to buy me a coffee and support what I do, that is greatly appreciated.

“Sunday we could go over to Burlington. I’ve heard they have a new exhibit at the Fleming Art Museum…” Larissa suggested, after you asked what they should do for the weekend. You had been dating for a few weeks and everything was fresh and new. You were excited to do anything together.

“I saw something about that in the paper. The Dark Goddess photographs or the Rockwell Kent drawings?” You respond. It was the beginning of December and snow had yet to fall. It was probably a little too cold for a walk, but you and Larissa were enjoying a stroll through Jericho anyway.

You pulled yourself against her arm, happy to enjoy the warmth she exuded. Both of your hands gripped her bicep while her spare hand still carried a coffee from the Weathervane. While she didn’t enjoy public displays of affection, she couldn’t deny she loved having you close, “Dark Goddess, but I wouldn’t be apposed to Rockwell. You know when he was-“

Larissa’s sentence was stopped short when she noticed two men blocking your path. Their glares made their malicious intent evident. Your hands grasp at Larissa’s arm, communicating your nervousness at their presence.

Larissa didn’t seem phased. She continued walking, pulling you along with her. When Larissa attempted to move around them, that’s when they became confrontational, “Where do you think you’re going?”

The taller and skinner of the two spoke up, his glare focused on Larissa, “You’re a couple of them freaks from that school, aren’t you?”

You glance up at Larissa wondering what she would say to them. It wasn’t like her to tolerate slander against any outcast. Her lips remained pursed and she stayed silent.

“We teach at the school.” You state, lifting your chin to display a heightened level of confidence. You didn’t want to let them see you waver.

They seemed to ignore your words, continuing a discussion between themselves. They wanted you to hear their bigoted words. The stout man spoke up, “It’s a shame these freaks end up being attractive. That’s how they trick normies into making more of them. Happened to the sheriff, I heard.”

Their words made you cringe in disgust. How could someone speak such vitriolic words?

“I don’t know. The little one looks normal enough. What’s your power, freak?” They finally turn their attention to you and silence permeates the air between you. Now they wanted you to speak. You could see the clouds of breath that manifested in the space between you all.

You knew you had the opportunity to walk away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead you chose words that would upset them and Larissa as well. You kept your voice steady and monotone, even though you were nervous to fight back, “The ability to do your mom.”

It was so childish, you knew that well, but these men weren’t interested in having a discussion about outcast/normie relations. No, they just wanted to make you both feel small and lesser. You saw no problem in your words.

“Fern.” Larissa pulled her arm away, not enough to break your grip, but enough to get your attention. Her tone was a warning. It was too late. You said what you said.

“He asked.” You remained steady in your words, not letting Larissa shake you either. The men had obviously been taken aback and were thrown by you taking a bit of power back from them. You watched them glance at each other, looking for the other to come up with something to say.

Instead of finding something to say back to you, the stout one led the way, pushing past you. The tall one moved past Larissa, choosing to spill her coffee which slashed on her shoes. Larissa was quiet in her reaction, but you heard her words, “Oh, my new shoes…”

You feigned like you were picking up her cup, but your hand reached into the dormant grass nearby. You focused past Larissa’s legs onto the moving feet of the men. Much to your delight, you watched the grass near them churn and move. Roots moved from the ground grasping at their shoes, just enough to trip them, sending them tumbling to the ground. The roots then slithered back into the ground to enjoy their dormancy. Larissa didn’t see what you did, but did spin around to see the two men on the pavement, trying to salvage the rest of their dignity.

“Must have been uneven pavement,” You shrug and pick up the now empty coffee cup and lid, “Come on. I’ll buy you a new coffee.”

You loop your arm through Larissa’s, pulling her along with you, but her eyes remained on the men, scanning the pavement. Larissa tried hiding a satisfied smile. She noticed that the concrete looked perfectly fine, leading her to doubt your reasoning. She shook the feeling, trying to forget about the men.

Her hands came to rest on your bicep now, bringing up your words from earlier, “Ability to do your mom? What are you? 12?”