#the scarred among the mundane

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Scarred Among the Mundane Masterlist.

Finn is an arsonist and exiled elf. Verne is a sorcerer. Practicing sorcery on humans is banned, but who’s going to care what happens to an elf? When Finn falls into Verne’s prison hands, every day is a new day in hell until other people begin to take notice of the screams echoing inside the sorcerer’s castle. If Finn thinks rock bottom is being Verne’s test subject, he’s dead wrong. It can and will get a lot worse.

Now, he’s no longer sure he wants to look at his own reflection.

— —

Captivity. Fantasy whump and an elf whumpee. Some truly nasty torture. A gradual breakdown and loss of self.

— —

(cws in the individual posts)

burning stuff

repercussions

What a Beautiful Day: The day starts out great and then gets so much worse. Finn meets Verne. Absolute chaos.

Fate Worse Than Death: Woohoo, pull out the pillory. Finn threatens to burn down the village. Thing cannot get worse for him. Sike.

Welcome Home: Local sorcerer lives in creepy castle with her dad (a skeleton). Has all sorts of fun things (lying) planned for Finn.

Bad Blood: Verne tries out her theory on Finn. Lots of screaming, lots of blood.

Flinching: There’s a metal table with restraints— oh god—

Not Actually Vivisection: but it’s awfully close

Sunlight and Skeletons: Nice try Finn, but you can't escape that easy

Table Turning: introducing a jerk and another jerk. yay.

tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @sunshiline-writes (lmk if you want to be added/ removed)

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

i don't know if you do platonic yanderes , but I want to request how platonic yandere gambit would be with a darling

BLACK SHEEP.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Remy LeBeau x Mutant! Reader. (Platonic Fic)

¿Request? Yes!

This is a Headcanon!

warnings ⸺ mdni! Dark themes, violence/death, blood, insolation, invasion of privacy, scars, delusion, Angst, ¿OOC Gambit? Idk, fights, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

sinopsis ⸺ Marked by a past of solitude and betrayal, his affection for you is a poisonous blend of devotion and control, always teetering on the edge between tenderness and obsession. For Remy, you are everything, his only family, and losing you would mean his ruin... so he will do whatever it takes to keep you by his side, even if it means locking you in a cage made of his possessive love.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish is—Thank you for placing the order! I really appreciate your trust and enthusiasm. Your support means a lot to me, and I’m excited to work on it. If you have any specific ideas or details you'd like to include, please feel free to let me know.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... actually knew who you were before you even exchanged a glance. Charles Xavier, Beast, and Logan talked about you often, in conversations filled with worry and caution. Your destructive powers had isolated you, and it was a tragic accident that took your parents' lives while they tried to protect you from yourself. That story resonated with him. A broken soul, chained to a gift that society did not understand nor could accept. Remy was always drawn to broken things; they were like pieces of a puzzle he needed to complete. The first time he saw you, hidden among the bushes in the garden, covered in dirt and fear, his heart beat faster. He knew that the moment he reached you, he would never let you go.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... was not intimidated by the hurtful words you threw at him, desperate attempts to make him leave, to protect him from you and what you were capable of. “Don’t touch me!” you shouted, with tears that dared not fall from your eyes. But he did not move. Instead, he smiled softly, that mischievous, almost playful smile that hid a dark depth that few could see. “Cher, Gambit isn’t going anywhere. You don’t scare me. In fact, I think you and I are more alike than you think.” The words sounded soft, almost hypnotic, as if they were designed to disarm you. And, little by little, they began to work.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... slipped into your life without you realizing, appearing in the most mundane moments, when you tried to find a bit of peace in the chaos of your existence. At first, he did it subtly: he listened as you lamented about your family and your life before your mutation, his jacket over your shoulders when the cold hit you, or staying with you in that corner. He made sure you saw him as someone trustworthy, someone who wouldn’t back away out of fear. But always, in the background, there was something more. A glimmer in his eyes that told you his presence was not merely accidental, that he was watching.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... used his story to soften you, to connect with you on that deeper level that always seemed inaccessible. He knew you were broken inside, hurt by the loss of your parents and consumed by fear of your own power, so little by little, he began to open up. He told you how he too had been an outsider, an orphaned boy raised on the streets of New Orleans. How he had been rejected even by those who took him in, feared for his own gift, a gift he could not control either. “Tu sais, I wasn’t always like this, chérie,” he would say with a melancholic smile, as his fingers played with a deck of cards. “Everything i am now is because Gambit had to learn to survive. In this world, if you don’t have anyone, you are nothing.” And with every story he shared, you felt the wall you had built begin to crack. Remy, with his soft words and warm gaze, was slowly digging into that shell you had fought so hard to maintain.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... made you feel less alone, but never in the way you desired. He knew when you were about to break, and there he was, holding you before you could fall. “You can’t get rid of me so easily, chérie,” he whispered as his hands found yours, strong but gentle. He made you feel safe, but there was something suffocating about his constant presence, something you could not name.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... began to take up more space in your life, even in your most painful moments. When your nightmares woke you up at night, sweaty and echoing with the explosions that never stopped resonating in your mind, he was there. You didn’t ask how he knew you were awake, nor why he was always so close. But his touch, his soft words, wrapped around you until the terror dissipated, only for another kind of unease to grow in its place. “You’re never going to be alone again, Gambit promise you,” he said, almost like a vow.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... started to make you doubt everything. When you tried to pull away, when you wanted to put distance between your destructive powers and those around you, he whispered in your ear: “No one else is going to understand you like I do, chérie. No one else can bear what you carry inside.” His words sank into you like sweet poison, until the idea of being without him began to seem more terrifying than the idea of destroying everything around you. Who else could face your power? Who else would keep loving you after everything you had lost?

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... carefully decided who you could associate with, selecting only those he considered “safe.” He encouraged you to get close to Jubilee, with her sparkling and carefree energy, because he knew that she posed no threat to his control. “Elle est bonne pour ti, chérie. She has a good heart,” he would say when you saw her, and little by little you convinced yourself that he just wanted what was best for you. Ororo was also welcome in your little circle; her calm, motherly nature made him feel that she was not a dangerous influence. And of course, Rogue was always nearby, though you could never shake the feeling of tension between her and Remy. He justified her presence by saying they were old friends, but there was something in the way he looked at her when you were around that made Rogue keep her distance, while Morph, Bobby, and others like them were completely off-limits.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... whispered words of comfort in your ear when your darkest memories suffocated you. “It wasn’t your fault, chérie. Your parents didn’t know what they were doing, but I did. I would never leave you.” And though those words should have eased you, there was something in his tone that made you feel trapped, as if there were no escape from the invisible cage he was building around you.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... didn’t want you to associate with people who could “corrupt” your view of the world. Bobby tried to talk to you once, casually, while you were in the kitchen. His easy smile and relaxed nature made you laugh, something that didn’t happen often. But it wasn’t long before Remy noticed. “What was he doing with you, huh?” His tone was as smooth as a knife's edge, his eyes burning with something you hadn’t seen before. “I don’t like you getting close to him.” And though you knew that wasn’t true, you felt the coldness of his control wrap around you. The situation exploded when Remy and Bobby ended up in a violent fight, sharp words and barely veiled threats exchanged until Jean and Scott had to separate them. You, however, saw him as a friend, someone who could help you forget for a while how dangerous you were. But over time, even Bobby began to avoid you, and the few friendships you had dwindled down to those Remy approved of.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... enjoyed the simple things with you, those that seemed harmless on the surface. He liked to take you to shopping malls, where he could walk beside you and make sure you felt safe, but always under his watchful eye. “Choose whatever you want, ma belle. Whatever it is, it’s yours.” He let you pick out clothes, books, little decorations for your room. But even in those moments, there was an underlying control. The options he offered you were carefully selected; he made you feel you had freedom, but it was always within the limits he set.

Yandere Remy LeBeau who... loved to see you smile, and one of his favorite ways to achieve that was by playing board games with you. He was charming, relaxed, and playful during those moments. “Allez, chérie, you’re going to have to try harder if you want to beat me,” he challenged you while a carefree laugh filled the room. Those were the moments that made you doubt, that made you think that maybe Remy just wanted what was best for you, that his closeness was a good thing. When you laughed, when for a second you forgot your destructive powers, he looked at you with devotion. But behind those crimson eyes, there was an insatiable hunger, a need for control.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... took his time decorating your room, making sure everything was to your liking, but always with his touch. “It’s important that you feel comfortable, mon coeur,” he would say as he placed a soft lamp by your bed or adjusted the curtains so that the light came in just as you liked it. But even here, there was a shadow of possession. The things he chose for you always reflected his own taste, his vision of who you should be. It was not just your space; it was a reflection of his influence over you.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... could not stand the idea of anyone else entering your intimate life. The thought of you falling in love with someone else filled him with a silent fury. “If you ever find someone,” he said in one of those moments where he seemed casual, almost brotherly, “it has to be someone Gambit approve of. Someone who will take care of you like I would. Not just anyone can be with you, chérie.” And even though he said it with a smile, there was something in his tone that chilled you. You couldn’t imagine Remy sharing that control with anyone else.

Yandere Remy LeBeau who... as time passed, that possibility grew even more distant. The few attempts you made to get close to someone were sabotaged before they could blossom. Remy made sure that any connection broke before it could grow strong. He would tell you it was for your safety, that your power made you too dangerous to be with anyone. “They can’t handle what you are, mon amour. But I can. I always will.”

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... hated it when you rebelled against his control, when you tried to challenge him and do things your way. The arguments began with soft words and gentle warnings, but soon intensified when you refused to obey. One night, you tried to go out alone to practice your powers, tired of feeling constantly watched. But before you could get too far, Remy intercepted you. His hand gripped your arm tightly, his eyes shining with a mix of fear and rage. “You’re not going out alone, chérie, not like this.” His grip was rougher than you expected from him, and you tried to break free, but it was in vain. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is. I won’t let you take that risk, I can’t.” His words were severe, his tone more dominant than usual. But when he saw you trembling, when he saw the fear and frustration in your eyes, his hardness faded, replaced by a desperate plea.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... immediately apologized after those episodes of harsh control. He hugged you tightly, his trembling hands, as if he feared you might disappear at any moment. “I’m sorry, ma belle,” he murmured against your hair, his voice filled with remorse. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I can’t lose you. Not after all we’ve been through. You’re all I have.” In those moments, when his hardness crumbled and only a broken man remained inside, vulnerable to the fear of losing the only person who meant something to him, it was hard for you to push him away. His need for you, that connection that made you feel like you were his anchor, enveloped you, confusing you. Was it love? Was it protection? Or something much darker?

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... never let conversations about other guys last long. If he saw you interested, he subtly changed the subject or found a way to make you feel guilty for even thinking of opening up to someone else. “Personne ne te comprendra jamais comme je le fais.” His words became more intense over time, more definitive. The world outside, he told you, was too cruel, too fragile for you. But he, he was your refuge, the only constant.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... felt deeply affected the first time you went on a mission with the X-Men. He knew this day would come, but he wasn’t ready for the unbearable anxiety that invaded him. “I know you can take care of yourself, but I can’t help but worry,” he had told you before you left, with a carefree tone that hid how much he hated the idea of you exposing yourself to any danger. But when you returned, injured, all trace of his usual charm disappeared. His gaze burned with a fury and desperation you hadn’t seen before. “Merde, chérie! What did they do to you? Who did this to you?” He enveloped you in his arms protectively, almost suffocating, as his fingers traced the cuts and bruises on your skin. You could feel the tension in his body, as if he were on the verge of exploding.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... went mad when he saw you hurt, his mind filled with images of what could have happened if you hadn’t returned. “Je ne veux pas te perdre,” he said in a hoarse voice, almost inaudible, as he held you tightly. “You are my family. You have no idea what I would do if something happened to you.” There was something dark and disturbing in his words, in the intensity with which he held you close, but you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in his desperation. It was as if, in his twisted and possessive love, Remy was capable of doing anything to keep you safe.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... did not allow his possessiveness to ruin the moments of tranquility you shared. On quiet nights, when you lay in bed, emotionally exhausted, he was there, sitting in a nearby chair, watching you with that mix of devotion and control. “Dors bien, ma belle. I’ll be here to take care of you.” And though those words should have comforted you, sometimes you felt as if those invisible walls he had built around you closed in a little more each night.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... always found a way to soften his behavior after moments like those. He took you to quiet places, away from the tensions of the mutant world, to strolls through the mall or parks where there was no immediate danger. He loved to see you laugh, as if that could erase any trace of the darkness that lay between you. “Look, ma chérie, this is how it should always be, right? No worries, no fears.” And in those moments, when it seemed like it was just you and him, you could forget, at least for a while, how invasive his presence had become.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... never let you forget that, for him, you were family. He constantly reminded you how alone he had been before meeting you, how you had filled a void in his life that no one else could fill. “I don’t know what I would do without you, ma chérie. If you ever drift away from me, if I lose you...” He never finished the sentence, but the weight of those words needed no ending. It was a warning, a reminder that his love for you was so intense that any possibility of losing you pushed him to the brink of despair.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... had a special way of softening his manipulations, of making you feel that everything he did was out of love, for your well-being. After a fight, he would always come back with a repentant smile, hugging you and telling you he never meant to hurt you. “Je suis désolé,” he whispered, with a tenderness in his voice that left you speechless. “But, mon coeur, you don’t understand. Gambit can’t live without you. You are my family, the only thing I have.” And though you knew there was something unhealthy in all of this, his words pierced deep into your heart. You had lost so much, and while his love was suffocating, it was also the closest you had to feeling loved.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... looked at you as if you were a broken work of art, one he was determined to rebuild, but only in his image. And, in his mind, he did it out of love.

A/N ─── I love you, Remy, you're divine, I don't care what anyone says. Now, I adore Remy, he's charismatic and handsome, what more can I say? I love writing in French. Although I’ve had some less pleasant experiences with the language and culture, in Remy's case, French sounds almost like a caress. It's part of his essence!

He has that irresistible charm that makes him stand out, not just for his looks but for his heart full of complexities. Who wouldn’t fall in love with someone who, despite living in the shadows, always tries to bring light to others?

If you have any problems knowing the meaning of a phrase in French, tell me in the comments and I will be happy to answer you.

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

[sweetlyvibe]

PAIRING : Obito Uchiha x Reader

WORD COUNT : 4.6k

GENRE : Angst / Comfort

SUMMARY : After surviving the Fourth War and being pardoned, Obito meets someone who accepts him despite his scars and past. Jealous of another suitor, Obito believes he has no chance, leading to a heartfelt confession.

CONTENT/WARNING : emotional trauma , self-esteem issues , jealousy and insecurity , fear of rejection

REQUEST : yes!!

The whispers of his survival spread like wildfire through the village. Obito Uchiha had returned—scarred, humbled, and deeply regretful. Pardoned by the Hokage after his role in ending the war, he now roamed the village quietly, helping rebuild the destruction he once caused. Despite the acceptance of some, others couldn’t look past his crimes. He didn’t blame them.

And yet, among the faces that stared or turned away, there was you.

You were a fellow Leaf ninja, a few years younger than him but seasoned in your own right, carrying your share of battle scars both seen and unseen. War had left its mark on everyone, but there was a quiet resilience about you, a determination to rebuild in ways that didn’t just apply to structures but to people as well. That was what led you to cross paths with Obito.

The day had been hot, the kind of sweltering summer afternoon that made sweat bead along your brow within minutes. You had been assigned to help at a construction site near the village outskirts, assisting with repairs to buildings damaged during the war. It was grueling work, but you didn’t mind; there was something cathartic about seeing broken things pieced back together.

You hadn’t known Obito would be there. To be honest, his presence had surprised you, even unsettled you at first. There were still hushed conversations about him—people wary of his return, unsure if someone with such a dark past could ever truly change. But when you saw him that day, hammer in hand, hauling heavy beams like it was nothing, he didn’t look like the man the rumors painted.

He looked tired.

It wasn’t the kind of tired that came from physical exhaustion, though the sweat dripping from his brow suggested he was working harder than anyone else. No, it was deeper than that—a bone-deep weariness that settled in his shoulders, weighed down his every movement. His face, marred by scars that told stories you could only imagine, held an expression so neutral it felt unnatural, as though he was trying not to be noticed. But it was his eyes that tugged at your heart: one dark and brooding, the other hidden beneath the curve of his forehead protector. They carried a profound sadness, an aching guilt he seemed to wear as a second skin.

Despite his quiet demeanor, there was something about him that intrigued you. It wasn’t pity that drove you to approach him—far from it. You saw a man who had been to hell and back but was still here, trying. That resilience, that flicker of humanity buried beneath the weight of his past, pulled at something deep inside you.

At first, your interactions were brief. You’d pass him tools or work alongside him in silence, not wanting to intrude. But you noticed how he always went above and beyond, taking on the hardest tasks without complaint, as though punishing himself through sheer effort. So, you started small.

“Hey,” you said one afternoon, holding out a rice ball wrapped in cloth. He had been working for hours without a break, his shoulders taut with tension. “You’ve been at this all day. Take a break.”

Obito hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the rice ball. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

“Maybe,” you replied, refusing to back down, “but even heroes need to eat.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—confusion, perhaps even amusement—but he took the rice ball. That small gesture broke the ice.

From then on, you made it a point to share lunch with him when you could. Sometimes you’d talk about nothing in particular—mundane things like the weather or the progress on the repairs. Other times, you’d catch glimpses of his dry humor, quick-witted remarks that left you blinking in surprise before laughing. You learned to recognize the subtle quirks of his personality: the way his lips twitched when he was holding back a smile, the rare moments when his eye softened, the low chuckle he gave when something genuinely amused him.

Slowly but surely, he began to open up.

Your lunches turned into longer conversations, and those conversations eventually extended beyond the construction site. You found yourselves meeting up after work, whether it was for a walk through the village or quiet moments shared at the training grounds. There was something easy about being around him, even though you could tell he was still guarded. He didn’t speak much about himself, but the way he listened—truly listened—when you talked made you feel seen in a way that few others could.

What stood out the most was how he never treated you as fragile, even when you mentioned your own scars, both physical and emotional. He didn’t offer hollow reassurances or tell you to move on. Instead, he met your words with quiet understanding, as though he knew all too well what it meant to carry that weight.

And yet, you never pressed him about his past or his scars. It wasn’t because you didn’t care—you cared more than you’d ever admit aloud. But you understood that those were wounds he wasn’t ready to revisit, and you didn’t want to risk pushing him away. Instead, you treated him as he was: a man who had faced his demons and was trying, every day, to move forward.

That was what you admired most about him—his determination to rebuild, not just the village but himself. To you, Obito wasn’t a man defined by his mistakes or his scars. He was someone who had been to the brink and chosen to return, and that choice, that strength, was what mattered.

Unbeknownst to you, your unwavering kindness and acceptance were slowly chipping away at the walls Obito had built around his heart. He began to look forward to your time together, though he didn’t fully understand why. All he knew was that when you were near, the crushing weight of his guilt felt a little lighter, and for the first time in a long time, he began to wonder if he might deserve a second chance—not just at life, but at happiness.

But those thoughts terrified him, too.

And then there was Genma.

The kind of man everyone seemed to like, Genma Shiranui was charming, confident, and effortlessly sociable. His laid-back demeanor and sly grin made him a favorite among your peers, and his quick wit ensured he was the center of attention in any conversation. He carried himself with a relaxed ease, a senbon always dangling casually between his teeth, as if nothing in the world could phase him.

It started innocently enough. Genma would join you during breaks or during missions, offering easy banter and teasing remarks that made the others chuckle. He had a way of turning the most mundane topics into something worth laughing about, and it wasn’t long before people began to notice the way he lingered near you.

“I think he likes you,” one of your friends teased after Genma had walked away, flashing you a crooked smile over his shoulder.

You laughed it off at first, brushing the comment aside. But as days turned into weeks, it became clear that your friend had been right. Genma wasn’t just hanging around—he was seeking you out. His teasing turned playful, his compliments grew more personal, and his invitations to spend time together became more frequent.

It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, Genma’s attention was flattering, and his company was enjoyable in its own way. But your heart was already leaning toward someone else, someone quieter, someone whose laughter was rarer but infinitely more precious.

Obito.

He was the one you looked for at the end of a long day, the one whose presence steadied you even when words weren’t exchanged. Genma might have been the easier choice, but your feelings for Obito had grown roots, deep and steady, and no amount of charm could sway them.

Obito Noticed

How could he not?

Every time Genma leaned toward you with his easy smile, cracking a joke that made you laugh, Obito felt a pang in his chest—a sharp, familiar ache he couldn’t ignore. The way Genma’s hand would linger on your shoulder during conversations or how your laughter came so freely around him made Obito feel small, like a shadow at the edge of a warm, glowing light. He clenched his fists tightly at his sides whenever he witnessed those moments, the tension in his body coiling until his muscles ached.

He noticed everything, no matter how much he told himself not to look. The way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the way Genma’s casual charm seemed to draw you in. And though he never saw anything in your gaze that suggested you were interested in Genma, the doubt gnawed at him. After all, why wouldn’t you choose someone like that?

Obito clutched at the edges of his cloak, his knuckles turning white. He hated the way his mind twisted simple interactions into something more. Every laugh you shared with Genma felt like a dagger, and he cursed himself for caring so much.

What could he possibly offer you?

The thought was like poison, spreading through his veins until it consumed him. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing comparisons. Genma was confident, charismatic, and easygoing, while he—Obito—was a man haunted by his past, his sins carved into his very skin. He wasn’t whole—not physically, not emotionally. When he looked at himself in the mirror, all he could see was the broken, scarred reflection of someone who didn’t deserve happiness. How could someone as radiant as you want to be with him?

Genma, simply was everything Obito wasn’t. Unburdened by guilt or regret. People gravitated toward him naturally, drawn to his humor and ease. It didn’t matter that you didn’t seem to reciprocate Genma’s flirtation. In Obito’s mind, it was only a matter of time before you did. Doubt whispered cruelly in his mind, twisting every interaction you had with Genma into evidence that Obito could never measure up.

And then there were the whispers.

“They’d look good together, don’t you think?”

“Genma’s always had good taste.”

“Finally, someone caught their attention!”

The words echoed in his head long after he overheard them, like stones added to the heavy wall he was building around his heart. Each comment reminded him of what he believed was inevitable: that you and Genma would end up together, and Obito would be left standing on the outside, as he always was

It wasn’t just Genma, though. It was also Rin—or rather, the memory of her.

For years, Rin had been a symbol of everything Obito had wanted but could never have. She had been his light in a world that often felt unbearably dark, and her loss had shaped him in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

For so long, he’d clung to her memory, convinced that his feelings for her were eternal, unchanging. But now, looking back, he realized that what he’d felt for Rin had been rooted in who he was as a boy, not the man he had become. She had been kind, gentle, and nurturing, but those were memories of her, not the reality of who she might have grown to be.

It wasn’t that he loved Rin any less—he always would. But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped feeling the sharp, gut-wrenching ache when he thought of her. Her smile no longer haunted him; it comforted him. She had been a part of his journey, but she wasn’t his destination.

That realization had been both freeing and terrifying. It left him vulnerable, his heart open to new emotions he hadn’t dared to explore in years. And it was you who made him feel that way again.

You weren’t like Rin. You were bold and unyielding, a grounding presence in a world that still felt uncertain to him. Where Rin had been a dream of his past, you were real. You saw him—not as a hero, a villain, or a victim, but simply as Obito. And that terrified him even more than the idea of losing Rin had.

Because this time, it felt real.

It started with small excuses. When you invited him to lunch after working together, he’d mutter, “Sorry, I’ve got something to take care of,” brushing past you without meeting your eyes.

Then, his absences became more noticeable. Where once he’d linger near the training grounds or meet you for tea in the evenings, he was nowhere to be found. And when you did manage to catch him, his responses were clipped, his usual dry humor replaced with a cold, distant politeness that felt like a slap in the face.

At night, lying awake in his small, sparsely furnished apartment, Obito stared at the ceiling, the storm of emotions inside him threatening to tear him apart. His fists clenched and unclenched as he replayed every moment he’d spent with you, every laugh and every glance that felt too precious to hold onto now.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he told himself one night, his voice harsh in the quiet. “She doesn’t see you that way. She shouldn’t.”

But no matter how much he tried to bury his feelings, they refused to die. He’d never realized just how deeply he cared for you until he saw Genma step into the picture. The jealousy that burned in his chest was unlike anything he’d felt before, raw and unrelenting. It wasn’t fair to you—or to Rin, for that matter.

Rin.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he thought about her. If she were here, she’d probably scold him for wallowing. She’d tell him to stop running from his feelings, to stop hiding behind his scars. But was he ready for that? Could he truly allow himself to admit how he felt about you when he couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling ashamed?

His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face, his scars rough against his fingertips. He wanted to believe that he deserved a chance at happiness, but the doubt was suffocating.

He knew he liked you. That much was undeniable now. But confessing? Letting himself hope? That felt like stepping off a cliff with no guarantee of a safety net. It was easier to pull away, to retreat into himself, than to risk rejection—or worse, acceptance.

Because what if you did feel the same way? What if you chose him, only to realize later that he wasn’t enough?

And so, he stayed silent, letting the wall between you grow higher, even as it tore him apart inside.

It had been weeks since you’d last spent more than a few fleeting minutes with Obito, and the growing distance between you was driving you mad. You had replayed every interaction in your head, searching for some mistake, some moment where you might have done something wrong. But nothing stood out. If he needed space, you could respect that—but not without understanding why he suddenly felt the need to shut you out.

At first, it was little things. You’d ask him to join you for lunch, only to be met with muttered excuses.

“Sorry,” he’d say, not quite meeting your eyes. “I’ve got something to take care of.”

He’d leave without elaborating, and you were left staring after him, unsure of what had just happened.

Then his absences became more pronounced. The moments that used to be yours—quiet talks near the training grounds, evening tea, or even casual conversations after missions—were gone. Instead, you were met with clipped responses and fleeting glances. His usual dry humor, something you’d come to treasure, was nowhere to be found.

“Obito,” you’d call out, hoping to catch his attention, only for him to give you a distracted nod and walk away.

And yet, despite his efforts to pull back, there were moments he couldn’t quite hide. You’d catch him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking, his eye clouded with an emotion you couldn’t place. But the second you turned to meet his gaze, his expression would harden, and he’d look away, his jaw tightening as if the sight of you physically hurt him.

It was maddening.

You couldn’t understand what had changed, but you knew you couldn’t let this go on. Whatever was troubling him, you needed to know. You needed to help.

One evening, after yet another day of avoidance, you finally reached your breaking point.

You found him near the edge of the village, sitting on a stone wall overlooking the forest. The setting sun painted the scene in soft, golden hues, but the tension in the air was anything but serene. His shoulders were hunched, and his head was bowed, his hair casting shadows over his face.

“Obito,” you called, your voice firmer than usual.

He flinched at the sound of your voice but didn’t turn to face you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“Why not?” you countered, taking a step closer. “Because you don’t want to explain why you’ve been avoiding me?”

He sighed, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Obito,” you said, crossing your arms. “You’ve barely looked at me for weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” he said quickly, his voice sharp enough to cut.

“Then what is it?” you demanded, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “What changed? Did I do something wrong?”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the tension in his jaw. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he muttered, his voice so low you almost missed it.

“Then tell me what’s going on,” you pressed. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Obito. I can’t keep wondering what I did to make you push me away.”

For a moment, he was silent, his fists tightening until his knuckles turned white. Then, finally, he looked up at you, and the pain in his single visible eye took your breath away.

“It’s not about you,” he said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and something softer, something more vulnerable. “It’s about me.”

“Then explain it to me,” you said, your tone softening. “Because right now, all I know is that you’re shutting me out, and I don’t understand why.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, his voice laced with self-loathing. “How could you?”

“Try me,” you challenged, stepping closer.

He looked away again, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. “Do you know what it’s like to want something you can’t have?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion.

“You,” he said, the word escaping him like a confession. He looked up at you, his eye filled with equal parts longing and despair. “I’m talking about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak.

“Obito…” you began, but he cut you off, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t say anything. Just let me finish.”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I’m not…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I’m not the kind of person you deserve. I’m broken, scarred—both inside and out. My past is a mess, and it’s always going to be a part of me. Someone like Genma… he’s better for you. He can give you everything I can’t.”

“Genma?” you repeated, your voice filled with disbelief. “You think this is about Genma?”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his voice rising with frustration. “I see the way he looks at you, the way he makes you laugh. Everyone else sees it too. They think you two are perfect for each other. And why wouldn’t they? He’s everything I’m not.”

“That’s not true,” you said, stepping closer. “Obito, that’s not true.”

He laughed bitterly, his hands clenching into fists again. “Don’t lie to me,” he said. “I’m not blind. I see the way people look at me. Like I’m a reminder of everything they want to forget. Like I don’t belong.”

“That’s not how I see you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’ve never seen you that way.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, his eye searching yours for any hint of deceit. What he found instead was something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for: sincerity.

“I don’t care about your past,” you said, your voice steady despite the emotion in your chest. “I care about you. The person you are now. The person who’s trying to move forward, even when it’s hard. That’s the person I want to be with.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said finally, his voice shaking.

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you replied, stepping closer until you were right in front of him. “And I mean every word.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his own trembling slightly. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared of losing you. Of ruining this.”

“You won’t,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure it out together. But you have to let me in.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his hands unclenched, and he let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll try,” he said, his voice raw with emotion.

“That’s all I ask,” you said, smiling softly.

And as the tension between you began to ease, And in that moment, Obito realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry the weight of his past alone anymore. He felt a flicker of hope—a hope he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

After that evening by the stone wall, you could feel the tension slowly melting between you and Obito. It wasn’t immediate—trust, especially when it’s been broken, doesn’t come easily—but the small steps you both took toward each other started to matter.

One afternoon, you found Obito sitting at the edge of the village again, this time not as a place to isolate himself, but to think. You approached him slowly, the familiar weight of silence hanging in the air.

“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice gentle.

Obito looked up, surprised, but smiled faintly. “It’s… fine.”

You settled next to him, your shoulders brushing for just a second. It wasn’t much, but it felt like something—something warm.

“You’ve been looking out at the sunset a lot lately,” you commented softly, “Is it peaceful?”

He nodded. “It makes me think.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” he said simply, his gaze on the horizon. “About mistakes. Things I’ve done. Things I could have done differently.”

You nodded, unsure of what to say. “I think… no matter how hard we try, we can’t change the past. We can only learn from it.”

He glanced at you, then, his expression softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “But sometimes it’s hard to move on when the past doesn’t want to let go.”

You reached out, your hand resting on his. He stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed, his fingers curling around yours. There was a silent understanding between you, a shared comfort.

As the days passed, you and Obito started to spend more time together—simple moments that became significant. One evening, after a quiet dinner in the village, you suggested a walk. You knew he’d been keeping to himself a lot, and you wanted to give him space to talk, if he wanted to.

The path through the village was lit by lanterns, their soft glow making the night feel peaceful, almost magical.

“You know,” you started, “I never really got a chance to ask you about your past. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?”

Obito’s steps faltered, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But instead, he stopped walking and turned to face you.

“It’s not a story I like to tell,” he admitted, his voice low. “It’s messy… painful. But I think it’s time you knew.”

You stopped, looking up at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Obito. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. I’m here.”

He let out a shaky breath, his hand gently resting on the back of his neck. “I was once someone different. Before all of this… Before the war. I had dreams, I had friends. But it all fell apart. I became someone I didn’t even recognize.”

You took a step closer, your heart aching for him. “But you’re not that person anymore, Obito. I see you. The real you.”

He met your gaze, and for a moment, his eye softened. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never had someone look at me like that before.”

Weeks went by, and your bond with Obito continued to deepen, but there were still moments of hesitation. One night, you noticed that he seemed particularly distant during dinner. You weren’t going to let it go this time, not after everything you’d been through.

Afterward, as the two of you sat outside under the stars, you finally spoke.

“Obito, what’s going on?” you asked softly, your voice sincere. “You’ve been pulling away again.”

He sighed deeply, his gaze fixed on the sky. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this… ready for something like this with you.”

“Something like what?”

“A relationship. You deserve someone who can give you everything… I’m not sure I can be that person.”

You reached over, gently brushing your fingers against his. “I don’t need perfection, Obito. I need you. Just you.”

He looked at you, and for the first time, his eyes were completely open. No walls. No hesitations. “I’m scared of hurting you,” he confessed.

“Then don’t,” you whispered. “I’m not asking for you to be perfect. I’m just asking for you to be here with me.”

He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting. “I’m still learning how to be… better. For you. But I’m trying.”

“I can wait,” you said, your voice unwavering. “As long as you’re trying, that’s all that matters.”

4. Building Trust, One Step at a Time

In the following weeks, your relationship with Obito grew more comfortable. You spent more time in the village together—doing mundane things like walking through the market, sharing small meals, and simply talking. But those moments, those quiet, normal moments, became your favorites.

One afternoon, you found him fixing his cloak by the training grounds. He looked up when he heard you approaching.

“Do you need something?” he asked, his usual guarded expression still there, but with a hint of warmth in his eyes.

“I wanted to thank you,” you said, stepping closer. “For letting me in. For trusting me.”

He blinked in surprise. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you replied. “But I think it’s important. I’m grateful for you, Obito. And for everything we’re building together.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. It was a small smile, but one that spoke volumes.

It was a quiet evening again, the two of you sitting side by side beneath the trees in the village. It felt different now, like the bond between you had solidified into something deeper, more meaningful.

Obito turned to you, his expression softer than usual. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

You looked at him, curious. “What is it?”

His voice faltered slightly, the nervousness evident. “Would… would you be willing to let me be your boyfriend?” He didn’t look away, his gaze unwavering despite the vulnerability in his words. “I’m not perfect, and I know I’m not always easy to be around, but I want to try. I want to be with you.”

Your heart swelled in your chest, and for a moment, you could hardly believe it. This was the same Obito who had once pushed you away, the same one who had been so afraid of letting anyone in.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice full of certainty. “I want that too.”

And just like that, everything shifted. Obito leaned in, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, lingering kiss—a promise of more to come.

✎ . . . If you liked this please leave a like, comment and reblog to support me and my works! <3

[yndrgrl]

dilf! katsuki bakugou x fem! reader headcannons

quirkless! au. lowkey yandere. dom! katsuki.

warnings: nsfw, age gap, size kink, swearing, face slapping, daddy kink, multiple creampies, breeding kink

✧ dilf! bakugou is a sex god among men, to put it lightly. it was strange seeing such a good-looking man doing such mundane tasks like waiting for his coffee.

✧ dilf! bakugou first noticed you as the regular barista who takes his order every time he comes in.

✧ dilf! bakugou is well aware of his godly looks. he is also well aware of how you give him just a bit more attention than the other patrons.

✧ dilf! bakugou notices how you give him just-a-bit wider smile or when you utter his name while jotting it down on the cup.

✧ you couldn't help but fantasize about your customer, dilf! bakugou. how could you not? his golden hair was streamed with grey, scars adorned his skin, & he was just such a gruff man who could take care of anything for you.

✧ you'd spark up unnecessary conversation with him, something you never do with other customers.

✧ one day, dilf! bakugou mentions his kid, & you deflate.

✧ it's not like anything was going to happen between us, you rationalized, shooting him a smile as you gave him his coffee. you wished him a good day, & ultimately gave up on trying to impress him.

✧ dilf! bakugou noticed this almost immediately. just a day ago you couldn't bare to lock eyes with him, & now you can just stare at him with a polite smile? what happened?

✧ dilf! bakugou was so handsome, rich, & fortunate that he could have any woman in the world, but all he wanted was his cute, young barista.

✧ it was a particularly busy morning, the next time he decided to come in.

✧ dilf! bakugou zoned out as he waited for his turn to order, to see your pretty face. he was motionless until he heard the conversation between you & the customer right before him.

✧ "oh, so you're single?" he asked. "yeah i am, why?" you asked back.

✧ you were innocent & oblivious to just how good you looked, even with your hair messily thrown up & in your work apron. it made dilf! bakugou only want to ruin you more.

✧ "i'd love to take a cutie like you on a date tonight," the other guy told you with a smirk. your face bloomed red. "um-"

✧ before you had a chance to respond, dilf! bakugou barked, "some of us are in a hurry, kid! order your shit, & leave."

✧ the guy talking to you scoffed at dilf! bakugou, calling him an old man before turning his attention back to you. "i'll pick you up after your shift."

✧ "you're not actually gonna go out on a date with that sleaze, are ya?" dilf! bakugou questioned even though the other guy wasn't out of earshot.

✧ "i don't know," you answered with a shrug & a laugh, "i haven't decided yet."

✧ "don't waste your time. guys that age don't know how to please women like you." & with that said, dilf! bakugou walked to the waiting area for his coffee, leaving you to think about what he might've implied.

✧ at the end of your shift, you still haven't decided whether you wanted to go on the date or not.

✧ it's not like you had a choice though. dilf! bakugou already made up your mind for you.

✧ you come out of the back with your bag slung over your shoulder & your apron off when someone stood in your way.

✧ "you're not gonna go on a date with him," dilf! bakugou told you, but you thought it was a question.

✧ you laughed, "well i'm not getting any younger, i gotta get some action." dilf! bakugou wanted to throw up at the thought of you getting any attention from anyone other than him.

✧ "no, you're not going on a date with him. you're coming with me."

✧ that's how you wound up inside of his pent house with him in between your legs, grazing your thighs with his lips.

✧ "wh-what about your son-"

✧ "at daycare."

✧ "what about your wife?"

✧ "i don't have a wife," he said, watching your tense posture relax. so that's what was holding you back, he thought.

✧ he kissed your wet heat through your panties, then, with his teeth, pulled them down. he maintained eye contact with you the entire time.

✧ dilf! bakugou knew what he was doing, it was clear as day. he was the best you'll ever have. all those other boys will never compare to such an experienced man

✧ dilf! bakugou lapped your juices, circling his tongue around your clit, & fingered your hole in preparation for him.

✧ "you think you can handle me, hm?" he questioned once he made you cum all over his face & fingers for the third time.

✧ dilf! bakugou stood up on the edge of the bed with your legs -barely- wrapped around his waist, still awaiting an answer. "c'mon baby girl, answer me."

✧ all you could do is nod. you were slipping into a mind-numbing state with drool dribbling down your chin & mascara running down your cheeks.

✧ dilf! bakugou raise his hand & lashed it across your face. you gained consciousness back as he growled, "if you can't handle this, i will find some other pretty girl who can." that was a lie, he just wanted to see you jealous.

✧ "n-no! i can be your good girl, daddy."

✧ even more blood rushed to his cock when you called him that. dilf! bakugou couldn't help but smirk over your quivering figure.

✧ he ravished your body as soon as he stuck his big dick inside of you.

✧ he loved watching your brain turn into mush as you moaned, "sl-slow down daddy! you're t-too big for me."

✧ & it was true. dilf! bakugou was nearly 300 lbs of pure, natural muscle, 6 ft 5, & was manhandling you the entire night.

✧ when he wanted to switch positions, he'd simply pick you up like you were nothing & force you into what he wanted.

✧ now you were held up by him, arms around his neck, scratching at his back while he carried you.

✧ your juices mixed with his three cream pies he gave you dripped onto the floor-- not that either one of you cared.

✧ the first cream pie he gave you was while you were cumming from his abusive missionary

✧ the second was when you were bent over the bed, taking all of his forceful thrusts until they became jagged & sloppy, spilling his seed into you.

✧ the third was when he took you from behind in front of his full length mirror. one of his large hands dug into your hip while the other was grasping your hair, pulling you up.

✧ by this time, you were in a permanent state of pleasure. you eyes crossed & your tongue hanging out of your mouth cum flowed down your thighs like a waterfall.

✧ "d-daddy, i want more~"

✧ "you want more what, cum dumpster?"

✧ "make me a mommy! fill me with more cum! i want your babies!" you don't even know where his came from. before dilf! bakugou, you had no desire to have children. you were just trying to finish your sophomore year of college.

✧ dilf! bakugou wanted nothing more than to impregnate you though. make sure no other man even thinks that you're single. he wants you swollen with his kid while he takes care of you.

✧ dilf! bakugou demanded as he pounded your pussy, "tell me you're mine forever, baby girl~"

✧ "i-i'm yours forever, daddy!" you screamed through thrusts & your orgasms. you assumed it was all pillow talk until you saw that dark, possessive look dilf! bakugou shot you.

✧ "that's right, y/n. you're mine, only i can take care of you."

[llondonfog]

a little something based on this eldritch horror!silver concept because you lot encouraged me

Lilia knows that there must have been a time before the boy.

A time when he lived his quiet life in the woods alone, trapped in the same, mundane drudgery over and over again, as if the rhythmic pattern alone would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay. A time when he kept to himself at the fringe of society's gaze, raw and aching for the healing peace of the forest he had roamed endlessly in his youth, seeking a familiar balm against the scars left by a great and terrible warfare etched into his mind. A time that must have been so bleak, so dismal that it hardly bears remembering, for it surely wasn't a life worth living without the bright-eyed, sweet-faced child snuggled like a priceless treasure in his waiting arms.

That's right, he thinks to himself, pleased in his confirmation as he tightens his embrace around the boy slumbering peacefully against his chest. There had been no meaning, no light in his life before Silver had found him.

The boy is properly exhausted, and the satisfied smile on Lilia's face widens even further as he hums tunelessly, fussing over the little pieces of moonlit strands that have fallen into the child's face. They had enjoyed such fun this afternoon, hiking together into the secret parts of the dense brush along invisible paths that only Lilia could see. With that little hand held securely in his callused and scarred fingertips, he had led the boy through the shadowed trees, pushing past gnarled branches and over raised roots as thick as a man's fist until the land itself seemed to yield and give way beneath their feet, dipping down low to expose a bejeweled cornucopia of wildflowers, swaying and bobbing their heads enticingly in the faint, dappled sun.

Silver had gasped in rapt wonder, fingers squeezing Lilia's with a giddy kind of gratitude as those eyes as brilliant as the flowers before them gazed upon the field with an innocent, childish glee. They'd stayed there all afternoon, Lilia content to sit at the edge of the glen for as long as the boy wished while Silver romped around happily among the dancing petals and occasionally bounded back to grace him with a clumsily made bouquets of beaming daisies and plump milkweeds, until the sun began to dip below the fluffy tops of the turning oak trees. It had been second nature to scoop the yawning child up in his arms, to walk the long miles back to the cabin with him propped up against his hip as if the fire burning along the old wounds of his back were mere twinges of irritating mosquito bites.

It had felt like a reward when that warm weight melted in his arms under the gravitational pull of sleep, and those feather-soft strands of hair tickled against Lilia's neck as the boy rested his head along the breadth of his shoulder like a pillow. It had felt like bliss, the likes of which he'd never known before— never mind the fact that he had scoffed bitterly over a pint to Baul at the prospect of being bullied into being a glorified babysitter for Meleanor's soon-to-be spoiled babe. Never mind the fact that his hardened heart had only crystalized into darkest coal after the gruesome monstrosities he'd witnessed and orchestrated by his own hand for the sake of their kingdom and country. Never mind the fact that he had growled at the boy to scram upon first sight, exasperated at the idea that some foolish parent had allowed their snot-nosed brat to wander off the forest paths unsupervised.

None of that seemed worthy of remembering now.

No one else seemed worthy of remembering now either, hazy memories that were easily shuffled away out of sight and out of mind by Lilia's own willing consciousness long worn down to make room for what was truly important: the sound of Silver's laughter, sweet and clear like birdsong on the breeze, a sound that Lilia would do anything to hear again and again; the benevolent grace of the boy's smile like a benediction for his bloodstained soul, the sight of which he would greedily hoard over all the wealth in the world; the adorable sleepy wrinkle of his son's nose as it scrunches up just before he wakes, squeezing Lilia's heart along with it in a funny ache just like it's doing right now—

" . . . did I fall asleep, Papa?"

That darling little voice is apologetic, fretting aloud over how his poor father must have had it rough to carry Silver all the way home, and it's all that Lilia can do to laugh and nuzzle their noses together despite the fiery waves of pain lancing along his spine.

"It's fine, my dear," he croons, savoring the way that those bashful eyes turn on him with such hope, as if it were Lilia who held the key to his happiness and not the other way around. "Your papa was happy to carry you home," and the title fits as naturally as a glove as it weaves itself into his heart, as if there were no other name he needed to be known by ever again, as if there were no other role he could ever imagine himself playing.

The boy smiles up at him, joyous and beatific— there are no words, and yet Lilia feels strangely like he'd been praised, a pleased rustle of something invisible that's taken up residence in the back of his mind that sweetens the dizziness swarming at the edge of his vision— and the moment passes the second that he blinks, leaving him oddly winded as if he'd just run a marathon and collapsed on the couch.

"Are you sure that you're alright, Papa?"

And how sweet of Silver to worry over him still, the child closely scrutinizing his face as he wrestles his breathing back under control. Lilia tweaks his nose playfully in answer to elicit a gleeful yelp that has the boy scrambling away in a flurry of limbs, escaping with laughter towards the kitchen in clear search of an early supper before his beloved father could spice it up with a few more inventive ingredients.

He's alright. He's more than alright.

How could he not be, with his precious son finally at his side?

[ghostlychief]

Omg, I love all your work! Im gushing over it, how about one with the Master Chief where the reader is just loving kissing his scars and making him feel loved and the reader is a scientist stationed on the infinity

another master chief request, LETS GOOOO

---

The Infinity was in orbit around Reach, and you finally had some time off to rest and relax, after being deployed up in space for a few months. You were starting to miss natural gravity.

You were a scientist stationed on Infinity, so that meant that majority of your time was spent up in space. You’ve wanted to be a scientist for as long as you can remember, always dreaming of studying the stars, and maybe even one day, being able to physically explore them, traveling through the galaxy. And here you were, some twenty odd years later from when you obsession with the cosmos first came to fruition.

You were also eager to get back down to Reach because you know John was back from his last mission, and you were anxious to get back, excited to see your boyfriend. This time, he was gone for only three weeks, which was actually not a long time at all. Sometimes his work would take him away form you for much longer, but you thanked the heavens that he was already back on Reach, safe and sound.

Earlier, you were frantically cleaning your apartment since he was coming over tonight. You were already kind of a clean freak, so when you were expecting company (even though he’s your boyfriend of many years) you went into ultra-cleaning mode, and cleaned for hours on end, making sure everything was spotless, and smelled good. It also helped you clear your mind.

Eight o’clock finally rolled around, and you were expecting John to be here any time now.

You hear a knock on your door, and you sprint up from the couch and basically rip the door open, a wide grin on your face as you take in your boyfriend, who’s standing in your door frame. He’s opted for comfy clothes, wearing his all-black workout clothes. You’ve always commented on how the black brings out the green in his eyes.

He brings you in for a warm hug, his large arms wrapping around your frame and pulling you in close to him. You feel his chin rest on top of your head, and you both gently rock back and forth as you soak up each other’s warmth. He smells just as you remember, like a gentle rainfall with a hint of cedar. It’s your favorite scent. You finally break away from him, formally greeting him this time, and then you both enter your home.

Fast forward a couple hours, finds yourself laying in bed, with John, and you guys are talking about everything under the sun. He told you about his last mission and surprisingly, some drama that’s been going on with the Blue team, among other mundane updates since he last saw you. You do the same, talking about your latest project, which is tracking a certain galaxy through the Universe.

You have your fairy lights turned on, making your room glow softly, and you’re both wrapped under the covers and in each other’s arms. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the universe right now.

Your head rests on John’s bicep, while your leg is thrown over his hip. His arm that is not acting as a pillow for you, is wrapped around your middle, his hand resting on your back, rubbing soft circles there.

“…and where did you get this one from?” Your hand is currently resting on his face, gently cupping it, as your thumb traces of a scar that marks his left cheek. He’s already told you how he got each of his scars, but you always love hearing him tell the stories, so you find yourself asking him to tell you again.

His hand that was resting on your back, moves so now it’s holding your waist, and he gives you a light pinch, teasing you. You squirm and giggle, but you just look up expectantly at John, waiting to hear the story for the hundredth time.

“Well, as you very well know, I got this on the first Halo I visited.”

You perk up, “Ooo, installation 04, right?” John lets out a chuckle, “Yeah, that one.”

“Aka, the one you destroyed.” You grant him a sly grin. This time he more so huffs, rather than laughs, “Yes, that one.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, continue good sir.” You didn’t see him roll his eyes, but you know he did mentally.

“It was probably day 6 since I touched down on Halo, after the whole Flood incident, so I was pretty worse for wear. We happened to run into a Covenant fleet, which had more than the average amount of Elites. Two in which had the invisibility cloaking mechanism, and their infamous energy swords.”

You nod, encouragingly for him to continue, your thumb still gently moving back and forth on his face. You also lean up to give him a quick kiss on his jaw, and you feel his grip on your waist tighten at the action.

“I managed to take one of the cloaked elites out, while the marines focused on the rest of the fleet. The second elite though was a slippery bastard, and he almost managed to slice my head clean off my neck, but luckily, the sword only grazed my face, giving me this lovely blemish.”

“Well, I love it.” You lean in to kiss his cheek, where the discoloration remains form the blade of the energy sword. You rest your forehead on his for a moment, then kiss his nose.

“I also love this one.” You move to right above his left eye, where a long-jagged mark remains, and leave a kiss. You move to his right temple and plant your lips there, “And this one…”

“Now I think you’re just trying to flatter me.” You let out a breathy laugh, “Never.”

He has a couple of very small scars littering his other cheek, so you pepper kisses all over there, “…and these ones.”

You then hover your lips over his, lightly brushing them as you say, “But most importantly, I love you.”

[inubaki]

The Sea Queen

Chapter 5

————

story commissioned by the amazing @libby-for-life! Based off one of the first pics @sir-tater-of-the-tot made that got me hooked on this fandom to began with. I blame them entirely.

——-

19 years layer

Adam stood proudly amongst his crew, the salty sea breeze whipping through his hair as they reveled in the aftermath of their latest conquest. The massive corpse of the Kraken lay sprawled across the deck of his ship, its tentacles still twitching in a feeble last gesture. This creature had proved to be as cunning as legends foretold, squirming and thrashing as it tried to evade capture. But with quick thinking and expert aim, his first mate, Lute, had plunged her harpoon into its flesh, sealing its fate with a triumphant cry that echoed over the waves.

Now, under the glow of the golden sun, the crew gathered around, their laughter ringing out like music over the gentle lapping of the ocean. They passed around tankards of rich, aged mead, its sweet aroma mingling with the briny scent of the sea. Each sip of their drink celebrated not only their victory but also the bond they shared—one forged through countless battles and nights spent under the stars, anchored far from the safety of land.

Adam surveyed the scene before him, his heart swelling with pride. Each member of his crew had their scars and stories, etched upon their skin and in their eyes—tales of bravery and hardship that had only made them stronger. He couldn’t have asked for a better team; they were fierce, loyal, and relentless, ready to face whatever menace the ocean threw at them.

"Come on, Sir!" Elara called out, her voice cutting through the salty sea air as she waved energetically from the deck. Adam couldn't help but smirk at her enthusiasm; she had a knack for making even the most mundane tasks feel exhilarating. With a few confident strides, he joined his all-female crew, each member displaying a mix of grit and camaraderie that always inspired him. 

Most captains would scoff at the idea of having a woman aboard their vessel, let alone an entirely female crew, but Adam was far from your average captain. He had handpicked these women not just for their formidable skills, but for their indomitable spirits. This was a crew forged in the fires of adversity—steeped in the kind of relentless discipline and bravado that would put even the most seasoned pirates to shame.

The crew had a reputation that preceded them. They were a fierce and ruthless bunch, capable of dispatching anyone who dared to underestimate their capabilities. Each had their own story, some even worse than Adam's. He knew that Lute was once a high-class lady whose family fell on hard times and in a desperate attempt to keep what little money her parents had left, sold their only child to prostitution. Adam had found her when she had burnt the man keeping her to death.

Elara had been a slave. Lucy had been an orphan, like Adam except there wasn't anyone to take pity on her like the islanders of Adam's former home did. Cicely was a thief who was wrongfully accused of murder and was going to be executed as a scapegoat. The list went on, some more gruesome than others, but they all found a family in each other.

Adam had navigated a winding path to justice, one that he had dedicated himself to for years. He had become a beacon of hope for those who had struggled to find their own footing in a world that often turned a blind eye to their suffering. His all-female crew, a tightly-knit group forged through shared struggles and victories, held a deep respect for him. They admired not only his courage and determination but also his unwavering commitment to helping them confront their personal battles.

As they sat together, recounting their past achievements, a common desire began to blossom among the crew members: they wanted to aid Adam in realizing his long-held dream. They knew the pain that lingered in his heart, stemming from the sea monsters that had ravaged his home and torn his life apart. Driven by loyalty, they decided to unite their skills and fierce spirits to support him in his quest to hunt down these behemoths of the deep, vowing to confront the nightmares of his past, together. This journey would not only seek vengeance but also healing, as they set sail toward a future determined by their shared resolve.

And now, they had hunted their 74th Kraken. They had slayed the beast and they reveled in the blood that soaked the deck. Adam had noticed that when the beasts were near, his bites would sting. He used that as his compass. This one wasn't the Kraken that had befriended a young and naive child so long ago. The pale monster continued to remain unseen. But, Adam wouldn't rest until the monster that had a hand in killing his people and destroying his home was dead.

Adam lifted his gaze to the horizon as a brisk wind whipped against his face, carrying with it a sense of impending change. As a seasoned pirate, he had spent years navigating the unpredictable temperament of the sea, and this current shift in the air was a familiar harbinger of trouble. He could taste the salt of the ocean mixed with something more ominous on his lips. It clung to his skin like an unwelcome warning.

Furrowing his brow, he scanned the azure sky above, seemingly uninterrupted by any clouds. The sun glimmered brightly, casting warm rays that danced across the waves. Yet, despite the deceptively tranquil appearance, a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. The gentle lapping of the water against the ship's hull sounded almost mocking in the face of his instincts. After all, the ocean had a way of disguising its fury, and Adam knew all too well that storms often brewed silently, waiting for the right moment to unleash their wrath.

"Ladies, I believe we have a storm coming."

———

pervs:

Next:

[zeizeizeizei]

Unpopular Headcanons for Celebrimbor Pt. 1

✨Cook and Gardener

While known for his work in the forge, Celebrimbor found peace in mundane tasks like cooking and gardening. He often drew inspiration from the natural world when designing the Rings of Power.

✨Musical Talent

Celebrimbor could play the harp or lute with incredible skill, but he saw music as a hobby, not a serious pursuit. His compositions were often melancholic, reflecting his inner turmoil.

✨Wary of Magic

Despite his association with the Rings, Celebrimbor was deeply skeptical of magic in his youth. His fascination grew only after encountering Sauron as Annatar, who convinced him of its potential.

✨ Left-Handed

Celebrimbor was left-handed, which was considered unusual among Elves. This trait made him a unique swordsman and forgemaster, giving his creations a subtle asymmetry that became his signature.

✨Hates Gold

Celebrimbor loathes gold, finding it gaudy and heavy. He much prefers the lighter, ethereal beauty of mithril and silver, which he believed better represented the purity of his work.

✨Hates Sauron’s Aesthetic

Celebrimbor has a particular disdain for Sauron’s architectural style, often critiquing Mordor’s towers and fortresses as “crude and uninspired.” He dreams of tearing them down and replacing them with structures of true beauty.

✨Harsh Mentor

Celebrimbor has no patience for mediocrity, even in teaching. He often pushed apprentices in Eregion beyond their limits, believing failure was an essential part of mastering the forge.

✨Morally Flexible

He sees morality as a spectrum, not an absolute. This pragmatism often leads him to make questionable decisions that he justifies as necessary for the greater good, even when they leave lasting scars on his conscience.

✨Secretly Hates Fëanor

While many assume he respects his grandfather’s genius, Celebrimbor harbors deep resentment toward Fëanor for creating a legacy so overwhelming that it tainted every descendant who followed him.

✨Loves Rain

He found the sound of rain soothing, particularly when it fell on metal rooftops. It reminded him of the flow of molten silver and often sparked new ideas for his creations.

✨Fidgeterbrimbo

When deep in thought, Celebrimbor would absentmindedly trace patterns on surfaces with his fingers. This habit sometimes annoyed those around him, though he was oblivious to it.

✨Coded Notes

To protect his designs, Celebrimbor wrote his notes in a personal code that blended Tengwar with Dwarvish runes. Even those fluent in both languages found his system difficult to decipher.

Oh Tyelpé...

Source: my🍑

Thank you

[rwi-writes]

A little bit of privacy

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial! This is my first piece of writing in a long time so I may be a bit rusty.

Fandom: Arcane Pairing: Silco x male!Reader (could be also read as gender neutral) Warnings: some tiny sexual innuendos, but nothing actually happens (even if it may seem like it will) Synopsis: Silco cannot stand being bothered unannounced, but nobody really questions it why. A man like him maybe just needs some alone time to de-stress from the hardships of being in control of an entire city.

Despite being a leader of quite a big faction within the Undercity, Silco fancied himself as a person who liked his privacy and alone time. Not that he got a lot of it, but even the evillest of men needed a break from controlling an entire city. So it was an unspoken rule among his people that, unless it was an emergency, all requests to see him must be transmitted through Silvika, and she will give them a time and day. But not everyone was up-to-date with this, and sometimes people would randomly burst into his office, unannounced and uninvited.

Such event happened on a pretty normal day during the golden age of Silco's control over the Undercity. Shimmer was flowing plentifully to and from the city through the newly constructed Hexgates. Every other random homeless person in the Undercity was addicted to the stuff. Other faction leaders made alliances just to get their hands on some of that shimmer. Everything was going good.

Silco was in his office, taking a well deserved break. When suddenly, the door opened wide to reveal two large men who looked like they had muscles instead of brains. The two meatheads walked in and started complaining about some people at the bar drinking too much and causing a scene. Silco didn't let them finish talking.

"Why are you telling me this? Do I look like the all-controlling force of the bar? Talk to someone who actually has time to deal with such mundane tasks." His tone was sharp and strict. It sent shivers down the two men's spines. Even they knew they fucked up by coming here, so they couldn't wait to leave and hope that their boss will forget about this.

He spoke a few words to dismiss them from his office.  As the door closed behind the two meatheads, Silco sighed. "I cannot stand these people sometimes." He groaned, moving his chair away from the desk. "Why can't they just let me be alone for two fucking seconds?"

A chuckle broke his train of thought. You got up from the confined space under the desk, stretching your muscles, hoping to get rid of the ache and pain. "A better question is why do I have to keep hiding from everyone?" You walked in front of Silco, taking your gun out of its holster and bringing it to your temple. "As your most trusted hitman, I could blow their brains out and leave no trace behind." You said, half seductively, knowing Silco enjoyed your little shows of power.

"Darling, if I let you kill every man that came in your path, I will be out of people to do my bidding." He responded in a low, steady voice. "Plus I like keeping my personal life private, away from the eyes of people who would rather want me dead than happy."

"All I am offering you is a solution to your problems..." You point the gun towards the door. "Just say the word and boom!" You say as you motion taking a shot at someone. But of course, you wouldn't do anything without your boss' permission. You put the gun back and turn to face Silco again.

Your eyes meet in a staring contest that last just enough for the both of you to burst into small laughter. Silco gently grabs your hand and gives it a kiss. Your hand caresses his scarred face. Your time together has resumed, and it won't be interrupted for another couple of hours. Life is good, even for the evil.

[nostalgebraist]

declare

Read Declare by Tim Powers recently.

It had some really good individual bits, and was well-written throughout, but overall I found it kind of a slog.

Partly that was just due to pacing, or me not quite being in the target audience, or other similarly ordinary and boring reasons. But, on reflection, I think a lot of my troubles with the book come down to one big, uncommon flaw it had -- which is my reason for writing this post.

----

Declare is a hybrid fantasy/spy novel.

The spy stuff, which comprises most of the book by mass, is drawn from real history -- in particular, from the life of real Soviet spy Kim Philby -- and strives to be consistent with all particulars of that real history that are publicly known.

The book is a "secret history" as opposed to an "alternate history," intended to produce the impression: "for all we know, this really could have been what happened." It sticks to the historical record about the kind of matters that make it into said record, and only invents things in the blank spaces in between them.

As Powers put it:

I made it an ironclad rule that I could not change or disregard any of the recorded facts, nor rearrange any days of the calendar – and then I tried to figure out what momentous but unrecorded fact could explain them all.

You'll note that I'm being vague about what "the fantasy elements" are.

I'm doing that on purpose. Revealing much about their nature would be the kind of spoiler that actually spoils, because one of Declare's virtues -- and I really did admire this -- is the way it makes its fantastical secrets feel really secret. Like a secret doctrine, a mystery cult, an epistemic Rubicon that one does not cross lightly.

They are talked about elliptically, even among initiates (and Powers makes this feel naturalistic, not like cheap and pointless reader-teasing evasion). Before you know much else about these "fantasy elements," you know that encounters with them have a tendency to leave people scarred, broken, changed -- and disinclined to say much about what they saw.

The early chapters of the book almost feel like the opening of a "mundane" spy novel. Except they are dotted with stray glimpses, from odd angles, of... something else. Something that is clearly one single thing, with a coherent shape, only you cannot make out in full what that shape is. Something that feels, authentically, like it was not meant for your innocent eyes.

It's all very effective. Really great stuff.

But then, at least by the halfway mark if not earlier, the reader catches up with the characters. The shape of the thing comes into focus. You get what the deal is, insofar as anyone does, and insofar as there is a "deal" to get. The nature, if not the logic, of the hidden world is laid bare.

"The nature, if not the logic": this is the book's fundamental flaw. The fantasy elements of Declare eventually land in a worst-of-all-worlds no-man's-land between mystique and mechanism.

They are explained to the reader just enough that they lose their glamour; what initially feels like the mystic doctrine of a lost gospel, or the forbidden fruit of a Lovecraft story, ends up feeling more like a collection of "lore" passages accompanying tables of numbers in an RPG rulebook. Yet they are not explained enough that they make sense, the way a law-bound "magic system" makes sense; despite Powers' ambitions, they never quite become capable of explaining anything else.

To put the point a little differently, and set things up for my next one: Declare mixes together two ingredients which, on their own, are perfectly fine -- indeed, actively good -- but which absolutely cannot go together. Namely:

Mysterious, supernatural forces that feel properly mysterious, numinous, not quite bound by "our" human logic and thus fundamentally beyond our ken.

A secret-history version of bizarre and partially unknown real-world events, which supplies explanations for the weird parts and fills in the tantalizing gaps.

Why do historical mysteries draw our interest? It is not just that there is something we don't know. There are a lot of things we don't know, about history, and mostly they don't trouble us.

But there are some questions for which it does not seem possible to imagine an uninteresting answer.

When a real historical figure behaves in some bizarre manner -- as the real-world Kim Philby frequently did -- we know that, whatever cause moved them to do so, it must be outlandish in a way that matches its effect. When people act strangely, they do so for strange reasons. That is roughly what "acting strangely" means.

But! Once you allow "ineffable, partly unpredictable magic" to be a cause with effects, the link between interesting events and interesting causes is broken. You can now invent explanations which are less interesting than any real-world one could possibly be.

You can survey the historical record, note down all the intriguing gaps, and then sculpt an infinitely pliable magical putty into the precise shape of each gap, so as to fill it. These fillings do not have the shape of real things; they are made retrospectively, and modeled after the patterned obstructions marring our view, rather than the real patterns which are being obstructed. They do not have spiraling implications, as real things do; they plug the gaps they were made for, and do nothing else.

Human behavior has human causes, and human causes are frequently interesting, to us humans.

It is usually a virtue, in fictional depictions of magic, for that magic to feel nonhuman.

But it ceases to be a virtue when that magic goes on to become a substitute for the real human causes of real events. It provides answers to all our questions, at the cost of removing the reason we imagined we might want to possess those answers.

"Why on earth," you ask me, "did this bizarre historical event happen the way it did?"

And I respond: "a wizard did it."

You protest that this is not an explanation at all. You profess to be just as confused as you were at the outset.

You say, in exasperation: "it can't just be that. There has to be something more. Why did the wizard do it? Is it... the sort of thing that wizards do? Is there a 'sort of thing that wizards do'?"

In real life, you'd have a point. In real life, for every X, there is a sort of thing that Xs do.

But not for wizards. Remember #1 above? Wizards are beyond your ken. Perhaps there is "sort of thing they do," but if so, it is too subtle for your dull, unmagical brain.

Which is to say: they can do whatever the author, or the plot -- or the gaps in the historical record -- need them to do on any given occasion. And then they go back into their box again, until they need to be retrieved, in order to do something else entirely.

And worse: although the introduction of the wizard does not leave you any less puzzled, it frees you from caring that you are puzzled.

There is no longer the unscratched itch of an unsolved mystery about human behavior. You are not confused about a person, anymore, but about magic. And it is perfectly clear that you are never, ever going to understand magic. Your confusion is now expected, predictable. Everything is properly in order, as you can now see. You are free to go.

And yet somehow, you find, the book is not over. It will not be over for a while yet. You have other confusions, you see, which have not yet been stripped of their human interest and robbed of their allure.

(Not everything in Declare is like this, to be clear. I may be making too much of a few sore points in the plot, I guess. Still, there's no denying that I found the later parts of the book tedious, and this is at-least-sort-of why.)

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Scarred Among the Mundane.

hey look new series just dropped. featuring an arsonist elf and the fire he starts and can’t put out. this is going to be the start of another fantasy whump series— but I actually have a plot planned for this one so here’s to hoping I stick with it.

cw: elf whump, failed arson, failed escape, magic whump

masterlist. next

— —

The late afternoon sunlight turns everything to gold.

In the town square, loud voices merely add to the shimmering heat.

And the heat is shimmering. It weighs down on everyone, dragging out even the smallest of moments with languid intensity.

Bright colours are worn by nearly every member of the crowd, and the effect is blinding.

Crimson.

Vibrant snake-like green.

Yellow sharper than a drawn blade.

The occasional flash of steel armour adds a veiled threat.

A shadow peels away from the side of a bakery, cloak wrapped around a skeletal frame. A hood hides the shadow’s wide grin.

It’s a good day to set something on fire.

He dives into the mass of humanity, towering over them all. Even with hunched shoulders and lowered head, he can’t hide his unnatural height. A second glance would reveal pointed teeth and pointed ears.

But no one spares him a second glance. He weaves his way through the crowd and smiles when people unconsciously give him room to pass.

As he walks, he talks. Not to anyone in the crowd, but to himself. Because he is the cleverest person he knows. Why, he’s practically brilliant. Who else could plan such a feat? Such audacity?

Himself alone. The brilliancy of his plan fills him with a humming satisfaction. He goes over the contents of his satchel.

Wouldn’t want to forget anything. Not today.

“Kindling? Yes, yes, the moss will work....Excuse me–” he nearly runs into a baker’s assistant, holding a tray of fresh-baked bread aloft.

The elf acts on instinct, extending a leg. The baker’s assistant, without hesitation, trips. Elvish laughter and man-made loaves are thrown into the air.

The elf snatches one from mid-air and runs.

“Thief! Stop!”

The elf does not stop. He shoves the whole loaf into his mouth, working his teeth around the crust. It’s still warm. Delicious. He swallows it appreciatively. “Not bad,” he tells no one in particular. “For a human delicacy.”

He skids into an alleyway, shadows sinking into his skin. A welcome change from the lethargic sunlight. “Should have grabbed another one.”

But thoughts of bread fade away as his destination comes into view– the high stone wall of the Monarch’s castle.

The elf’s grin sharpens. His pace picks up, heart racing with his footsteps. There’s no turning back. Not now.

He comes to a stop at the wall itself. It’s easily three times his height. And yet the elf can hardly suppress a laugh. After all his work, all his preparation, is it really going to be this easy? As easy as burning down a farmer’s barn?

Guards peer down at him and he gives them a mocking salute, two fingers raised to his temple. It doesn’t matter if they see him. They won’t be able to stop him. No human can stop him.

If they could, he would be dead.

It’s as simple as that.

Oh, what a day. Danger. Thrill. Horror in the guards’ eyes.

What a beautiful day.

He walks backwards, tightening his satchel and taking a deep breath, the air burning his lungs. And then–

Running.

A leap. Cloak dragging behind him.

Stonework beneath his feet as he runs up the side of the wall. He laughs now. No hesitation.

His hood falls off and his pointed teeth catch in the light.

Identity revealed for all to see.

Elf. A creature of the night. A shadow. Feared. Inhuman.

He soars over the open-mouthed guards. One reaches for her spear, but it's already too late.

He’s over the wall, tumbling to a stop into the garden bushes. On his feet in an instant, he brushes leaves out of his braids and checks his satchel.

Everything is as it should be.

“Excellent work, Finn,” he tells himself. “As always.” He plucks a leaf from his cloak and lets it drift to the ground. “Excellent work, really.” He changes his voice slightly, making it deeper. “Oh, no, you’re too kind. Too kind.”

The guards are pouring out of the castle walls now. Calls of “Attack!” and “Intruder!” echo in the green-lit garden.

Finn bolts. He reaches into his bag as he runs, pulling out a flint stone and a carved piece of iron. Ducking through the overhanging fruit trees, he grabs what looks like a pear. With the fruit in his mouth, he skids to a stop at the base of the castle.

He doesn’t marvel at the intricate stonework or the towering turrets or the bright windows. He gets to work setting it on fire.

Eating the pear, he works quickly, setting the dry moss around a tall tree– another fruit one perhaps. But this one is the closest to the castle, which means it will serve his purpose splendidly.

Sparks fly into the air, bright red against the simmering blue.

The guards draw closer.

Finn sees the flashes of steel before he hears them, and he spits the pear out, fingers flying as he strikes the flint again and again.

The moss starts to smoke and Finn starts to grin.

The itch, the infernal, never ending, always begging itch turns to something like pleasure. Satisfaction.

“Stop!” The spears slice towards him and he twists out of the way, dropping the flint.

The moss goes up into blazes. The itch inside him begins to fade, satisfied with the fire he’s begun.

It's a beautiful fire.

Finn laughs. Everything is going so—

The laugh twists into a scream.

Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong. His blood turns to ice inside him. It’s only a second of burning, crawling pain exploding every nerve in his body– but the second is never ending.

Golden triumph burns to ash in his throat.

He slumps to the ground, vision crumpling to dust around him. Vaguely, he’s aware of the guards stepping aside for a red-headed human. Her hands are raised, fingers twisted in rune-shapes.

Oh.

Finn’s sight collapses, taking him with it.

tagging: @doonthestair (lmk if you want to be added/ removed!)

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #47 – City of Last Chances by Adrian Tchaikovsky

This book was recommended to me by a few different people, and in any case I am generally a pretty big Tchaikovsky fan. So of course I’m only getting around to reading it now, however many months later. Having put it off so long for no good reason at all, I can say that the book is in fact very good. Not Tchaikovsky’s best work (that’s still Children of Time in a walk), but a good read and one that left me curious (if not exactly excited) about checking out the sequel.

The story takes place in Illmar, the eponymous City of Last Chances – scarred and oppressed, tyrannized by cursed dukes and conquering imperialists, built upon a dangerous and unreliable route to other worlds and forever attracting the sort of people with no better options available to them. While the book has any number of characters, it’s really the city itself that is the star of the story – a story of how the theft of an imperial magistrate’s ward before he makes an experimental voyage through the gateway in the woods leads to a whole series of byzantine intrigues and bloody misadventures, culminating in an abortive revolution against the Pallseen who occupy and rule them. Which in one sense is an absolutely massive spoiler and in another just feels like stating an inevitability that was obvious from the first chapter.

The book was apparently quite heavily marketed as harking back to the whole New Weird trend of a decade or two ago – marketing that is lived up to wholly and entirely. The whole book absolutely drips with Mieville and Vandermeer. The oblique worldbuilding, the mundane day-to-day life built around the opportunities and inconveniences of some intrusion of the sublime, the awkward intersection of ancient magic and industrial bureaucracy, and so on, and so forth. The Reproach in particular feels very Area X (or very Roadside Picnic, as you prefer), but in general the city feels like absolutely nothing so much as Bas-Lag with the weirdness dial turned down from an 11 to a 5 or 6.

It’s a real triumph of the book, I think, that the world genuinely feels vast and strange even beyond the points where it matters to the story - that all the little asides and the ways something affects a certain character feel like just small parts of something far grander and more uncanny than anyone can hope to understand. Maybe I’m just painfully tired of rpg-system worldbuilding, but it’s an effect I dearly love.

Much like Bas-Lag, Ilmar is very clearly a magical fantasy city going through a magical fantasy 19th century industrial revolution (instead of steam engines its demonic slave labor contracted and imported from the Kings Below). The meat of the book is playing into the whole tradition of the idealistic, virtuous but tragic liberal revolution – 1848 in Berlin or Vienna, the June Days and Commune in Paris, Warsaw a dozen different times, Les Mis. You know the type. Students singing patriotic old songs, workers rising up against class oppression, ‘revolutionaries’ who are mostly cowardly nobles pining after lost privileges and criminal syndicate putting on airs being caught flat-footed by events. You can probably tell the basic story in your sleep. But for such a venerable genre, this book's honestly probably the best rendition of ‘fantasy 1848’ I can recall. Something which won it my instant affection.

The other thing the book just overwhelming shares with the Mieville’s Bas-Lag books is a very keen sense of the necessity of revolution combined with an extreme cynicism towards anyone who might actually carry it out. The university students are sincere believers, and also naive sheep the narrative views with condescension (at best). The professional revolutionaries are all power-grabbing hypocrites who have wrapped themselves in the flag. The workers syndicates have a real sense of solidarity among themselves, and also none at all to the demon slaves that are used and broken powering the mills and factories. And so on. The overall thrust of the book is a tragedy not in the sense of railing against the inevitable, but in the sense that triumph and revolution were absolutely possible – indeed plausible – but for the flaws and frailities of the revolutionaries who might have accomplished it.

Not to say that it's misanthropic – the book is very humane towards the vast majority of its POVs. Of which there are enough for ‘vast majority’ to be a meaningful term. It was something like 130 pages in before any character got a second chapter through their eyes, a feat I had previously only seen in Malazan – and that’s not including the chorus chapters which just give a half-doze vignettes from across the city. But yes, most characters (even the ones who are really just viscerally repulsive) are shown through their own eyes as someone who is at least understandable, if not particularly sympathetic. The sheer size of the cast in a 500 page book mean that no one character or set gets that many chapters from their perspective (you could easily have written as long a book about roughly the same events with half or less of the cast), but some of the dynamics that are very lightly touched on are just incredibly compelling. Its enough to make you wish this was a series that would ever get any fanfiction written about it, really.

Given the way the book is so deeply concerned with oppression and violence on the basis of culture, class, and nation – imperial occupiers, native population, refugees and immigrants used and scapegoated by both – it is kind of fascinating that this is a world where misogyny and (possibly? Not very explored, the only example of a queer relationship we see is hardly going to be concerned by normative society) homophobia just flatly don’t exist. Which would be less interesting if it was unusual, really – the same could be said about very nearly every recent sci fi or fantasy book on the same lines I can recall. Interesting because it is very much not the case in Melville’s stuff – the cultural impact of Ancillary Justice continues to echo down the years, I guess. So yes the imperial police inspector will extort sex out of a brothel owner in exchange for not stringing up the entire workforce for peripheral involvement with the resistance, but also this is entirely gender-neutral. Something very modern about how oppression is imagined relative to the ‘90s or ‘00s (or just a different genre of self-consciously feminist novel a few book shelves to the left).

But yeah, great book, I am compelled. No idea where the sequel would be going, but will probably hunt it down sooner rather than later.

[synnthamonsugar]

DESTINYTOBER: Day 15 - Together

Read it on AO3

. . .

Fall air filters into the sunroom through open windows, cool enough to chill metal and send a comfortable shiver through Eriana-3's sensors. She curls silicone fingertips around the hot mug, gathers her legs beneath her to capture more of hers' and Wei's body heat. 

The titan lays across Eriana's lap, head on her robed thighs, one leg crossed at the ankle over her knee, scrolling idly through her data pad. Eriana takes a sip of tea and sets it down on the arm of the couch, hand free to comb through Wei's short hair. 

"Mm, right there," Wei says as Eriana fingers over the crown of her head. She scratches a little more, until Wei gives a rumble of contented approval, one hand raised to caress across Eriana's side. 

The moment is mundane enough to be boring, but Eriana-3 clutches it to her heart as she would a priceless treasure. The memory of the Great Disaster haunts her — the mad panic in the trenches, the sulfurous stench of soulfire over top of smoke and ozone and gunpowder and death. So many dead strewn across the battlefields of Mare Imbrium, Wei Ning almost among them. She'd landed a near-killing blow on the Hive Prince, and he'd returned in kind, almost cleaving the Light from her injured body. But she, and Eris, managed the rescue in time. Wei escaped with only the loss of an eye. More scars, and more stories, to add to her collection.

She didn't think anyone would get out that day. Instead, all three of them and their Ghosts returned home. Battered, scarred in ways the Light cannot heal, but alive. 

How close she was to not having the privilege of an uninteresting life. Her hand clenches on Wei's shoulder. 

"You okay babe?" Her eye is wide, brow furrowed with worry.

"— Yes. Sorry. Just thinking." 

She takes a gulp of tea, and stock of the room, grounding herself. Hers and Wei's house was the hangout for their friend group, and today is different only in the addition of newer faces. Eris and Sai would often gather around the breakfast table, working together on beadwork and leather-craft for hours on off-days. Today they are joined by Omar, a colleague of Eriana's, and Vell, an old friend of Eris', in a lively game of cards. 

Eriana hasn't been paying attention to their chatter, but can tell from Eris' sudden departure from the table — dramatically folding in mock-affront to a good natured round of laughs and jests from the others — who isn't winning. She struts away to Toland, hunched in the corner with a pile of books, crouching down to join him in quiet conversation. 

Toland had been Wei's idea. He was an old teammate of hers with whom she bonded through a shared love of hurdling headlong into danger. Yes, their fireteam was already full, but six to a team was just convention. And to Wei, "convention" is a place where fans of the crucible gather to dress up as their favorite players. She correctly pointed out that the teams who'd tried, and failed, to kill Crota had all lacked a hive expert. They'd also uniformly been six-stacks.

And so the rest had relented, and accepted the exiled Warlock into their fold. 

The presence of the notorious Toland the Shattered did cause complications when they went to the Vanguard to ask permission to break Lunar Interdict. Zavala threatened to exile them all on the spot, but Ikora and Andal were willing to hear their case. The Vanguard was compelled by their plan, and the team was granted a never-before-issued, one-time permit to enter. 

And so the date was set. 

Eriana knows life will not stay boring for long, at least for a while. She holds onto this moment of happiness. Tries to imprint the sounds and sensations and pictures in her mind.

Despite the hardships ahead, she has an overwhelming sense of inner tranquility. Her fireteam is not desperate and reckless, hungry for vengeance. They will use their collective expertise and the data gathered by those who have gone before them to end the ailing Prince once and for all. To finally secure justice for all the Lights extinguished in the Disaster. 

Gently, she rests her arm across Wei's chest. Wei responds by lacing her fingers through Eriana's, giving her hand a soft, encouraging squeeze.

There will be peaceful moments together after this. She knows it.

[antikate]

Blankets (the truth is out there)

I used to sleep under old woollen army blankets in the winter. I don’t know where they came from, but they’d appear sometime after Easter, brown with a grey stripe, and so damn heavy; heavy as lead, heavy as grave-dirt. Despite their weight, one of these blankets wasn’t quite warm enough, nor was two even, and when it was very cold my mother would pile up three or four of them until I could barely move my childish limbs beneath the weight. I liked the way they pressed me down into my old mattress, except for my feet. The arches ached, sometimes, from the pressure of the pile of woollen army blankets.

Sometimes I stuck my feet out over the side of the bed, but then I was afraid something — probably an alien — would grab my feet, so I suffered through the discomfort of the weight on my feet as best I could. Sore feet beat being abducted by grey-faced, black-eyed aliens.

I was very afraid of aliens, after accidentally watching a tv show about abductees.

I spent hours in the mirror checking my skin for signs that I’d been abducted and experimented on. Strange birthmarks, new injuries, odd lumps.

I never found anything beyond a few moles and mundane scars. I never lost time, although now there’s whole stretches of those years I barely recall at all. Not because they were bad, exactly, just that childhood goes like that. It slips away.

I was so scared of being abducted by aliens. But I also always wanted it to happen.

(If I was abducted by aliens, maybe it would explain what was wrong with me.)

The texture of the woolllen army blankets was unbearable—more like sandpaper than a blanket should be. Like sleeping under a sheep lost in the bush for a few years, all burr-snarled and fly-blown. That was what love was like in my family. The intent was there, but it was too heavy and not heavy enough. Rough, but you had to be grateful for what you got. Some people had no blankets at all.

I folded the sheet down over the top-most woollen blanket to keep it from touching any part of my skin. But touching was inevitable, and always distressing.

The worst thing about the blankets, though, was the smell of moth-balls.

The smell was awful, chemical and pungent. Like my Nan’s closet. Like the op-shop. And it heralded the coming of asthma season, when I caught every cold and flu going around, when my lungs collapsed and constricted, and every inhale I made sounded like a rusty old gate swinging in a feeble wind.

(When I was sick, my father would get out a green Tupperware bowl and fill it with boiling water and eucalyptus oil, and force me to hold my head over the steam while I cried, because I hated the smell and it never made me feel better.

Once, I threw up in the bowl. I don’t think he made me do it again.)

As an adult I learned that moth balls were made from naphthalene, and naphthalene is known to trigger asthma, among other health issues. They’re probably carcinogenic. By then the old woollen army blankets had become a feast for carpet moths anyway, more hole than wool by the end. And we don’t use much wool any more — everything is made of plastic now, and the moths starve.

I am trying to explain to you now that I feel like this.

I feel threadbare and abrasive, that I carry with me the smell of mothballs, that I’m too thin but too heavy. I feel like an old woollen army blanket, I think, as I stuff the washing machine with goose-down duvets I spent too much money on. They’re so light they barely feel like you’re sleeping under anything at all.

I feel like I’m more hole than wool, some days.

(And I’m still half scared and half hopeful that I’m going to be abducted by aliens. Maybe then I’ll know what’s wrong with me.)

[rychlostthespacewizard]

I've been collecting some random quotes I found around the internet and use in my dnd games

Here are some I found in no specific order:

1. "Speak, mortal. You have reached Tharvek, Devourer of Innocents and Wielder of Eternal Flames. It appears I have missed your pitiful attempt at contact. Leave your name, teleportation runes, preferred genre of torment, shoe size, allegiance, deepest fears, vulnerabilities, complete medical history, and where you summoned the gall to disturb me. I may choose to acknowledge your existence, but not by such mundane means. Thank you, and remember: tread carefully, for death lurks at every shadowed crossing."

2. "Are you aiming for greatness or avoiding disapointment"

3. "Si operarii omnes producunt, omnia operariis pertinent."

4. "what do you think it means to be saved"

5. "What happened?" - "Nothing that wasn't my fault"

6. "Something is different"

7. "I don't think so, but i do think that the growing control of those that have the power over the means of production is a threat to the autonomy of the people. As value that is created by the working force is not rewarded to them. Instead only guarantees enough for them to survive and work more. It's like slavery but with extra steps. So anyhow, how's your day going?"

8. "You know, that reminds me that sometimes, violence is the necessary. Sometimes the only path to redemption for the sins of ignorance is to face the fundamental truth of blood and fire. As they meet the primordial within their heartbeat, the oppressors might have a chance to understand the pain they caused and atone for their sins. Also have you seen the new play at the theater?"

9.  "You think we're equals? I had to battle struggles you've never imagined. I became this while fearing the night, disguising myself as a man just to travel safely. Our similarities end when you learned to fight your enemies, while I had to fight comrades who left me with scars that will never heal. I survived because I was cursed to live as I am among those I swore to protect, only to be seen as their enemy."

10. "The universe is and we are"

11. "We do not have much connection, you and I. Still this encounter feels special, I hope you do not mind if I think of you as a friend"

12. "This is your home. If you want to fight to defend it, that's your choice. I'd be honoured to stand alongside you. The enemy attacks tomorrow. He's brutal and fights only to kill, which is why he will never defeat us. Look around. In this circle, we're all equals. You're not fighting because someone's ordering you to, you're fighting for so much more than that. You fight for your homes. You fight for your family. You fight for your friends. You fight for the right to grow crops in peace. And if you fall, you fall fighting for the noblest of causes: fighting for your very right to survive! And when you're old and grey, you'll look back on this day, and you'll know you earned the right to live every day in between! So you fight! For your family! For your friends! For Ealdor!"

13. "I can't blame you for wanting to know yourself better, it was one of the biggest pleasures of my life"

14. "The pain of your absence is sharp and haunting, and I would five anything to not know it; anything but never knowing you at all I can only hope that you are safe, wherever you are"

15. "This song is new to me, but I am honored to be part of it"

16. "It's tempting to linger in this moment, but unless they are collapsed by an observer, they will never be more than that, only possibilities"

17. "Are you still here? I am unsure how to survive in a universe without you, I am unsure how to be me without you"

18. "Is the hardest part of this tragedy not knowing who we may have lost? or will the hardest part come later, when we learn?"

19. "I see someone making through, you just need to be sure it is you"

20. "You are no saint; you're just indifferent. You aid all without caring who they've wronged or what evil they've wrought. You place the wicked among those who shelter you. Even the gods' love is not unconditional, and neither should ours be."

21. As the hag's gaze pierces through the darkness, her voice resonates with an otherworldly chill. "You feel it, don't you? The knot tightening around your throat, the sharp claws of dread digging into your chest, the icy tendrils slithering down your spine? That's the sensation of being forsaken, of standing alone in the void, unnoticed by the gods. Even your soul quivers, knowing that no divine intervention will come to your aid. You're trapped in a blind spot, unseen by the greater powers." Her words hang heavy in the air, suffocating the very essence of hope. "And yet, you cling to your righteous desires, your noble quest to save your friends. But can you be certain that your gods will forgive such a pact with a creature like me? Your actions may be seen as a grievous offense, a betrayal of everything they hold dear. Will they not turn their backs on you? And this dread that gnaws at your spirit, it will not dissipate once you leave this place. It will cling to you like a curse, haunting your every step until the day you finally rest in your grave, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurks within your soul."

22. "In this life, we traverse like a canoe upon deep waters. Our passage ripples the surface briefly, yet the depths remain undisturbed. With time, the surface quiets once more, leaving no trace of our journey."

23. "You are a coward wearing the facade of a revolutionary."

24. "What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"

25. "I will face god and walk backwards into hell."

26. "The man who sleeps on the floor cannot fall out of bed."

27. "The man who sleeps with a machete is a fool every night but one."

28. "For every person who dreams up a butter knife, there is a person who dreams up a poisoned dagger."

29. "Only the dead have seen the end of war."

30. "Does the archer fear his bow? Or does he kiss each arrow goodbye as it marries the wind?"

31. "These feelings can eat away at you, chip away the parts of you that you once held dear and defined you. You remember a time where you felt more complete, had stronger relationships and felt more loved."

32. "To be tall is not a virtue, to be short is not a sin."

33. "Power comes in a response to a need, not desire. You have to create that need."

34. "You can't kill me in a way that matters."

35. "Do what you must, I have already won."

36. "Stand in the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. The silence is your answer."

37. "Darkness without light is an abyss. Light without darkness is blinding. You cannot have a coin with only one side."

38. "When they burned Ioun's Archive, the crowd revelled in horrible disbelief. They understood that there was something older than wisdom, and it was fire, and something truer than words, and it was ashes, and something more eternal than knowledge, and it was death."

39. "I can no longer be a liberator for people who refuse to see their chains."

40. "You could sooner divert a river from its corse than deny my nature."

41. "Violence for violence is the rule of beasts."

42. "The only universal langue is blood and flames, we all have spoken this language and felt the fear of words older than our desires."

43. "The fire of extravagance can never burn simplicity."

44. "A mind unprepared for freedom will shatter like glass when shown cosmos without restriction."

45. "I have been cursed by my hubris, and my work will never be finished."

46. "I would rather die standing than live kneeling."

47. "For even the most banal of deaths can be made tragic by a broken heart."

48. "To love someone is to turn around. To love someone is to look at them."

49. "There's no cheerful somebody waiting for you at that alter. There is no meaning your alphabet soup. There is a right to obey."

50. "The foulest insults you hurl with intent to wound will calmly settle at the earth beneath my feet, and the venom you spit will bring all the pain of a warm summer breeze. You are less than you can concieve, while I carry on, brmmming with joy distilled from detatchment."

51. "They killed the best of us, so they are stuck with the worst of us."

52. "There is no truer hatred than the way men love."

53. "Would you spit in the face of the god's designs by referring to a mountain as a hill?"

54. "If i lay one brick down at a time who are you to tell me I'm not building a house?"

55. "True love graced you with its presence and you turned its intimacy into a joke to be shared with the world."

56. "To enter is to be forgiven of the greatest sin, to leave is to repeat it. Would you dwell in this garden, or would you forsake it, for man deserveth not his paradise lost?"

57. "She was wild, crazy, ravenous and beautiful. But we simple mortal men who have lived know better than to chase things that are not meant to be caught nor tamed."

58. "I live outside of the gods' sight and by consequence outside of their love."

59. "This is war. War does not determine who is right, only who is left."

60. "I'm a man dying of thirst watching another man drown."

61. "You are naught but a nail dreaming itself a hammer."

62. "Each inch of our lands are littered with the ruins of empires that dared to dream of eternity and deemed themselves endless. "

63. "You walk upon bones of those who thought they could tame the wild, and yet dare to repeat their sins?"

[francesminos-tt]

Lucemond canon-divergence au where Lucerys is sent to King’s Landing to be Ser Criston’s squire as sort of a punishment for taking Aemond’s eye.

Queen Alicent is still furious because in her mind, being the squire to a renowned knight like Ser Criston is an honor, not a punishment. Again, Rhaenyra and her bastards get away with a serious offense, yet they still act as if they were the victim. How hypocritical.

Aemond couldn’t care less. He is in pain, and still processing the fact that he has to live with only one eye now. He will have to relearn everything once the wound heals enough.

Lucerys is afraid, confused and guilty. He has never been separated from his mother, not for a single day in his life, and now he has to live in King’s Landing all alone. Queen Alicent and Ser Criston even forbid him to bring Arrax. He will be utterly alone with no one on his side, a easy prey among a nest of snakes. He cried. Oh did he cry. But a small part of him, a deep and hidden part, tells him that he deserves it.

The matter is settled. Rhaenyra returns to Dragonstone, while Lucerys sails for King’s Landing. He vomits the whole way, dumping all his stomach contents into the sea. When he arrives, he is immediately led to a humble room in the deserted wing of the Keep. The room is scarce, not fitting for a prince like Lucerys at all, but rather like a shack for low-born servants. Little does he know this room will be his home for the next 6 years.

 Everyone agrees that Ser Criston is a competent and honorable knight, but few knows that he could be cruel if he wants to. He certainly wants to make Lucerys suffer. As his squire, Lucerys is responsible to prepare his armor and horse, serve him meals, run errands for him, among other mundane tasks. He is only a boy of eight, hardly has enough strength to lift a common sword, let alone Morningstar or the whole set of armor, but Ser Criston seems to pay no mind to this. Lucerys struggles, cries some more, gets scorned, and carries on.

When Aemond comes down to the training yard for the first time after the eye incident, he sees a clumsy boy in humble clothes scrubbing an arm plate, his hands red and rough from the cold water. A mop of brown curls and the signature button nose are the only hints for Aemond to realize this is his nephew, that hateful brat Lucerys.

Aemond is delighted that Lucerys is humiliated and reduced to carry out tasks fit for what he truly is, a mere bastard. However, Aemond’s day quickly turns sour as he struggles to fight with only one-eye.

“My prince, perhaps it’s better to have someone train with you. Give you a real grasp of things.” Ser Criston suggests.

Real grasp of WHAT? Aemond wants to scream. Is Ser Criston making fun of him? How is he supposed to fight a real person while he couldn’t even hit a fucking training dummy? Seeing his displeasure, Ser Criston merely smiles and calls for Lucerys.

Now Aemond understands. Indeed, Lucerys would make a perfect training partner. Aemond can wield his weapon without worry to accidently hurt his opponent. If Lucerys is hit by his blow, well, the bastard deserves it.

Lucerys hesitantly picks up a wooden sword. He gained some muscle in the passing weeks but still more than a head shorter than Aemond.

“How kind of you to accompany me on my training, nephew. I must admit this brings sweet memory of the past. Let’s train, like good old times, shall we?” Aemond mocks, satisfied to see color draining from the boy’s cheeks.

From then on, Lucerys has a new task added to his duty list. Be Aemond’s training dummy. He gets cuts and bruises more times than he could count, some deliberately, some by accident. He gets so close to strike back one time after Aemond hits him purposely on the jaw, sending him back into the dirt, but when Lucerys looks at his uncle’s scarred face, all the fight in him suddenly disappears. He is reminded again what he has done. He mutilated a boy permanently, so when Aemond pounces on him to send another blow, Lucerys lets him.

Aemond only comes to training every other day, and the days when he is not in the training yard, he goes to the dragon pit to bond with Vaghar. Lucerys should be relieved when Aemond is not here to torment him, but in fact he only feels jealous. He misses Arrax dearly. He fears next time he meets Arrax, he would be a stranger to his cradle mate. Is it possible for the bond with dragon and rider to break? Lucerys hopes not.

Luckily, he makes a friend in the Red Keep. Its name is Greymane, a greyish warhorse that belongs to Ser Criston. Lucerys is in charge of taking care the creature, and Greymane is the only one who doesn’t mock or ignore him, better still, it doesn’t torment him either. Lucerys grows a habit to talk to the horse about his day, how he misses his family, how he is sorry for taking Aemond’s eye, how he wishes he could go back in time to when everything was simpler, to when he and Aemond were still friends. He talks and talks until he falls asleep in the stable, not noticing a glint of silver lurking at the corner.

 Time passes by, days become weeks, weeks become months, months become years, and Lucerys grows into a slim and quiet teenager, the cheekiness and easy-going gone. He still scrubs Ser Criston’s armor and sharpens his weapon but he no longer has to accompany Prince Aemond’s training. My nephew is of little challenge, the one-eyed prince proclaims. Lucerys hasn’t seen his family for more than 5 years now, only exchanging letters from time to time. As King Viserys’s heath is ailing, Otto practically runs the kingdom on behalf of the King. The Red Keep is swarmed with his minions, or Green loyalists, as Lucerys heard one time from a drunk council member. Other squires, mainly sons from minor noble houses loyal to Otto Hightower, regard Lucerys as a perfect plaything. They often mock him, call him nasty names, insult his blood, but Lucerys ignores their childish acts. Only does he strike back if they make a remark about Rhaenyra and her family.

“Shut your filthy mouth.” Lucerys spits. “You risk treason when you insult the rightful heir to the throne.”

“And now he finally speaks! We thought you were mute, bastard.” One squire boy taunts.

“Why don’t you run back to your whore mother? Oh, wait, you can’t. You are forbidden to leave the Red Keep. I guess you are stuck at scrubbing armors, little princeling.”

“I bet his mother forgets him long ago as she weds the Rogue Prince and has more spare sons. At least she managed to pull out some true Targaryens from her womb.”

Lucerys couldn’t take it anymore so he grabs a sharpening stone and throws, hitting one of the squire boys in the face. They quickly disperse like a bunch of scared ducks. Lucerys feels alive the first time since he arrived at the capital.

However, his triumph is short-lived. Those cruel boys seek other ways to hurt him. They sabotaged Greymane’s horseshoe, making the poor horse snap its front leg on a hunting trip. Ser Criston nearly falls from the horse, and after he returns, he orders the horse to be get rid of. Lucerys is heart-broken and furious. Greymane is his only friend, the anchor of his sanity in this dreadful place. He has lost Arrax, and he couldn’t stand losing Greymane.

“How do you feel now, bastard? You may walk away from hurting others like you always do, but we made sure your dear friend took the fall for you.”

Lucerys shoves one of the squire boys, but this time they are prepared and easily overpowered him. They pinned Lucerys to the ground, one of the boys straddling him, hitting Lucerys again and again. His clothes get disheveled in the process, and that’s the start of his downfall.

“Hey, look, he has skin as fair as those maidens in court!”

“Don’t be so deprived, dickhead. Goes to the street of silk and get one of those whores to warm your cock.”

“Why? This one is free.”

Lucerys feels his blood run cold as his tormentors exchange a nasty look.

“How about you make yourself useful, bastard? I am sure you are as talented as your whore mother,” The boy on top of Lucerys smirked, pulling out his cock and shoves it near Lucerys’s mouth. He is the one Lucerys hit with a stone. “Suck it, whore.”

Lucerys refuses to open his mouth, but other boys make him. They grab his jaw and squeeze hard, forcing his lips to part. The cock pushes in, almost choking him. Lucerys’s eyes water, the suffocating smell of metal, sweat, boyish lust and humiliation making him want to vomit.

“Suck, use your tongue, you useless bastard.”

“Didn’t your whore mother teach you how to suck cock? Or did she only teach you to use your cunt? She certainly excels at that.”

Someone is pulling at his breeches, and cock in his mouth pushes in more, gaging him.

“Looks like the bastard wants a good fuck.”

 Aemond doesn’t plan to go to the stables; he really doesn’t. It just so happens he needs to fetch a drunken Aegon and a shortcut through the stable is the fastest way. When he goes near, he hears a commotion, like someone is struggling, then some muffled whimper and mockery. The one-eyed prince enters the stable out of curiosity, and is immediately stunned by what he sees. There lies his nephew on the hay, with some squire boys surrounding him, a filthy cock stuck in his mouth, another ready to invade his entrance. Aemond is both stunned by the savagery of this scene and the credible beauty that is his nephew. Before he could act, Lucerys does something so outrageous that surprises everyone present.

He bites down on the cock in his mouth. Hard. So hard that he almost tears the thing apart.

Screams almost deafen Aemond. The attacker rolls off Lucerys, screaming in pain. Other squire boys freeze, not dare to provoke him more. Lucerys spits out the blood and chuck of flesh from his mouth, pulls his breeches back up, and speaks in an intimidating tone.

“Never insult my mother again.” Lucerys says, not a threat but a command, “Or you will perish in the dragon flame. I do not jest.”

As the squire boys nod in earnest, Lucerys turns to Aemond, and gives his uncle a bloody grin.

“Come to enjoy the show, uncle?”

There he is, mouth dripping blood and a feral smile graces his face. This is the same boy who took Aemond’s eye. This is the same dragon who defends his family at all costs. This is the picture imprinted in Aemond’s mind that he will never forget.

This is when Aemond falls in love with Lucerys.

 Half a year later, when Vaemond challenges Lucerys for Driftmark, Rhaenyra returns to King’s Landing. She is greeted by a boy she barely knows. Jacaerys is greeted by a brother he hardly recognizes. 

Why would Lucerys smile warmly at Aemond who just put on a show to beat Ser Criston?

How do you like this (too long) headcanon? Let me know if you enjoy this.