#this came from the depths of my soul
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achaotichuman ¡ 8 months ago
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Random Ramble
I think it is hilarious how some people are so aggressive about sticking so thoroughly to canon, and not allowing for any room for imagination, because like, my brother in christ, canon does not exist.
None of these are real, the characters are not real, the story is not real. There is no such thing as canon.
There is only such thing as the op. The one who originally made the story and the characters, which is why we have copyright. So that no one can *make money off of these characters and the story*
But so long as you aren't plagiarizing the story in order to make your own money off of it. Once these characters are published and, in the world, everyone has free reign with them.
Once they are in your head, they are your characters. Which is why people interrupt their actions differently. Because the characters will appear different in your head compared to anyone else, including the author.
Idk the origins of the term canon, nor have I done any research on the topic (I'm just rambling) but tbh in my eyes it appears like we as a society have allowed money to ingrain itself so deeply into us as people, that we allow to dictate what we think. And this goes for the idea of canon.
Because the actual author is one making money off the books (rightfully so) it has become a sort of, is their way or the highway (this is just a half-thought through theory btw don't take it too seriously)
Which is why I personally love to take said characters and do whatever the fuck I want with them. Because whatever I make them do is in character for me, and even if it isn't, it might be for someone else. Because while they are in my hands, they are my characters.
Consider this a freedom post. You are free to think whatever the fuck you want, none of these people are real. Make Elain a villain, give Kosechi a love interest, make Feyre and Tamlin get back together after she divorces Rhysand. It doesn't matter what the og author thinks, so long as you aren't making money off these characters, you can do whatever the hell you want with them.
And I don't mean make theories crack, I mean you are allowed to genuinely believe this is the best course of action, even if you know the og author won't take it that way.
Cause personally, I do think Tamcien is a plausible ship, and I hope it happens in canon. Do I think it will? No, but Tamlin and Lucien are my characters when they are in my head, so I am allowed to think whatever the fuck I want about them. And same goes for people who disagree with me.
Like some people want Lucien to take over the world, I do not. Some people want Tamlin to die, I do not. Some people want a myriad of things that I do not, and both of those ideas are in character, so long as they are in your head.
Make elriel your canon, make elucien your canon. Fuck it, make Rhysand/Beron your canon.
The only person judging you in the voice in your head, and people on the internet and who gives two fucks what they think. Get as weird as you want, it's all canon, cause none of this is real.
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fyodior ¡ 1 year ago
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you think he practiced this in the mirror or smth
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autism-disco ¡ 8 months ago
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i keep responding with “i’ve been worse” when people ask me how i’m doing which raises the question: how bad can i possibly be
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minniiaa ¡ 11 months ago
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making koby hot was actually a CRIME cause I could have gone the entire fucking series irritated by this pathetic annoying little marine wannabe bitchass luffy simp and now i’m low key rooting for him every time and swooning at how much he loves luffy and hypes him up from afar even though they’re so supposed to be enemies. how dare he show up post-ts and he’s HOT??? like in a way that i want to crush him under my boot and make him cry but WHY IS IS HOT???
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gaywiththesauce ¡ 1 year ago
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You tagging that post about being high and forgetting your cat with Giyuu and Kyo is making me insane. INSANE. I feel like when high/drunk enough Giyuu would like completely flip and be INCREDIBLY flirty with Kyo like PDA the whole nine and Kyo has to reign HIM in for once. Tengen notices this when they’re at his parties, thinks it’s hilarious, and sets about trying to get Giyuu drunk at all subsequent functions via an elaborate series of drinking games
oh absolutely. the post
Giyuu would maybe start the night with a shot or two to loosen him up. Even with just that, he's clinging to Kyojuro's arm and not letting him out of reach.
Then it comes to the dancing and somehow the girls are dancing And taking shots so of course, when offered, both Kyo and Giyuu accept one. Except it's straight vodka and Kyojuro is like: okay, we need to chill for a bit.
But OF COURSE Tengen comes over and he's like "sup!, glad you made it!" and all of them get dragged into a bedroom of sorts and they're sitting on the bed playing never have I ever
Every single one of Tengen's questions is pointed at Giyuu, making him take a shot during his round. ("never have I ever taken dick in the ass" both Kyo and Giyuu have to drink-) Now, Giyuu is sitting in Kyojuro's lap, still facing the group but leaning his head back against Kyo's shoulder and putting Kyojuro's hands on his chest to hold him
Mitsuri and Shinobu are giggling and talking about how out of it Giyuu is and how affectionate he is. sitting on Kyojuro's lap. making him run his fingers up and down his stomach to feel his touch. Tengen keeps whistling and teasing Kyojuro for how sensual his boyfriend is.
two more shots later and he isn't even playing anymore. he's facing Kyojuro, trying to talk around his lazy tongue and kissing his face hard enough to raise a blush to each spot. Kyojuro is trying to get Giyuu off his lap so he can cool down (and so Mitsuri and Tengen stop taking pictures). it gets so much worse the longer they're there because Giyuu only knows that he wants him and everyone else can fuck off.
Kyojuro excuses both of them like "Okay, You're Done." and takes them away from the drinking game. Giyuu is clinging to him and trying to kiss his face while his feet barely move with Kyojuro's.
Kyojuro sits with him on the couch and is like "you wait Right Here. don't move your ass" to get him water and he's gone for a minute tops and Giyuu is just gone. he poofed.
Kyo gets a text and it's just Giyuu being awkward saying he doesn't know who someone is and it's a picture of a fucking CAT. wow. his boyfriend is so stupid. some would say he's moronsexual but he would frown at who said that and say that's mean to morons
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azal-lea ¡ 13 days ago
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just thinking about my core memory of my mom and dad holding my hands and lifting me up to let me make a big jump whenever there was a steel drain grate and as I was lifted the sky seemed so much closer to me like the clouds hovered for me to reach and it felt like the trees would extend branches to wave hello to me and the wind would caress my face lovingly before my feet hit the pavement again.
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heartpascal ¡ 2 years ago
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I'M EVEN MORE DEVASTED NOW 😭 (i just watched the new mandalorian ep and i'm not gonna say anything anymore) AND THEN YOU POST THAT 😭 I AM SO DEPRESSED AND DEVASTATED 😭
i'm gonna add more to that thought and what if— joel or tommy was awake?
"Look at me, kid. LOOK AT ME!" "Open your eyes, please!" "NO!"
AND MARIA NO! MY MOTHER! 😭 HER BEING IN DENIAL AND TELLING TOMMY TO TELL HER THAT IT'S NOT TRUE! MY HEART 💔🥀 AND WHAT IF LIKE THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE DINNER TOGETHER AFTER THE PATROL AND IT JUST GOES— MARIA ASKING WHERE SHE IS AND TOMMY JUST—
"Don't you dare say that." "Tell me it's not true. Tell me it's not fucking true, please!" "...Maria."
I AM DEVASTED! JESSE! 😭😭 (he's probably gonna see her soon but we ain't gonna talk about that) ELLIE AND JOEL 😭 joel and maria just lost another child and i can hear that one song going "i told you once, i can't do this again, do this again, oh." AND THE WHOLE FAMILY JUST AVENGING HER WITH TOMMY GOING FIRST 😭 I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! 😭
songs that makes me devasted about this:
• as the world caves in - matt maltese
(i can absolutely see this as the title name if you ever expand on it and just know it's gonna break my heart 💔)
• hold on - chord overstreet
• you said you'd grow old with me - michael schulte
• fourth of july - sufjan stevens
(am i bringing this back? yes, yes i am. specifically; "the evil, it spread like a fever ahead. it was night when you died, my firefly." and "the hospital asked, 'should the body be cast?' before i say goodbye, my star in the sky.")
• walked through hell - anson seabra
• remember me - coco
• sorrow - sleeping at last
• touch - sleeping at last
• it's quiet uptown - hamilton
(this song is making me fall apart—)
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THE LAST OF US PART 2 SPOILERS
i am currently just putting that as like a blanket warning and then gonna do keep reading thingys so hopefully people who don’t wanna see don’t see!! ( THIS WAS BEFORE I WROTE… ALL THIS. )
omg yes shhh i’ve only watched episode 1 of season 3 so far oopsies. i have so little time for mando AGH i wish i had more >:( but i also neglected sm homework last week oops so my own fault really
no because if JOEL was awake? and he watched that happen? i genuinely don’t know what he’d do. there’s two options, one of which we heard of after sarah died, and the other being he goes mad for revenge. (let’s pretend abby didn’t use like. a fucking shotgun on his leg and it was recoverable, shhhhh)
TOMMY. he’d be so torn. i don’t know what he’d do either!!! they would just be so fucking despondent. like what is even the point if r is gone? what are they meant to do now? and if he had to watch? if he watched, and wasn’t able to do anything? can you imagine the pain he’d be in after locking eyes with r, wondering if r would ever forgive him for this? tommy would absolutely blame himself. would blame himself for letting reader on patrols at all, for helping abby, for trusting this group that they didn’t know, for doing nothing when reader needed him to do something, anything, the most
you saw how tommy reacted in part 2 when abby threatened ellie, how he fucking yelled and screamed at ellie to leave. can you imagine how much he would yell and scream at abby to just leave reader alone, to just stop, please, don’t do this to her, she didn’t do anything
can you imagine how tommy would react if he found out why abby did it? how joel would react? how ellie would react?
lets think about this for a minute actually, because ellie would NEVER forgive joel. she wouldn’t. because she already hated him for what he did at the hospital, she was just barely coming to forgive him for it, and now not only did he take that away from her, but his actions also led to reader being killed. joel would never ever forgive himself, but neither would ellie.
hell, if joel went to seattle for revenge, i don’t think he’d be coming back no matter the outcome. it has to be said. what does he have left, anyway?
my dear, sweet maria. she would be so torn after her initial denial, because god does she want to avenge reader, she wants to tear them all apart for what they did to her, but then there’s this baby who needs her. tommy would be long gone, by then, anyway. she couldn’t orphan her child. but what about you?
and the blame she’d have for joel, too, if she found out?
joel would be having the absolute WORST time.
your dialogue for maria’s reaction is so so accurate too, and you can really see tommy just looking at her, saying her name, because there’s nothing else he can say.
and when tommy and maria’s son grows up, and he’s wondering why his dad left, and he doesn’t understand because he can’t remember reader. he doesn’t remember her looking after him, only has the names on the chalkboard that’s still set up on the mantle of the home he shares with his mother only. because maria wouldn’t welcome tommy back after he left. couldn’t. a part of her resents him for not saving r too, although she’d never say it out loud.
i wanna talk about jesse more but this is already long i’m sorry HAHAH so i will move on to my favourite thing. SONGS!!!
as the world caves in — i’m an awful person for immediately thinking about how joel’s world litch rally caved in (via the golf club to r’s head…) OK BUT FOR REAL NOW. i love this song. it hurts so bad. for all of them, the world had already ended. they’re living in post apocalyptic times for gods sake. but this… this is worse. this is their actual world falling apart before their very eyes.
i cant talk about hold on because i think i will actually break down in sobs and cries. but agreed. that song hurts so bad
you said you’d grow old with me — these lyrics hurt particularly bad if you relate them to jesse i think. and ellie actually. “we had plans, we had visions, now i can't see ahead” i’m crying and sobbing. they’d both be so empty. they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. and they’d remember so many things they forgot to tell reader :( “you've got your peace now, but what about me?” SOBBIIIIINGGG. actually look at all of these lyrics because they all fit so well and they ALL hurt.
fourth of july — may i just also add “what could i have said to raise you from the dead?” because it makes me sad. and as you SHOULD bring this one back. it hurts. also the repeated “why do you cry” hurts so bad because not only will all the characters be sobbing but also r didn’t want to die :(
walk through hell — all of you go and look at EVERY single song lyric here. because ouch. like i’m in pain rn listening to this
remember me — “remember me though i have to say goodbye” yelling crying screaming sobbing. and also “remember me each time you hear a sad guitar” joel coded joel coded joel coded. he never got to teach r how to play even though she wanted to learn (shhh) and that would haunt him forever i think. or however long he lived..
sorrow — OUCH. all of this just hurts and then you have this especially joel coded line “slowly, then all at once / a single loose thread / and it all comes undone” sobs he lost everything. also i think this song really fits with how like. lost and unsure everybody would be going forward like “i feel out of focus / or at least indisposed” TBE MORE I LOOK AT THE LYRICS THE MORE I COULD PICK OUT THAT FIT SO WELL. howl you know what you’re doing. i should be mad. i should be.
touch — “all i want is to flip a switch / before something breaks that cannot be fixed” need i say more? no. i needn’t. but i will. “predicting god as best he can / but god i wanna feel again”
it’s quiet uptown — howl im gonna need you to stop using hamilton against me please and thank you. but this song is maria coded. THERE I SAID IT. it’s maria coded! “you hold your child as tight as you can / and push away the unimaginable” her with her son after tommy leaves too. she’s so stuck on the fact that she couldn’t protect r that she worries she won’t be able to protect him either. she can’t lose a third child. AND MORE IMPORTANTLY. “i spend hours in the garden / i walk alone to the store” TO READER’S STORE!!! TO THE POTTERY SHOP!!! imagine the pain maria would feel when all the flowers outside have wilted away, unreplaced, and then she has to throw them away. she’s alone. she’s so alone. i’m in pain. with everybody off avenging r who’s their to mourn her? everybody forgets about your shop soon enough, except for her. she cleans the shop, sends her son to be looked after by someone she trusts, only for a little while. she can’t manage long. AND THEN THE SECOND PART IS TOMMY CODED. “if i could spare [her] life / if i could trade [her] life for mine / [she’d] be standing here right now / and you would smile and that would be enough” …… i’m going into hibernation actually. howl HOW COULD YOU.
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nerdyerror ¡ 2 years ago
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O no a meme
Also it supposed to say fictional queer British men, but I had to retype it so I forgor :(.
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herdragonknights ¡ 1 year ago
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My current relationship with being an author:
✨Writer’s Block✨
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Sorrows
Sorrows, Prayers
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achaotichuman ¡ 8 months ago
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*Laughs maniacally as I crack my knuckles*
Y'all mfing know what time it is.
Acotar rant time
And thank you @hieragalbatorixdottir for the suggestion of dicussion.
So straight off the bat, Feyre x Amarantha is better because it's sapphic, which automatically makes it 1000% better than feysand. But for the sake of discourse, we will continue.
Lets discuss Rhysand vs Amarantha's relationship with Feyre.
When Feyre learns of Amarantha in Acotar, she has freshly returned to Prythian, and is shocked to find her lover has been kidnapped and the place she now calls home has been raided and destroyed. Looking like a graveyard.
She is told of Amarantha through Alis who finally reveals everything to her. Along with Amarantha's story, that being of her sister and alluds to Amarantha falling into some kind of insanity from grief.
And Feyre extends empathy towards that. She acknowledges Amarantha's torment for losing someone so close to her. Feyre has sisters and can relate to the kind of pain of wanting to protect them.
When Amarantha and Feyre meet for the first time, there are no shields on their personalities. Feyre sees Amarantha truly and wholly, her whole person on her own terf. Feyre is showing her rawest, most vulnerable self, and is standing right up to her and not backing down. Taking no shit from her.
Amarantha is morally grey and content with her wickedness. She doesn't apologize for the things she does, nor does she try to justify them. She is there for her business and her business alone without any regard for others.
Now lets flip this around. Feyre met Rhysand in very dire circumstances too. She was in a vulnerable, raw environment, in a land she did not know, being threatened to be SAed by three men.
Rhysand came in and saved her, except unlike the meeting with Amarantha he hiding his true self, whereas Feyre is completely on display, shocked and no doubt in some emotional pain from the encounter. So already there is a power struggle right off the bat, except it lacks any real emotion from Rhysand's end.
Rhysand has the similar experience of losing his sister, but he never really shows any real grief for losing his sister, she is more or less a past unfortunate tragedy.
Rhysand is morally grey, but not really because he actually hates it, he was the secret hero all along and whilst he continues to do horrible things unforgivingly, its actually morally right because it's for the 'greater good.'
Comparing Rhysand to Amarantha, and the story Feysand attempts to convey, Amarantha is the better choice.
She is everything Rhysand attempts to be but pulling it off better and with a much hotter attitude.
Even Rhysand steals Amarantha's line 'Feyre darling'. Amarantha also succeeds in her conquests, whereas Rhysand routinely falls flat. Amarantha dreams big whereas Rhysand doesn't seem to have any kind of future really in plan. We see them going from 'we're going to be High King' to 'We'll only show favor to Velaris, and not even the rest of our lands'
Plus Amarantha and Feyre have much better banter, with Feyre being in an incredibly emotional environment and routinely going off at Amarantha, whilst Amarantha takes it all in stride, extremely curious towards Feyre's behavior. Aka, they have good tension throughout the entirety of their interactions.
Amarantha see Feyre go through victory and loss, and keeps throwing challenges at her to push her forward and Feyre throws it right back.
They have a push and pull dynamic that is lacking with Feysand, because Rhysand doesn't push nor pull, he merely exists and Feyre is drawn to him regardless of his actions.
Therefore, Feyantha, is better than Feysand.
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yeetbean ¡ 2 years ago
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crawling into annihilation like a hollow moss log and letting the bog overtake me
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pinkautist ¡ 7 months ago
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i am someone who cares so deeply and wants better for the world.
i want a world that is more compassionate and kind and nurtures human life better than this current industrial world does.
i want a world where people don't feel the need to lash out at and hurt others in order to protect their more vulnerable and hurt selves, because they aren't deprived of their human right to love and compassion and community.
i want a world where people who are hurting aren't stripped of their humanity and called every dehumanizing name under the sun, from "narc" to "monster".
i want a world where children are viewed as human beings and are nurtured and loved and taken care of, and in turn, grow into adults who are strong and kind and confident and who care for those around them.
i want a world in which creating is viewed as a fundemental part of our human souls, and we are allowed to create freely without fear of criticism or having our ability to create being taken from us.
i want a world in which our value is not assigned to our ability to do things, but rather the simple fact that we were born and we are alive and we are loved.
i want a kinder world.
i want a world that feels less painful to live in.
i wish my parents weren't wounded animals who wounded their children in turn.
i wish my parents could be happy, even apart, and that they could both lead happy and fulfilling lives for once.
i wish,
i wish,
i wish
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acid-ixx ¡ 3 months ago
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brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)
ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader
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— masterlist !
reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.
a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.
you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.
it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.
it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.
you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.
blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.
yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.
blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.
and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.
in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.
you've come to love blood, cherish it even.
especially if it's your own.
especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.
left, right, left, right.
his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.
he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.
yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.
up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.
and he'll come to regret.
you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.
because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.
he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.
as if he actually cares about you.
maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.
batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.
you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.
the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.
"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."
his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.
shit, you've never felt so happy.
it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.
blood.
you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.
you're genuinely so fucking happy.
batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.
'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'
and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.
he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.
"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—
you look at him like he means the world all throughout.
"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.
you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.
"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.
"take my mask off, please?"
crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.
you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.
when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—
all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.
no... wait, no.
it's not...
it's not his... child?
you?
your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.
batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.
he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.
bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.
this, this day marks his sin.
and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.
crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.
yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.
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short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.
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2K notes ¡ View notes
barbieaemond ¡ 7 months ago
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And I dream of a grave
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Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader
Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)
Word count: 3.8k
Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3
Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl
MASTERLIST | English is not my first language
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This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.
As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.
The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?
To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.
“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.
“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”
Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.
“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.
“You know what happened.”
“What really happened?”
His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.
“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”
“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”
It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.
He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.
“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.
He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.
“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”
Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.
“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”
She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.  
“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”
There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.
Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”
“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.
“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”
A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.
“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”
She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.
So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.
“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”
Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”
“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”
There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”
“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”
“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”
At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.
“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”
She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.
She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.
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Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.
“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.
She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”
When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.
“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”
“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”
“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”
“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”
“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?
But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.
She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”
“We’re bound by words, are we not?”
“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”
She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”
Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.
“My dearest daughter,
It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.
Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”
She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.
“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”
He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.
Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.
But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.
“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”
She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.
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Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.
She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.
The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.
And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?
Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.
So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.
It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.
But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.
He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.
That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.
And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.
He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.
Will she ever be able to speak again?
Will my Mother ever forgive me?
Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.
But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.
He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.  
He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.
This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.
But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.
Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.
He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.
He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.
A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.
“Why are you crying?”
She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.
This is the burden of grief.
She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.
Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.
Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.
“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.
But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.  
“Aren’t we all?”
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And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."
- The Castle, Franz Kafka.
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dewdropdinosaur ¡ 2 months ago
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Kinktober Day 8: Cockwarming
Summary: You had no idea how you ended up in this position, slotted so prettily on your husband's aching cock as he left you to fend for yourself in the search for friction. Maybe you could convince him otherwise. Warnings: Cockwarming, the reader has a vagina, mentions of genitalia, pet names, etc. MDNI, 18+. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Kinktober Mention of the Day: @redvexillum Their writing is so scrumptious, I can't believe I am honored enough to exist in the same world as their masterpieces.
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You could hardly stand it anymore, the teasing. How his smug smirk, nonchalant attention made your skin crawl in delicious ways that you wouldn’t dare to admit aloud. But he knew, you didn’t have to tell him. Your fingers dug into the plush velvet of your husband’s seat, weeping cunt slotted perfectly on his hard and angry cock. Hair disheveled, lips puffy and red from how hard his teeth had assulated them mere minutes ago…you couldn’t stand him anymore. 
The green light illuminated the office, allowing the soft pitter-patter of rain to take on an eerie glow through the oval window. Cascading streams of water glistened, letting the green street lights shake and shift across the floor with each passing droplet. When you had visited your husband late into the night, the Eye of Zaun hard at work scanning over various papers, you had no idea what would occur. With a steaming cup of tea in your hand, the whisps of steam wafting off it in a comforting air that could soothe even the worriest of worriers. You had crossed the hardwood floor, placed it gently on his desk as you propped yourself up on the corner. 
“Silco…it’s been hours.”
The world swam in that window’s green light, the hard maroon cushion,and those bi-colored eyes that penetrated your soul when he looked up to observe your form. Neither eye displayed much emotion to the untrained eye but after so long you could nearly tell what your husband was thinking. The orange eye held depths of a fire unknown and the loving rage of a thousand comets hurling towards each other with a fire too hot to be extinguished until they met. The blue, however,  the crystal blue one showed the most restraint surprisingly. You were wearing more casual clothes, a button up white shirt and a pair of maroon suit pants. Nothing you would have deemed anything worth the heated and lustful gaze you were receiving. 
“I know, my dear. But Zaun waits for no man.”
Filting around his chair, you sat in his lap, running your nimble fingers through the locks of his slicked back hair. Cooing softly as his head craned back in relaxation, you thought you had finally won him over for the night. 
“My dear, if you keep that up I will have no choice but to indulge myself in what else that heavenly body of yours can offer me.”
Choking back a surpirsed gasp, a frantic blush coating your cheeks, you halted your movements. You had no idea what had warranted such a bold reaction from the Industrailist, but here it seems that you had done something. 
That is how you ended up now, pussy full of cock, drooling onto the shoulder lining of Silco’s vest as he did nothing. Sliding slightly, attempting to get more friction, to feel him deeper inside you, his rough fingers came to grip your hips in a bruising manner. 
“Shhh now pet. You did this to yourself, looking so delicatable while I work.”  His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, one hand returning to scribble some notes down on the paper he was viewing while the other stayed on your hip. You let out a desperate whimper, grinding your hips down once more in a plea. Your nails dug into the fabric of his chair, tearing the material slightly. Growling into your ear that the friction you had caused, your husband roughly bucks his hips up into you. 
“Behave yourself. I’ll treat you well soon enough love…”
Guess you were here for a while then. 
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dark-moonlust ¡ 6 months ago
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Tentacle Trouble PART 1
Pairing: Tentacle monster x human f!reader
Summary: you decide to explore a cave that is surrounded by stories of a tentacle beast. You find exactly that, get pounded in all holes and bred.
Warnings: minors don't interact, 18+!!!!, dub-con, dark monster smut, explicit tentacle smut, p in three holes, HEA. Don’t like, don’t read.
Find the series here.
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The dimly lit cave echoed with the roar of the ocean.
You ventured deeper, drawn by the stories of the creature that dwelled within its depths.
You were determined to uncover the truth.
You didn’t expect to find a monster. These were baby tales.
But your were wrong. So very wrong.
The presence lurked and watched you and before you could escape, thick, slick tentacles trapped you. Your clothes were ripped and tossed away, slimy tentacles roaming your body, their weight keeping you a captive. You found yourself being lifted, suspended in the air while wriggling appendages wrapped around your wrists and ankles, keeping your limbs wide apart.
The creature emerged from the shadows, its body a huge round mass of tentacles, each one glistening with a strange slickness. A huge head, and at its core were three glowing eyes, deep blue, like the ocean sea. They seemed to reach into your soul.
“Holy shit!” You gasped, unable to believe your eyes. “I’m so fucking dead.”
A husky voice filled your mind, you realized it came from the monster. “No one shall hurt you, little human. You are here now, your life is mine, your little holes are mine,” it drawled. “I will mate and love you endlessly.”
“Fuck you, you perverted—”
“What a filthy mouth.” A sharp slap against your ass made you gasp in surprise. “Quiet, noisy human.”
You shrieked and moaned as he repeatedly slapped your ass, pausing a little to caress your sore bum before delivering more smacks. No matter how much you wiggled and screamed, you couldn’t be set free. The slimes moved on to slap you pussy, finding it delightfully slick and plump.
You thrashed at each blow, the slaps were light but awakened a strange pleasure inside you.
You hated your treacherous body.
The monster didn’t seem pleased with your thrashing so he pushed one thick tentacle into your parted mouth. It plunged down your throat, stretching your lips and causing you to gag. Moist suckling noises resounded as it fucked your throat, thrusting back and forth until you no longer fought the creature back.
Gluck… gluck… gluck… gluck.
The cave echoed with your lewd slurping sounds as you were forced to swallow the sweet nectarine liquid dripping from his tentacle. Each drop aroused you, invading your system and intoxicating it with desire. In seconds, you were soft and pliant, more than eager to let him have his way with you.
“That’s more like it,” you heard his voice in your mind. “Beautiful human. My little mate.”
“What—hmm,” you gulped down more liquid, “is it?”
The monster’s voice rumbled through you. “That, my little one, is my elixir. It shall make you immortal and prepare your body for me. It is an elixir that only I, the master of these depths, can produce.”
You struggled to speak, a shiver running down your spine. Immortal elixir? It terrified and intrigued you. You looked into the creature’s eyes, asking for answers.
“Only my mate is deserving of my elixir. Now hush, do not fear.”
More tentacles came out of his body, of various shapes and lengths. They travelled over your flesh, leaving trails of slickness wherever they touched. It made your shiver. One tentacle slithered up your inner thigh, brushing around your pussy before slipping inside your depths. Shivers of pleasure ran through you as it fucked you while another slithery appendage rubbed your clit round and round.
Two more tentacles snaked over your ass, pulling your cheeks apart to expose your pouting rosebud. You squirmed and cried out around the tentacle fucking your mouth when the pulsating appendages slipped past the tight entrance of your asshole. The fit was tight but the tentacles were incredibly slick. Slowly, oh so slowly, they filled you up, inch by inch, until they were buried deep in your guts.
“Mnn…mnhaa!" You breathed through your nose at the way you felt, all holes filled.
When the tentacles started to thrust, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. The tentacles were all over and yet, you felt no pain, just blinding pleasure. You willingly surrendered to the feral ravishmest. The cave filled with the symphony of your high-pitched cries and the furious plap-plap of tentacles filling your body.
The creature’s rhythm grew faster, the tentacles working in perfect harmony.
By now, you had two tentacles buried in your cunt and three more crawling up your ass. The one fucking your throat hadn’t receded and kept feeding you its delectable elixir.
The insistent fucking brought you to a shattering climax. Your body tensed and you cried out around the thrusting appendage in your lips as waves and waves of pleasure crashed over you.
The creature didn’t stop its pounding.
Your voice continued to echo through the cavern. The slimes in your ass pistoned fast and hard but the ones in your pussy stopped and pressed against the entrance to your womb. You tensed, the pressure causing you to wince. You felt a soft pop, followed by the heavy weight of eggs. One by one you felt them as they were deposited deep inside you.
“Ugh .. ungh—" you whimpered and came hard, the walls of your cunt contracting around the ovipositor. Your whole body spasmed as the creature bred you and made you its mate.
It felt like hours later when the slimes exited your holes. The intensity subsided, but your belly was bulging with his brood. The creature gently lowered you to the ground, its tentacles wrapping protectively around you. You lay there, spent and satisfied, your mind reeling from the unbelievable experience.
The creature’s glowing eyes regarded you with a strange, almost tender curiosity. “You did well, my mate. Took six of my eggs on the first try. I am proud of you. Sleep now, little one. I will take care of you. Forever.”
And you did, your eyes shutting as you let go in his embrace. You had found what you needed, a new world of pleasure and otherworldly love.
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