#to be freed and never be treated by men the way she was

[clfixationstation]

all of this. yes.

my only thought is that because straight ships are seen as "normal", Isayama (and many other writers) assume that audiences require less convincing to get behind them and find them believable. Which isn't entirely untrue - there are many m/f ships out there that I've seen straight fans get behind with the bare minimum (from people I've talked to in-person, not just online speculation).

the next assumption writers could be making is that straight couples don't require a high level of understanding and companionship. From my observations, it's unfortunately the case that it's not always expected in straight relationships what do you mean your boyfriend doesn't think you should have rights?? doesn't see you as a full person?? and you still want to marry him???!? girl RUN. It's often (subconsciously) based on the bioessentialist idea that men and women are very different beings with different roles to fulfill, and therefore can never fully understand each other (ugh).

that's why "our worldviews directly conflict and we can't fully understand each other, but we're still drawn together by love and that in itself is an understanding" just isn't compelling to me personally. I've seen it with many canon straight ships in many stories over the years. (to be clear, I am not accusing people who enjoy such ships of being bioessentialist - I do not know the mind of every person)

and then there's yumihisu. Ymir was immediately drawn to Historia because she saw her past self in her, and was determined to empower Historia to live for herself with pride. After a lonely childhood, Historia welcomed Ymir's company and understood that Ymir's abrasive comments betrayed her good heart. Even with the secrets between them, Ymir and Historia had this deep understanding of each other and offered each other compassion and companionship.

and for some of the other ships mentioned in the tags:

1) I didn't pay much attention to reibert, but wdym reiner "having no interest in women" went nowhere?? like?? and Bertholdt liking Annie out of nowhere was kinda funny. 2) kenuri is kind of just. uncontested canon. 3) I never expected eremin to be canon, but the level of understanding and reverence they hold for each other is unparalleled. 4) I actually love aruani, and that's primarily because their relationship is based in understanding and appreciating each other's perspectives; seeing positive qualities in each other that others could not. It could've used more time to cook, but that's my only criticism

#like why did eremin parallel yumihisu and reibert. while eremika was CANONICALLY framed as a parallel to the most toxic horrific relationship

THIS TAG. This is the one that gets me. eremika paralleled Ymir and King Fritz; Mikasa's love bound her to Eren the same way Ymir's love bound her to Fritz. However, Mikasa was able to free herself from the bindings of her love and act for the greater good. By killing Eren, Mikasa freed herself and Ymir. Acting despite all the love she has for Eren, refusing to allow her love to keep her bound - that is what frees Ymir

now, obviously Eren did not treat Mikasa anywhere as badly as Fritz did Ymir. Eren being an ass is NOT equivalent to Fritz's abuse. It's just. That parallel does not indicate to me that eremika is, or could be, a positive relationship. Conversely, I think some people interpret it as eremika's pure and good love showing Ymir what love should be like, in contrast to her relationship to Fritz. While that's a sweet interpretation, I have a difficult time agreeing. Mikasa spent the entire series chasing after Eren, desperately trying to keep her last piece of family alive, living in a perpetual heartache. Eren, on the other hand, hid and stifled his feelings for Mikasa until the end. Where Mikasa always desires to return home, Eren will always run forward towards "freedom". To me, the point of eremika is that it's doomed. It represents the beauty and cruelty that exist simultaneously in the world. While they had love for each other, their relationship was layered in pain all the way through

uhhh I got off-track.

tldr: I hypothesize that m/f ships require less "evidence" to be convincing to audiences because they are the norm. As a result, many m/f ships are written more shallowly than f/f or m/m relationships, whether written as lovers or friends.

why did isayama put his whole pussy into yumihisu after saying he can’t write romance. and then fumble when it came to the straights.

[smiletimeisrunningout]

also real quick i read the first book of shadow and bone and i need someone to write a darkling who is actually who he pretends to be and it's Baghra who lied? I am so fascinated by the idea of THAT character being real (and also dealing with Emma who is such a well-meaning chaotic person)

[thehmn]

I finally got to watch Viften (Empire) and it’s such a fascinating movie. It was written by Anna Neye who also plays Anna Heegaard, a rich free black woman who’s dating the Danish governor of the island.

It’s sold as an absurdist comedy and I think there’s no other way to describe it. There aren’t any real jokes but you often end up laughing at the absurdity of it all.

It’s extremely honest about the horrors Danes put the black population through but thankfully it only shows it in quick flashes of art as seen in the trailer. I once watched a video where they explained why most women aren’t into slasher movies and why black people generally don’t rewatch movies about racism and slavery. It’s because the the horrors shown are very real fears and a fact of life so the only people who can really enjoy watching a woman get horribly murdered as entertaining are men and only white people can watch a black person getting whipped to death with cinematic lighting and have a fun night out. By showing the horrors in art they get to be clear about exactly what is going on without coming off as exploitative.

But it’s also very honest about the ways a society based on slavery fucks with everyone. Most of the servants at the manor are slaves except the cook who bought her own freedom years ago. She tells the housekeeper Petrine that some day she too will be able to buy her freedom and get her own slave. That’s right, the freed black people aspire to get their own slaves because that’s the sort of values a society like this instills in people. And Anna tries to be as nice as possible to her own slaves but doesn’t take her own success for granted and is more afraid of an uprising than her white lover and ends up doing some really horrible things to her slaves to keep them down.

It also touches on how people viewed being black or white back then. That it wasn’t all about skin colour but also status. That’s why all the white people treat Anna as one of them. She’s a rich, educated lady so of course she’s “white”. Even Anna express contempt at being called black because she doesn’t work in the field. The poor freed black people also call Petrine white because she dress and acts like a Dane. Not as in “you are pretending to be white” but as in you are white.

And hats off to the director Frederikke Aspöck. There’s a scene where a woman buys her freedom and they put on a symbolic slave auction where she gets up on the podium and bids on herself. All the white neighbors have come to witness it because it’s seen as this joyous day and they all clap, she’s offered to drink with them and she’s all smiles. The director managed to make the scene wholesome while highlighting the absurdity of it and all you can do is chuckle because what the fuck? The white people think it’s a good thing that she’s free but continue to keep and mistreat their own slaves, and she no doubt dreams of getting her own down the road. It’s very much depicted as institutionalized racism and not just “a few bad eggs”.

And I didn’t know where to put this but there’s a lot of interesting symbolism going on with Anna’s dresses. She always wears dresses that match the colors of the rooms she’s in, establishing her as fully part of the system, but as she begins to realize that the Danish state will never see her as fully equal her colors start to clash with her surroundings.

I watched it on Netflix and it has English subtitles so it should be somewhere for English speakers to watch if you feel so inclined.

[thelov3lybookworm]

A request for you if you feel so inclined 🥹 this doesn’t need to be romantic unless you want to spin it that way. What if cassian or azriel at one point saved an Illyrian girl from getting her wings clipped and from that point forward she idolizes them. Every time they stop by her camp she’s always there to greet them with whatever sweets she baked that day (she helps out in the kitchens at the camp) and asks them about their missions and adventures, if they’re sleeping well or eating enough and just overall doting on them. (And then if there’s a romantic twist, one day she goes to greet them and the bond snaps and she just fumbles over whether or not to offer the cookies she made that day because wouldn’t that be WAY too soon to accept a mating bond? 👀) Maybe she wants to be trained as a Valkyrie but her parents won’t allow it. maybe the girl is devlon’s daughter? But doesn’t have to be! This was a lot sorry lol (love love LOVE all your work by the way 🥰)

Mere coincidence?

Summary: Y/n never thought she would ever be treated like more than trash. So it's a surprise when one of the most powerful men in the entirety of Prythian saves her.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: hey darling, I love this so much❣️😌. Also, don't worry about it. I love when you all send me asks, especially when it has a lot of things to work with 😉

Also, I mostly try to go with someone who isn't Azriel when you tell me to choose because there's a lot of azzie stuff that I have and not enough for others Bois so I hope it's okay.

I kept this one short because I didn't want to keep you waiting. I'll be writing a part two soon. Please let me know what you think about it!

Anyways, that's all. Enjoy!

•○🌑○•

Everything was flying downhill, which was not the best choice of words, as in a moment, she would never be able to fly.

She tried again to loosen the bonds on her wrists, all in vain. She'd been tied here since dawn, and it was now afternoon. They did this all the time to females, just to make them feel more helpless. It made them feel like they had time to escape, but they didn't.

There weren't many female who had been able to get freed of the bonds on their wrists, but the few who did? They were shot down before they could even reach flying heights.

Y/n looked around. No one paid attention to her, as if she didn't exist. Maybe for them she didn't. It was common occurrence that a female, sometimes more than one, would be tied to one of the posts in the center of the camp. It was only her today.

Snow crunched behind her, and she stiffened. Her father walked around her to her front, kneeling. He studied her for a moment before standing.

"Get the equipments." He called out to someone behind him.

"Yes my lord!" The Illyrian said before running off as a crowd gathered.

She stared at him.

Her father.

But that's not what people thought of when they talked about him. No, what came to mind when people saw her father was a great warrior. That he was the Lord of the camp.

Lord Devlon.

"What are you looking at girl? Staring like that wouldn't spare you."

"I know. I'm not stupid enough to think that." She lifted her chin. Which was not the right choice, as her father looked on the verge of chopping someone to pieces. That someone being her.

But she didn't care. Being chopped to pieces was preferable to losing her wings. There was nothing she was scared of, because no matter what she did or didn't do, her wings were going to be clipped today.

She could be a brat, or she could be the most innocent and naive female, who would do anything the males asked of her. It wouldn't fucking matter, because in the end, the thing that mattered most to her, she would be stripped of.

When two Illyrians came to turn her around, she stood before they could touch her. She didn't want anyone touching her. Even if she was going to her death, she would go by her own two feet. She will not be dragged anywhere by people who had to belittle and hurt females to feel powerful.

She stood and, maintaining eye contact with her fuming father, and turned away, baring her back and wings to him, flaring them wide.

Nothing happened for a moment, and then a footstep sounded. Another and then another.

She took a deep breath, readying herself for the pain and anguish when she felt the cold press of the tools on one of her wings. She bit her tongue when the tool started slowly digging into her back, awaiting the–

A loud thump echoed through the still and silent crowd, and slowly people started dispersing. She blinked, daring to turn her head to look when the tool left her back. Her father was thrown on the ground, and the people who were still standing next to them gasped.

What the hell?

She turned as much as she could, and she found herself staring into the hazel eyes of the General of Night Court.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his voice low and raspy. She nodded, not knowing what to do with the fact that this male was talking to her. He nodded, slashing through the bonds on her wrist with a dagger before turning back to her father.

"Touch her or her wings again and you'll be carcass before you can blink."

Hey father snarled, trying to get up but before he could even get one leg under him, the General was on him, landing punch after punch on his face.

She stood there shocked. Why the hell was the General here? And, why in the hell was he saving her?

As she stared, wondering if she should do anything to save her father, totally not enjoying the show, another Illyrian landed nearby. This new arrival pulled the General off of her father.

A hint of disappointment entered her, but she chided herself for thinking that way.

Y/n watched as the two Illyrian murmured furiously to each other, and then the one with the blue siphons turned to her father.

"I believe you understood what he wanted to say. Don't make us repeat ourselves. The High Lord will be here shortly."

"He didn't send–"

"No he didn't. But who do you think owns this place, and, indirectly, your life?"

"Curse you, you bastards." The two Illyrians looked as indifferent to her father's insult as a cat to its owner's affection.

The General then walked to where she stood, his siphons casting a light red glow over his form and his immediate surroundings. "Are you sure you are alright?"

She nodded numbly, staring at the absolute giant of a man.

"Stay away from her you disgusting pig!" Her father spat as he climbed to his feet.

The General cocked his head, sharing a look with the Spymaster before turning away.

"Mind your language Devlon. I'll be back to check on her. And I swear to the Cauldron, if she is hurt or loses her wings, I will act on my promise."

Why the hell would he do that?

Her father barked at her to get back to her duties, cursing and grunting as he left with a few Illyrian men.

But Y/n stared after the General and Spymaster's retreating forms, clutching her left elbow with her right.

Wondering if it was a mere coincidence that they had arrived just before she lost her precious wings.

She didn't know why the General cared enough to threaten to kill her father if her wings were clipped, but she did know one thing.

She would fight. For herself and her life.

She wouldn't just sit back and take whatever the males threw at her, making herself smaller to feed their egos.

She had always tried to not be a nuisance to her father or any others, having always thought that she was worth nothing.

No. She wasn't the one who thought that way. She had been forced to think that way by the ideals and traditions that had been embedded in their minds.

And now, she would fight.

She would endure anything thrown her way, and she would face it.

She will train with the men. Of course, after she finished all the chores assigned to her.

And if she died in the process of her rebellion?

Then she would have died for a great cause.

•○🌑○•

Part 2

Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess

[sokkastyles]

AU where Aang is never freed from the iceberg but Katara finally sees her chance to go North to learn waterbending when a lone ship sails near her village one day. She smuggles herself aboard the ship, but only realizes after she sees the worn crimson uniforms of the soldiers that this is a Fire Nation vessel, and gradually learns that the captain is actually an exiled fire nation prince, which explains why this run down ship is by itself in the middle of the arctic.

Katara gradually learns more about Zuko by observing him from hiding, while Zuko becomes increasingly perplexed at why things seem to keep going missing around the ship, food supplies and blankets and little odds and ends. At first, Katara thinks she'll get off at the first Earth Kingdom port they come to, but then she thinks that this is her opportunity to sabotage whatever the Fire Nation is up to. She witnesses Zuko's tenuous hold on his men, though, and the way he's treated like a pariah by the other FN officers, this prince who is really no more than a boy close to her own age, and learns the story of his scar, and she can't help but wonder about him.

One day, she surprises him in his cabin, with an icicle at his throat, and ends up making a deal with him. He agrees to take her North in exchange for his life. Zuko at first tells himself he'll be glad when he's rid of her, but gradually the two form an odd, tentative truce.

When they get to the Northern Water Tribe, Zuko's ship rendezvous with and is betrayed by Zhao, who plans to invade like in canon. Zuko ends up captured by the Northern Water Tribe, and Katara finds herself in the odd position of having to vouch for him, this boy who she's seen enough of to believe that he might be the one to help end the war.

[perfinn]

the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part v

wc: 4.4k

summary: aemond and cecily have a much needed conversation.

cw: NSFW, this is the one y'all! j pushes her aemond/mr. darcy agenda, fingering, almost a handjob, p in v, titty suckin

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

Aemond thinks the only being who truly knows him is Vhagar. Too big, too much to be confined in any castle or dragonpit. When Aemond is in the sky with her, or otherwise, he feels he is himself. 

“I suppose the thing that confuses me the most,” he says to her in soft High Valyrian, reclining against her neck on some beach somewhere in the Crownlands. “Is that she truly seems to want it. To know me, I mean. Carnally and… otherwise.”

Vhagar grumbles where she’s settled, head in the sand and her green eyes watching the waves lap at the shore. She’s a fine listener, but has never been much of a conversationalist. 

Aemond sighs. “It is not ladylike, is it?” He says. “To desire sex so readily. A man desires sex. A man or a whore, perhaps.”

Vhagar huffs at that, seeming to disagree. 

“Well, I’m sure you do,” Aemond grumbles, smiling in amusement. “You are an animal. It's different for you. But I suppose men are like animals too. We fuck like hounds. Ladies, highborn ladies as fair and fragile as Cecily, they shouldn't want that. I don't know how I can make her see that I only deny her out of respect for her position.”

Aemond looks out at the crashing waves. He must be somewhere near Duskendale, he thinks. Far enough to be freed of the suffocating walls of King’s Landing, at least. There is a fishing boat on the horizon. Aemond wonders, distantly, about the men on it. Are they married? What must it be, to be common and married? There is so much more opportunity to love one’s wife, he is certain, when it comes not with the pressures of political alliance. Not that he wishes he were common, oh no. He only finds himself envying that they lack the same burden of responsibility. 

“I don't know what to do, Vhagar,” Aemond admits. “Dragons sing to one another. I cannot sing to her.”

Vhagar shifts her head so one of her eyes can see Aemond. She seems, as ever, to be judging him. 

“It is not as simple as you make it out to be,” he says. He’d never speak like this to her with anyone listening. Treating her as though she responds verbally. But none are around for miles save for the fishing boat that is becoming only a dot on the horizon. “She believes I hate her. And in truth, I do not think I do.”

Vhagar blinks slowly, a low rumble sounding in her throat. Aemond can feel the vibrations of it against his back. He feels glad he can interpret her answer however he wishes. Use her to give voice to the thoughts he dare not raise himself. 

“I suppose I ought to just talk to her. Prove to myself she is not so humiliating. She seems… smart. Strong willed. I suppose I do like that in a woman.”

Vhagar lowers her head to the ground again, ancient gaze on the ocean yet again. Aemond wonders if she ever sees the sea and thinks of the Lady Laena. What it must be to live so long and lose so many. 

Aemond stands, sighing and nodding with determination. “You are wise, my girl,” he says, turning around and running a hand over her drooping scales. “I can hope only to match a portion of your wit someday.”

Aim high, Vhagar seems to say. But do not strain yourself reaching for what is impossible.

Aemond makes his way to Cecily’s chambers that evening. It is Ser Erryk stationed outside her door today. 

Cole had initially protested the idea of stationing a Kingsguard outside of Cecily’s door each night, but it had been Alicent to suggest it and then insist upon it. Cecily was a part of the royal family by marriage, and more vulnerable by far than any of them bar the children. Ser Harrold had agreed with the queen’s conclusion. Aemond had concurred, though quietly. 

He knocks on the door, entering when Cecily calls him in. She’s sitting in the settee by the hearth, a needlework hoop in her lap.

“Cecily,” he greets. Cecily startles at the sound of his voice, moving to stand up. “No, don’t. I mean… you may sit. I hoped I could join you.”

Cecily fails to hide the surprise in her face, but after a moment she nods and gestures to the armchair across from her. She adjusts in her seat, wearing her nightgown and a silken green robe. Her chestnut hair is loose, falling in soft ringlets down her back and around her face. She smiles nervously. 

“I wasn't expecting company,” she says, fiddling with the hoop in her lap. “Yours especially.”

Aemond hums, looking down at the hoop before spotting a well organised wooden box on the table full of thread, each spool labelled by embossed letters. “How do you do that when you cannot see it?”

Cecily blinks, smiling a bit and lifting the hoop back up into her hands. “Very slowly.”

Aemond huffs in amusement. “I can imagine. How do you know if it looks good?”

“I haven't a clue,” she admits, lifting the hoop and turning it to face him. “What say you?”

It seems to be half finished. What has been stitched is a dragon of shining green, and the charcoal sketch around it shows roses. It is not as refined as, say, Helaena’s work, but for a girl who cannot see, it is fine work.

“It looks fine,” he tells her truthfully. “A dragon and roses?”

Cecily smiles wryly, setting the hoop back in her lap. “Yes. My father’s suggestion. I suppose he means for me to gift it to you. He tells me your dragon is green.”

“She is,” he says.”Though some might call her brown.”

“All the same to me. She was green in the history books.”

Aemond is quiet for a moment. “You remember?” 

Cecily leans forward and feels for the table before carefully setting the hoop down. “I do. Or, at least, I have memories of things I saw. But I never know whether I can trust them. May I tell you a truth?”

Aemond nods. Then, he feels his cheeks heat. Idiot. “Yes.”

“I fear that I have actually forgotten it all, and my mind is filling in the gaps of how people look.”

Aemond stares at her in silence a moment. “Is it not all filling in the gaps?”

She shakes her head. “Not always. I told you, my parents are said to look the very same as they did when I went blind. But memory is a funny thing.”

Aemond watches her, not wishing to interrupt until she feels she’s finished speaking. 

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “You probably do not want to know.”

“No,” Aemond says quickly. “No, I do. Or I would not have asked.”

Cecily smiles nervously. She nods, fiddling with the stitching of her robe. “I do wish I could see you, sometimes. But I have a clear image of your face in my head now.”

“I have been unkind to you,” Aemond blurts out, kicking himself for speaking his mind so carelessly. 

She seems just as shocked by the admission, doe eyes blinking slowly. “Not unkind.”

“Yes, unkind,” he says firmly. “I have been cold and rude to you when you have not earned it. In truth, I believed you a burden.”

She’s quiet a moment, fidgeting now with the embroidery on her robe. “Because I am blind.”

“Yes,” Aemond breathes. “I thought our parents matched us because of our deformities. I thought… you were chosen for me because they believed that my one eye is all I am.”

“And in turn you believed my blindness is all I am,” Cecily says quietly, carefully. There is no coldness or resentment in her voice. How can she speak to him so calmly when he admits to her such cruelty? He would surely be seething if she admitted to the same. “I noticed as much. And it hurts more than I am prepared to say.” 

Aemond’s throat grows tight. He opens his mouth once, twice, before he can find the strength to tell her, “I’m sorry.”

“I do not blame you,” she admits. “People with sight base their thoughts and impressions on what they see first. I am given the privilege of being able to do nothing but judge people on their character alone.”

Won't she accept his apology? Can't she know how much it pained him to say so little?

“May I ask you something, lord husband?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, then adds, “Please call me Aemond.”

Cecily nods, taking a deep breath. “Do I repulse you?”

“Re-repulse me?” Aemond sputters. “How could you repulse me? You are beautiful.”

She purses her lips. She doesn't believe him. He can see it.  

“Cecily,” he murmurs, reaching across and gently placing a hand on her knee. She startles for just a moment. “I desire you. Most ardently.”

Cecily exhales, lips parted. Aemond cannot take his gaze from her. “Yet you will not touch me.” 

Aemond shifts out of his seat, moving so he kneels before her. He takes her hand. “There is little in this world that would make me feel worse than to disrespect you so readily.” He pauses, staring up at her. He lifts her hand to his mouth, lips brushing over her knuckles. “Is it what you truly want?”

He sees his wife shiver. “More than anything.”

For a moment, Aemond closes his eye, taking in the sheer relief of the truth. His desire is not unfounded, not bred in sin and shameless lust, it is requited. She does not simply desire the wanton pleasure of sex. She desires him. He sighs softly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles before standing up slowly. 

“Stand,” he encourages. 

Cecily rises. Aemond tilts her chin up so he might see her face. He reaches for the velvet ribbon tying her robe and pulls on it slowly, parting the silk which he slowly slides from her shoulders. The nightgown beneath is a gauzy white fabric, hemmed with lace. 

Such opulence merely to sleep in. Such opulence only to be removed. There is a small string tied to a bow at her chest, securing the gown on her shoulders. He takes the end of it and gently pulls, freeing the knot. The chest of the nightgown falls open.

It does not expose her completely, but he can see the gentle curve of her breasts, the way they sit upon her chest. Cecily’s breath catches and she closes her eyes. 

Aemond moves slowly as he slips it from her shoulders, giving her each and every opportunity to pull away or stop him. 

She does not. 

He slips the nightgown from her shoulders and watches it slip down her body and pool around her feet. There's nothing beneath it– he has bared her to him. 

“No smallclothes?”

Cecily’s cheeks flush. “I do not like to sleep in them,” she murmurs. “I-I wasn't expecting-”

“It's alright,” Aemond assures, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently trailing down the length of her arms. Her skin is warm. Milky pale and scattered with moles. The firelight flickers against her form, dancing across her skin. 

“May I undress you?” She asks softly, reaching up and resting her hands on his chest. 

“You may,” Aemond grants, hands continuing to explore her body as her fingers search for the clasp of his doublet. He lowers his hands to her hips, examining the way they dip inward slightly and tracing over them. Cecily finds the clasps, slowly undoing them, one by one. 

Aemond is given ample time to explore her body. His cock twitches in his pants but he ignores it, trying instead to commit the shape of her to memory. He slides his hands up to the slight dip of her waist, gently rubbing his thumb over a round mole a few inches below her breast. 

She is not maddening. Not in the way he thought she’d be. He has not lost all control of himself in touching her, but he is maddened all the same. How can he ever let himself do anything else but explore her?

He lowers his hands when Cecily pushes his doublet off his shoulders, shrugging it off and wasting no time in pulling off his tunic, dropping it to the ground so his chest is bare before her. Her deft, delicate fingers find his stomach, a soft breath leaving her mouth as she traces the defined muscles there. 

Aemond raises his own hands back to her waist. One large palm settles on her warm skin while the other ventures upward, brushing gently over her nipple. Her breasts are small, round things that sit seemingly perfect on her chest. Cecily sighs softly when Aemond’s fingers brush over them, and he feels a smirk pull at his lips. 

“You’re so…” Cecily trails off, a look in her eyes that Aemond hopes is admiration. He had once believed there was naught but emptiness in her eyes, but there is so much. Just because they do not see, does not mean they do not sparkle like amber. “Strong.”

“And you are beautiful,” he murmurs, experimentally pinching at her budding nipples. 

She gasps, eyes fluttering closed. Her hands travel down, finding the lacing of his breeches. “Aemond, that feels…”

Good, he hopes. He watches Cecily bite her lip, hands pulling at the lacing with more urgency. Though he wishes not to think often of his night in the brothel with his brother, where so many of the whores chuckled at the young prince, he cannot say that the woman he did lie with– he dare not recall her name in such a moment with his wife – did not leave him without any knowledge of how to please a woman. 

He hopes she had been truthful in her teachings, and that he may please Cecily. 

“Good,” Cecily continues, tugging his breeches down. “Very good.”

Aemond grasps her hips, kicking his pants away. “I’m going to walk you back toward the bed,” he warns in a murmur. Without waiting for an answer, he steps forward and urges Cecily’s hips back. She acquiesces, trusting him to lead her safely to the bed. 

“Step,” he warns, just a moment too late. Cecily stumbles, and while Aemond’s face drops into terror for having scared her, his wife only begins to giggle.

She wraps her arms around him for stability, sweet laughter filling her chambers. 

“Are you okay?” Aemond asks, her laughter infectious enough that he feels a smile pull at his lips.

“Yes,” Cecily giggles breathlessly, leaning her forehead against Aemond’s bicep. “Yes, I’m golden. I can keep walking.” 

Aemond huffs a soft chuckle, gently leading her the rest of the way to the bed until the backs of her thighs hit the mattress. Cecily pulls away to climb back onto it, shimmying back to lay half upright against the pillows while Aemond climbs over her. She wears a comfortable smile, and Aemond’s heartbeat quickens. She is so beautiful when she smiles. How could he ever bear to make her frown?

Her hands find his body again, trailing down his torso as he settles himself between her legs. Her fingers brush through the small amount of silvery hair at the base of his cock. His breath hitches, and he almost reaches to stop her again. But he resists, letting her trail her fingers to his hardening cock.

Cecily’s mouth opens and fascination fills her eyes. “May I?” she asks shyly.

Aemond smirks. “Wanton woman,” he mumbles, only making her smile. “You may. If I may do the same.”

“Of course.”

While his wife wraps her soft fingers around his length – Seven hells, it’s better than he imagined – he smooths his hands over her inner thighs, spreading them enough so that he might see that which he desires most. 

Beneath a thick bushel of dark hair sits her cunt, pretty and pink and all but untouched. It fills him with swelling pride to know no one has touched it but himself. He exhales slowly, gently dragging his thumb through her slick folds, gathering enough that he may rub the pad of the digit over her pearl. Cecily shivers, inhaling a sharp gasp. Her hand squeezes Aemond’s cock and a similar noise escapes him. 

He cannot focus on her while she strokes his cock as she does. He takes a gentle hold of her wrist, pulling her hand away from him. “Allow me to take care of you,” he murmured. 

“I want to make you feel good too,” Cecily insists softly. 

“It is I who has denied you too long. Allow me to make it up to you.” He drags his gaze away from her core to see conflict on her face. “Please.”

She worries her bottom lip a moment before nodding. “Okay. But next time I will return the favour.”

Aemond chuckles. “As you wish,” he says, looking back down to her cunt as he rubs slow circles onto her pearl. Cecily shivers again, dropping her hands and winding them into the sheets beneath her. Aemond lifts his gaze to her face a moment as he toys with her, watching the way it twists in confused pleasure. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” He asks. 

She shakes her head, cheeks flushing pink. “No,” she murmurs. “I-I would not know how.”

“Mm,” he hums, moving to pet his middle finger over her entrance. “That is okay. Then we must find what makes you tick together.”

Cecily tilts her hips up, mewling softly at the feeling as he presses a slender finger into her waiting heat. He goes slow, gaze flicking between her face and her cunt. He cannot decide which sight is more delectable– the way her face twists and slackens as her body accepts the stretching pleasure, or the way she so eagerly accepts him into her core. His wife squirms against the intrusion and he leans down to press gentle kisses to the unblemished skin of her breasts. 

He feels Cecily shiver as he drags his tongue over her pert nipple. He pumps his finger slowly into her cunt, working his way up to fitting each knuckle into her. She’s desperately tight, all but untouched. The idea of having it wrapped around his cock is intoxicating– it's all he can do not to plunge his cock into her right now and spare them both the waiting.

He gently sucks a nipple into his mouth, groaning softly as he works his finger in to the base. Cecily is squirming and moaning at the feeling, her hands finding purchase in Aemond’s hair. Aemond begins to pump his finger into her, slowly working in another. 

“Seven hells,” she whispers, voice strangled and mewling as Aemond grazes his teeth over the delicate skin of her breasts. 

He pulls his mouth away, lifting his head to hover over her face. The desire to kiss her wrestles with the wish to see her face as he unravels her. When her eyes flutter open and her lip is pulled between her teeth, the need to watch her wins out. 

He eases the second finger into her, cunt acquiescing now to the stretch. Still, she’s tight. He wonders if it would hurt her too much to take her now.

No, he thinks. He won’t hurt her, not tonight, not again. Not ever.

When he can thrust two fingers into her with no resistance, he presses his thumb to her pearl and begins to ease a third in. Cecily winces and Aemond shushes her as sweetly as he can manage, pressing gentle kisses to her collarbone. 

“Just one more,” he murmurs, circling the sensitive bud to make it easier for her. She squirms still beneath him, but sweet whimpering moans spill from between her lips. “Is this what you wanted, sweetling? Mmm?”

Cecily nods rapidly, grasping for Aemond’s shoulder and gripping it tight. He’s suddenly determined to bring her to her end before he ever puts his cock in her, pressing his thumb harder against her pearl as he sucks a nipple into his mouth again, hunched over her smaller form as his aching cock drips onto the sheets beneath him. He pays it no mind, the noises of pleasure he’s pulling from his wife worth so much more than a simple touch on his stiff manhood would be. Cecily’s voice breaks off as his third finger squeezes into her, giving more resistance this time. He gazes up at her face, tongue flicking at her nipple as he feels her spasm around his fingers. 

“A-Aemond!” She cries, a hint of panic creeping into her voice at what must surely be a foreign sensation for her. So pious. Innocent. It makes Aemond’s cock twitch.

Aemond hushes her. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Let go.”

He sees the hesitance on her face for a moment, before she seems to decide to trust in him  – Gods, why does that trust stir something in his chest so distinct from lust? – and relaxes, her back arching as a long, sweet mewl escapes her and she comes on his fingers. He feels her walls spasm around his fingers, greedily sucking the third finger in as Cecily writhes on the bed, helpless to her body’s baser whims. Aemond guides her through it, pressing kisses to the skin of her breasts.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when she stills, panting softly. He slowly pulls his fingers out of her, shifting onto his knees between her legs. He ruts his aching cock along her sensitive cunt, making her whine. He gently shushes her, placing his hand– still slick with her essences – onto her hip and rubbing slow circles into her soft skin. 

He takes his cock into his hand, stroking it a few times and exhaling shakily at the relief he hadn’t realised he needed. Lining himself up with her, he leans forward to watch her face as he presses the bulbous head of his cock into her. Less thick, perhaps, than three of his long fingers, but nothing to scoff at. Aemond knows he’s above average size, and knows Cecily has taken him before. But then he was careless, passionless. And she did not take him to his base. Now he takes it slow, wants to see her ache for him as he eases tortuously slow into her. Cecily’s face scrunches up, hands darting to his shoulders for purchase. Her mouth drops open as he splits her on his length, and Aemond lowers his gaze to watch her take him. Gods, she’s divine. He’s been inside plenty of women in his day, but none quite so perfect as Cecily. It’s like her warm, wet, tight walls were made to take him.

He meets resistance a few inches in, grunting softly. He moves his fingers back to her pearl, rubbing at it slowly as he thrusts shallowly into her. This way, he eases his cock the rest of the way into her, a low, shaking breath escaping him as he seats fully himself inside her. Cecily is trembling, squirming.

“Do you need a moment?”

“S-so much,” Cecily whispers. Aemond realises then that she must still be sensitive from her prior release. He continues to rub at her hip and at her pearl, gaze intense as she hiccups for breath beneath her. A dark part of Aemond wants to fuck her properly right now, make her take it and watch her unravel with sweet overstimulation. But he has no wish to hurt her. He stills his movements on her pearl, instead simply letting her adjust at her own pace. 

Cecily’s breathing quickens, then slows. There’s a few dreadfully slow moments before she speaks. “I can keep going,” she whispers.

A smile tugs at Aemond’s mouth. He anchors his hand on the mattress by her head, leaning over her as he pulls out almost tot the tip before rocking back into her. The drag of her slick walls against his cock has a trembling groan leaving him, matched by Cecily’s conflicted moan. Aemond supposes she’s still adjusting to the feeling of being fucked, deciding whether she likes it. Aemond, determined to convince her, drags his hand through her slick folds and plays once more with her sensitive pearl. 

He lowers his gaze to see the way her swollen cunt takes his length, watches himself carve a space in her almost-untouched sex. His. No one else will ever touch her, no one else ever has. The thought of it, of marking her as only his twists something strange and arousing inside him. He reaches suddenly for her hand, intertwining their fingers as he hunches over her. This way, he can see the ring on her finger. The ring he’d given her the day of their wedding. A golden rose inlaid with garnets and onyx, a screaming symbol that she’s his.

Only weeks ago, Aemond could not have imagined himself so aroused by the thought of Cecily being his. But now, he suspects it will be the thing that brings him to his end. Cecily is moaning in his ear now, any discomfort seeming to have given way to pleasure as she rolls her hips in time with Aemond’s languid thrusting. She has always been beautiful, he could not deny that even from the moment he first saw her, but now, in the candlelight with her hair loose and her eyes closed as her face twists in pleasure, Aemond doubts there’s a more beautiful woman in all the known world and beyond.

“Give me another one,” he demands, pinching gently at her pearl and making her gasp. He quickly soothes it, stroking his calloused fingers over the sensitive bud. “Please, Cecily.”

Cecily lets out a strangled sort of moan and Aemond feels it when she reaches a second climax, her cunt spasming around him, sucking him in, practically trying to milk him. Who is he to deny her? Aemond comes with a guttural sort of sound and a desperate forward thrust of his hips, spilling his seed as deep as he can get it. 

There’s a moment where the both of them are tangled together in their joint release, a blissful sort of thing that Aemond can only liken to being atop Vhagar in the air. Aemond tucks his face into Cecily’s neck, inhaling the scent. She does smell like roses. 

Their shared reverie is broken only by their quiet panting. Aemond lifts his head after a moment, pushing some hair back from her face. 

“Was I okay?” She asks, insecurity creeping into her tired tone. 

Aemond leans down and surprising himself by pressing a soft, chaste kiss to her petal soft lips. “You were perfect.”

part vi

[camille-lachenille]

Was thinking about just how much characters in the Silm and LOTR deal with pain an injuries on a daily basis. It’s not always said plainly but they exist in the story, they live, they are important, and I wonder how much of them are inspired by Tolkien’s own experience of war injuries/illness. How many of his fellow soldiers came back home disfigured and disabled and were faced with disgust or contempt?

Sure, there’s the whole fairy-tale/mythic aspect of loosing a limb in your heroic quest to get the Magic Object, but what about Gwindor, who was captured by Morgoth and, when he finally managed to escape, was so changed by his sufferings that his beloved rejected him? Gwindor’s not a hero, he’s a simple soldier who suffered through war and captivity and became disabled because of that. How much pain did he live with daily even if it’s never said on the page?

And, still in the CoH, there’s Brandir the Lame. He was born disabled, couldn’t be a warrior, yet held a position of power until his people wanted action and scorned him. Brandir is a healer, a man of wisdom and lore; how much of it is because he tried to cure himself? To ease his pain but also try to "fix" himself in the eyes of his people and be the worthy leader he thought they wanted.

There is Sador ‘Labadal’ too, who chopped his foot off in an accident and is looked down for that by several character (not the least of them being Morwen).

These three characters are all disabled and looked upon with pity, contempt or outright disgust. They did not become disabled in the doing of great deeds, their stories aren’t heroic, and so their disability makes them worthless in the eyes of many.

If you take Maedhros, on the other hand (pun fully intended), he is seen as made greater by his disability. He suffered unthinkable torments and was freed at the price of his right hand, and did many great and terrible things after that. It is similar for Beren, who also lost his hand (arm chopping is not a love language!) but it always portrayed as a good and heroic character, because his disability is the direct result of him taking part in the great designs of the world rather than a banal accident.

And that’s only for the Silm characters, because we don’t want to forget about Frodo of the Nine Fingers, who bore the One Ring to the very fires of Mt Doom. Frodo who returned home sickly and traumatised, plagued with chronic pain, nightmares and a poor health and was only looked at down by the hobbits who did not take part in the quest if the ring. Frodo may be a hero for Men and Elves but he has little to no recognition in his homeland.

Another character I nearly forgot (shame on me!) is Celebrían, She was captured and tortured and despite her physical wounds healing she was never the same again, to the point she had to leave her family to seek healing elsewhere. I see this as a form of mental illness, probably depression and PTSD. And Celebrían is not thought as lesser because of her disability. She is seen as a tragic story, yes, but it’s better than most of the other disabled characters in the Silm.

Anyway, I don’t really know what my point is here, just that I noticed a pattern in the representation of disabled characters in Tolkien’s works, first of all that they exist at all, and second that how they are treated certainly reflects the views of society on disabled people during Tolkien’s lifetime. The way he writes disabled characters isn’t perfect, far from it, but they are here, and I, as a disabled reader, am immensely glad for their existence and I play in the gigantic sandbox of the Legendarium with these characters and others whom I imagine as disabled in any way.

[moon-huny]

Stole the Moon - Chapter Three

CW: My content is not for anyone under 18. Major language in this one ya'll. Also, smut towards the end. Some she/her pronouns used for reader in this one, and implied afab physicality. Oh, and masturbation. Kidnapping, coercion, imprisonment.

Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: After being treated to a day of R&R, you and Buggy sit down for dinner.

A/N: So, I am like 15 mins late with this one. But look at the word count, now that's content baby! I worked kinda hard on it, so I hope ya'll like. I have never written smut before and it was a challenge. Lmk how I did. I feel confident that ya'll will like it, but you never know. Constructive criticism is for bad bitches so have at it!

There are some OC characters in this chapter. I know OCs can be a bit hit or miss. Do ya'll like em? Should I continue to include them? Don't be afraid to tell me what you think. I am only married to a few ideas in this series that I know have to happen, otherwise I welcome ya'lls ideas.

Oh! and happy kinktober. Okay, that's all, enjoy.

masterlist ✧˖°

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The moment Buggy shut the door the two young women were circling you like vultures. They pulled at your dress and snickered to themselves. The red-haired girl tugged at the ends of your hair and giggled.

“What exactly does captain –” she said.

“Expect us to do with you?” the raven-haired girl finished.

They dressed alike, finished one another's sentences, the way they took up space in a room together read as though they had known each other for a long time. 

“I take it your sisters?” You said, hoping to perhaps gain an understanding of their relationship.

They both laughed at your question.

“You hear that, Lettie?” questioned the fairer one.

“Marie, she thinks we’re sisters.” replied the other woman whose skin was steeped in golden tones.

Being in the same room as them felt like suffocation. As though they spoke a language you didn’t and breathed in air from an atmosphere you could only dream of.

“Come on,” they both said in unison and began to make their way out of Buggy’s quarters. If you thought that understanding them was a challenge, keeping pace with them was just as difficult. 

Exiting through the ornate double doors, the sun had risen much further in the sky than you’d expected. Nearly at its peak, you enjoyed the warmth it provided and would have basked in it all day if given the chance. However, your escorts were making their way back down towards the lower decks of the ship at a quick pace.

As you hurried across the deck of the ship to follow, you took a moment to scan your surroundings. Looking around the deck of the ship, crew mates in various theatrical themed garb milled about. Looking up toward the starboard quarter, you noticed the captain with two other men – one of whom was the swordsman who freed you from your cage earlier that morning.

They seemed to be pouring over a map – the map. He could feel you staring at him. Buggy looked up from the paper he and the two others were arguing over. A slight smirk pulled across his red painted lips. 

Deciding your eye contact lasted long enough, you turned back around to follow behind the strange duo, climbing down into the lower decks after them.

The two women walked hand in hand down the tight corridors. As you passed the turn that would have taken you back to your prison, you just nearly stopped, looked down through the unlit tunnel, and continued on your way.

Upon reaching the destination, the two stood on either side of a thick purple curtain along the tight hallway. The dark haired woman peeled back the heavy fabric and ushered you into the room. In the center was a beautiful, if not marginally damaged, claw foot tub. Glass bottles of every shade lined the walls, stained glass lanterns were the only light source.

“It’s getting cold,” they both said and gestured to the tub. The basin was full of steaming water that smelled of rosemary and mint. You gently pushed past them and floated into the room awestruck by the idea that such a place existed down the hall from your own personal hell.

“We’ll be back soon,” they said in a sing-song tone as they slowly closed the curtain behind you.

///

It is difficult to clock how long you spent pampering yourself in the bath. Even after the water went from scalding to cool, you couldn’t help but mindlessly float and get cozy in the water.

Your thoughts continually slipped back to your captor. His eyes had regarded you with such gentleness earlier but his smile told you he still wasn’t one to be trusted … but those eyes. The way they drank all of you in as though he could never get enough.

You reached up to wrap your hands around your neck feeling the necklace there. His touch could be bruising, painful, enough to make you squirm. But now, knowing he could be so light, and teasing. You closed your eyes attempting to recall the way he gently brushed your skin when he hooked the jewelry around you. You could imagine what that touch would be like lower, and lower, and … you caught yourself. You promptly removed your hands from your body and gripping each side of the tub. 

These thoughts you had for him were nothing but frustrations. To act on them would send you down a rabbit hole you might never crawl back out of. Stopping now was for your own good.

Just as you were leaning back to submerge yourself in the water, an anxiety welled up in your chest, as though a weight were all of a sudden being slowly lowered onto you. A memory began creeping its way back into your mind.

Waves. Terror. Screaming. Fear.

Eleven years old and drowning. The unforgiving sea pulled your small body through its currents. You didn’t know which way was up or down. Your lack of direction caused you to flail about in the surf attempting to reach out a hand and touch the precious air instead of more water.

You couldn’t see anything but the physical memory was there. The feeling of the sandbars scraping your skin as you were unforgivingly cast against them. It was then you remembered reaching out your hand and feeling hair. Then a hand. An arm. A face. Someone was next to you in the water, but they weren’t moving. 

All of a sudden you felt another person wrap their arms around you. A very strong and living presence carried you out of the churn and you remember feeling air hit your lungs as you –

Gasped out loud. Finally coming up for air from just underneath the waterline of the tub. The two women were pulling you up and out by your wrists.

“Oh my god, what –”

“In the east blue were –”

“You thinking!”

As you panted for air and cleared the water from your face, you couldn’t tell which one was speaking. 

“We leave you alone for one hour –”

“And you try to drown yourself in a three foot tub!”

///

“So you aren’t related?” You said, feeling a bit embarrassed that you had to repeat the question.

You were wrapped in a satin robe provided to you by Marie from her “personal favorites” closet. A gesture that seemed kind at first only until you realized that Lettie had ripped a hole through her copy of the red lacy loungewear and now neither of the women could wear it for fear they wouldn’t match.

“You dress so similar, all the way down to makeup and hair,” you continue.

“We’re acrobats,” they said.

Lettie continued, “at first, it was all just a part of our act.”

“But we decided that we liked being as close as possible at all times,” finished Marie. Her ocean blue eyes shone into Lettie’s golden amber pair.

“Even if that means inhabiting the same dress to feel truly synced,” replied Lettie.

Marie was curled up in her lap. The two women couldn’t keep their hands off of one another now that they were seated in the close quarters of their cabin. The space was small yet, crammed with stuff they’d collected. The queen-sized hammock they let you lie on swung on one side of the room. They were sprawled out on a beautiful yellow loveseat across from you. 

Clothing was tossed around the room in various locations. Corsets, garters, stockings and dresses all poked out from trunks and drawers. An ornate gold mirror adorned the wall, a sack full of makeup products was tossed to the side underneath it. 

“You must really love each other,” you said, feeling a pang of loneliness in your chest. You had curled up with a pillow on the surprisingly comfortable suspended cotton. 

“We didn’t at first,” said Marie. “In fact, we hated one another.”

“Marie!” cried Lettie.

So it seems they weren’t always on the same page. At least not enough to always know what the other one was thinking.

“We were … competitive,” said Lettie. “I simply could not stand the fact that she was so talented when she joined the circus. She was outstanding and I hated being upstaged by her.”

“And I couldn’t stand the meat head you had drooling over you all the time,” said Marie. “It really ticked me off. If I ever upstaged you, my love, it was because I knew I had to compete for your affections.”

“There was no competition,” said Lettie. “Once Xander caught on to that, and I realized that I loved you and only you, he was toast.”

Clearly reminiscing on their past was pulling them into their own orbit making them quickly forget your presence. 

“So, what happened?” you asked, pulling them from whatever intimate moment they were about to share.

“I killed her fiance – who happened to be the ring leader's son,” said Marie. 

“We agreed to live the rest of our lives as pirates on the run,” finished Lettie.

The way they held one another, the words they so sweetly exchanged made your heart ache. As they slowly added more details to their love story, it made you yearn for a partnership so full of passion and affection.

///

Marie and Lettie continued to share stories of their adventures far into the afternoon as they dug through trunks, barrels, drawers, suitcases and bags attempting to find something for you to wear. 

Finally they found a suitable dress for the evening meal you were preparing to sit for. The fabric fell around you perfectly, a short and very lacy white dress with wide flowing sleeves. They threw you a pair of dark red suede boots that climbed up your legs to your mid thigh. The beautiful moonstone still sat proudly on your chest.

Maire took it upon herself to tend to your hair and Lettie made herself comfortable in front of you to do your makeup. Nothing too crazy, just enough to hide the exhaustion that couldn't be whipped away in the bath. 

“Your hair is so pretty,” said Marie as she worked her way through the ornate hairdo. “Like a mermaid.”

Lettie’s eyes shot up toward her partner, a look of warning and one you certainly couldn’t ignore. 

“I- I just mean that …” stuttered Marie under her lover's hardened gaze.

As if on cue, Lettie swooped in, “she means that you have very beautiful features, like those legendary beasts. But thank goodness those terrible despicable things have long since died out.”

“Yes! Yes. That is exactly right, my darling. Look! I’m all done!” Marie ran up to the table and grabbed a small vanity mirror to show you the brilliant job she did. 

“And I’m done as well so it would be best if you start heading up towards the kitchen, yes?” said Lettie.

“You won’t come with me?” 

“Sorry dear we –”

“Have a few things to attend to,” they said, ushering you out of the room.

They waved at you from their room as you made your way back down the hallway.

Once you were out of earshot, Lettie could feel that Marie had something to say.

“What is it?”

“I can't help but feel like we’re sending her into the mouth of a predator.”

Lettie sighed and made her way back into the cabin, “it’s just the way he wants it done, Marie, I am not going to interfere.”

“Really? We already touched her, we weren't supposed to do that, remember?”

Lettie sighed, she knew the red haired girl was right.

“I know, my love, I know,” said Lettie. “But telling her? Hinting? Leading in such a way as to help her remember her past? That’s too risky.”

Marie was shutting her out, crossing her arms and looking out the door after you. Lettie floated over to her partner, she cupped the other woman’s pale white hands in her own warm brown ones. 

“I love you,” she continued. “We worked so hard to find this crew, to escape our old life.”

“I’ve killed for you,” replied Marie. “If I followed every rule, you would have been bed and wed to that loathsome strongman and I wouldn’t be holding you every night.”

“I think we’ve done enough, Marie.”

“And I know you don’t think that’s true.”

///

Entering the kitchen, a beautifully carved table was set with dozens of bronze candle holders each cradling a different colored stick of wax. The soft glow of all the tiny flames kept the center of the space well lit while the rest of the kitchen faded into darkness.

All of a sudden, you heard the door slam shut behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turned around to see a hand pushed flat against the heavy door. 

“You kept me waiting.”

Turning back around you saw the pirate captain leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed and kicked up at one end of the table. He was studying a goblet of wine before taking a sip from the decorated cup. His disconnected appendage floated past you and connected itself back to its rightful location.

“Patience is a virtue,” you reply calmly. 

You were starving, the food laid out on the table looked too good to be true. Fruits and fish and rice and all the things your empty stomach groaned for.

“Well, it isn’t all bad if it means my acrobats take the time to make you look like that,” he flirted back. 

Clearly the dress was doing wonders for you. You caught him gazing at the length of your legs and the small expanse of your exposed thigh right were the lace of your dress and the tops of your boots left just enough to the imagination. 

“Hungry?” he questioned. “Cause I’m starving.” 

You made your way to stand by the smug man. His eyes drunk you in as you approached him. Placing both your hands on the table next to him, you began your line of questioning. 

“I need to know what you want from me,” you demanded.

“Oh honey, what don’t I want?” 

“Cut the shit, clown,” you bit back. “The map you showed me four days ago. What’s it to and why did you need me to recognize it?”

He sighed. “Why don’t you eat first? You must be so so hungry.”

“No thanks to you,” you said.

“I’ll tell you about the map, just eat something first, yea?” He nodded toward your seat at the other end of the table.

Finally deciding to relent, you followed his direction and sat at the other end of the table. The plate before you held some of the most delicious food you’d ever seen. A grilled tilapia, no, mahi mahi, you really didn’t care what it was, it was edible. 

Hesitantly you took a first bite, then another, and soon you were devouring the food in front of you. You don’t think you’d ever eaten so fast in your life.

“Drink something, you’ll choke,” he commented, still maintaining his relaxed posture in the chair. He notably hadn’t eaten a thing. If you weren’t so consumed with stifling your hunger, you would have assumed everything on the table was poisoned.

Having him order you to do something with such cool confidence would typically make you enraged, but this command was more of an invitation, one you happily took. You picked up your matching vessel of wine and gulped it down. It was like nothing you’d ever tasted. Sweet and smooth and just rich enough to sit warmly in your stomach.

You quickly made work of what was in the cup. Then stood and reached for the rest of the bottle in the center of the place setting. Uncorking the top with your teeth, you threw your head back and chugged.

All the while he watched you. Gently lifting the cup to his lips to sip the very nectar you so intensely swallowed down. When you finished, you steadied yourself on the edge of the table and panted, hand still wrapped around the neck of the bottle, your eyes flicked upward to catch his green ones staring back at you.

“The map is to the Grand Line,” he said, holding eye contact. He placed his cup down and moved his body to fully face yours. “There is a river that travels up a mountain. In other words, it’s impossible to traverse it, unless you have a strong ship – or you know how to cheat it.”

You continued to watch him, eyes dark as he finally explained what the map was for. You knew about the Grand Line. Everyone did. There were monsters and pirates and some of the fiercest dangers you could think of.

“And why do you need me?”

He stood and made his way to you. In the candle light his features were so sharp. The shadow of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks emphasizing gorgeous cheekbones, his deep set eyes darkened in their sockets despite their bright color. The red color of his nose matched that of his lips which looked so much softer the closer he got. He leaned into the side of your face.

“Oh baby, there are a lot of reasons I need you,” he said whispering in your ear. 

He placed a gloved hand on top of your own on the table. It was so much larger than yours and he was so warm. The absence of his coat and hat made him look so much more relaxed, his muscular arms fully displayed. Maybe it was the alcohol in your stomach making its way through your bloodstream, but you began to feel lightheaded.

You slowly turned your head to face him and he followed suit. His seafoam eyes made contact with your own. His lustful gaze sped up your heartbeat. His lips were parted and you could feel his hot breath on your own, so painfully close but not close enough.

“My question for you, gorgeous,” he whispered into the space between you. “Do you need me?”

Your face shifted from a testing confidence to a pleading look of pure want. Your eyebrows pushed together and your eyes morphed from a darkened tease to a blown out lust.

“Oh good,” he purred. “Why don’t you say it, hmm?” His other hand came up to pet goose bumps on the skin of your arm. His fingers leading from your hand, up the back of your forearm, and softly drawing a line until he finally reached your shoulder, your neck, your cheek where he cupped your face.

Turning his head he went straight for the soft spot he knew would make you relent, nipping and pecking the soft skin there. His soft words and lips combined with the scratch of his stubble was enough to make you wet. 

“Say it baby, just tell me how much you need your captain.” he growled into your ear. 

Through the haze of lust and alcohol, you felt a defiance rise.

“You …” you gasped out.

“Yeeess?” he hissed.

“Are …” you continued.

Panting between words, his hand drifted down to caress your thigh and slowly pushed the lace of your skirt up so he could grip your bare hip.

“Not my captain,” you snarled. 

Placing your hands on his chest you pushed, hard. The shock of the action was enough to send him staggering back.

“You fucking little witch!” he yelled.

“And what the fuck are you going to do about it?!” you shouted back. “You gonna fucking kill me?! Oh wait, you wouldn’t –”

Your rant was cut short by his forearms detaching from his body. One pulled you by the wrist back into your chair and the other grabbed a small rope from across the room. You kicked, screamed and fought but he was stronger than you. Once you were bound by your wrists behind the chair, he stalked back toward you. Crouching down in front of you to knee level.

He peered up at you from his position on the floor. If it weren’t for the white hot anger coursing through you, his new orientation could have easily filled you with need.

“You’re a difficult woman,” said Buggy. What he wouldn’t tell you was that, from this position, he could smell your desire, and it was intoxicating. He inhaled and sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth, biting down to hide the guttural moan he wanted so desperately to let out.

“Good thing I like a challenge,” he reached behind himself and pulled out a red smoke bomb. You immediately recognized it and began to fight against your confines yet again.

“No, no, no, Buggy no,” you warbled out.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” and with that he squeezed the little round pouch. As it disintegrated in his hand, he made his way to the door.

Leaving the kitchen, Buggy caught the attention of Cabaji, the only other crew member walking on the deck of the ship this late at night.

“Watch her,” said the blue haired man, pulling his bandanna off his head and heading at a quick pace to his cabin.

Cabaji had questions, tons, but he could tell that now wasn’t the time. The green haired chief of staff walked into the kitchen and saw your sleeping form draped over yourself in the chair, bound and half your neck painted in red.

///

Buggy slammed the door to his quarters. His long hair fell all around his face in a disheveled curtain of electric blue.

“That little fucking whore!” He threw his papers across the room, wiping his desk clean of all that was on it.

“God what I wouldn’t give to just ruin that, fuck, to absolutely snuff the rebellious spirit outta her, god damn it!” 

He was still hard and frustrated from teasing you. Recalling your little panting breaths – not yet moans – sent even more pulsing desire straight to his cock. The fire in your eyes when you defy him, what he would give to just crush it and force you under him.

The growling moans he bit back before now so casually fell from his lips. He let out a light chuckle and spread himself out on his throne.

He thought back to the softness of your skin where his lips grazed you. How he knew you’d feel like that all over the rest of your body. And god, your smell. The perfume you wore still lingered on his cotton glove. He pulled the white garment off his hand with his teeth while his other hand squeezed where his hardened member swelled beneath his belt. 

 “Oh, fuuck ~ ” he moaned.

Both of his hands made quick work of the metal buckle, he pulled his dick from the confines once he got the zipper down. Gripping the angry shaft, his tip already leaking precum, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

After swiping over the slit and collecting his slick with his ungloved hand he tugged quickly on his cock. He could only imagine your beautiful curves and the sweet little face you made when you wanted him.

“Oh shit, good fucking girl, yes, yes, pull on this dick, fucking make me cum.” he growled out. His eyes fell shut and his head rolled back. He imagined what it would be like to eat you out, to have you ride his face and rub your sensitive little clit on his nose.

He’d make you come again and again just to hear you, something he still hadn’t gotten the pleasure to discover. Would you be quiet, whimpering and whining like a little kitten and cumming with a sweet and soft little shudder around his cock? Would you be loud and vocal like his own personal whore, your tight pussy squeezing him like a vice when you came?

“Fuuuuck baby, when I get inside you, fuck, when I get inside you I won’t fucking stop god fucking damn it,” he rambled out, gripping his dick tighter. “Fuck. Fuck. I wanna, princess, fuck, baby your captain wants to cum. Make me cum. That’s right, yes, good girl, such a good girl f’ me make me cum.”

He was incoherent, completely drunk on his own pleasure and the thought of you. After a few more lewd tugs on his cock, he came with a groan that almost sounded painful. He sat back in his chair panting and coming down from the high you filled him with.

He slowly regained consciousness and raked his hands through his long hair. The makeup on his face long since smudged and sweated down his face. He cleaned up and tucked himself back into his pants. 

The ship would be docked tomorrow, looking out the back window, Buggy could see land and, as if on cue, the crew mate in the crow’s nest shouted the all familiar phrase of land ho.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚

taglist: @tokoyamisstuff @mommymilkerfanclub @chaoticqueen33 @tootoomanycats

taglist is open.

[miraclesabound]

Spoiler-Heavy Review/Thoughts on "The Last Voyage of the Demeter"

The crowd at the theater grew to about 15, so still pretty quiet.

Short version is that I enjoyed this movie thoroughly, but it is truly gruesome. The entry will start below the cut with spoilery warnings, because even having read the book, there were some things that caught me off guard.

Warnings for this film include:

trafficking of a young woman as a blood bag/bride for Dracula

Use of racial slurs against both a Black and a Romani character

deaths of all animals on board, including livestock and a young boy's beloved dog - shown with full gore

death of three crew members by burning in the sun after vampiric possession, including the young boy (the captain's grandson)

One of those three choosing sunlight as their method of suicide rather than allowing themselves to fully turn into a beat.

In fact, no one dies peacefully - this version of Dracula is emphasized as truly beastly, relishing the fear of his victims.

I know we've all been rooting for the Captain (named Captain Elliot in this version), but the true protagonist is Mr. Clemens, played by Corey Hawkins. We never get his first name, but we learn that he's a Black English doctor making his way home from Bulgaria/Romania, and he offers his services to Captain Elliot when a previously hired hand refuses to touch anything marked with Dracula's symbol - the stamp of a black dragon.

Other characters include: Captain Elliot and his young grandson Toby, Anna, the young woman given to Dracula as a captive by her village, and the men of the crew, all of whom have sailed with Captain Elliot before.

Then of course, there's Dracula himself. I saw some reviews saying he's shown far too early in the movie - but it worked for me. We find out that Anna was locked in his coffin with him and was meant to sustain him for the whole voyage - so when we see Dracula, he's weak and wracked with hunger for losing his food supply when Clemens finds Anna and starts treating her. Since we see him like that early, there's room for him to grow to almost full power as he burns through the animals and then the crew.

I enjoyed just about every performance in the film, but Corey Hawkins (Clemens), Javier Botet (Dracula), and Woody Norman (Toby) were particular highlights. Clemens is your classic cynical scientist with a heart of gold, Dracula speaks less than you would expect but still has that taunting air, and Toby doesn't read as older than he's supposed to be.

As story beats go, I think I appreciated Anna's the most. I've said in my reread of Dracula that I wish modern adaptations did more with the people of Transylvania hating Dracula, and this version presented that in Anna's character. She's lived under Dracula's shadow as long as she can remember, even before her village elders handed her over, and once she's freed and recovered some of her strength, she's finally able to fight back. I'm a sucker for a character who knows they're doomed but still tries to do the right thing, and Anna is that in spades.

THE LIGHTING IN THIS MOVIE WAS ACTUALLY EFFECTIVE!!!! The daytime scenes were vibrant, and all the nights scenes are lit by an enormous full moon and several stars. It makes the shadow work less muddied than you might see in a more modern-style horror movie.

The movie ends with Clemens technically surviving, but still deeply traumatized and literally scarred - he and Anna scuttle the ship and jump overboard, but not until after Dracula has drunk enough from Anna to curse her and he's badly hurt Clemens' neck. Anna gives herself over to the sun so that Clemens can get to shore, and the closing scene is clearly a sequel hook as he hunts for Dracula in London - or perhaps the Count has already realized that Clemens is on his tail. This worked for me because the film stuck with Clemens. I kept expecting him to run into one of the core Dracula characters, and I'm not sure I would have liked that.

This is all a very long-winded way of saying that this was a film I truly enjoyed, and it is a LOVE LETTER to the book's thesis - the supernatural may have come out of hiding, but if we band together, evil may be halted - even for a little while.

Rating: 8.5/10

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Marc Spector/Steven Grant x Reader [9]

Description: Layla, Steven and Dove set off towards Ammit’s tomb across the dunes, only Steven and Dove have a heavy confession they’ve each been meaning to make.

Word count: 10.8k

Trigger warnings: MINORS DNI. 18+. SMUT UNDER THE CUT. (What the heck) Fingering, F!reader, blood, flares, guns, canon level murder. Hints at grooming (not between Steven/Marc obviously), hints at toxic relationship. (Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright)

Authors note: I have never written anything smutty in my life, I hope this is okay. It kinda hit me out of no where. Also there will be a full smut chapter when the series is finished as a little treat.

main masterlist | series masterlist

Life seemed to have this horribly funny way of ripping goodness out of Dove’s hands.

Just as Layla had found a match on her tablet for the constellations, coordinates popping up on the screen like a digital bat signal, Khonshu gave a groan of pain even a god couldn’t hold back. He dropped to his knees, one of his boney hands falling to steady himself on the warm sand, the other jutted into the night sky to hold the stars where they watched him weaken.

Dove watched in frozen shock as in a matter of seconds he slipped away into the darkness, though dragged seemed a better term for it.

The Ennead had imprisoned him, just as they said they would.

A flash of relief ripped through Dove as she watched the cruel god slip away, finally freeing the shackles he held around her Steven. A prison that kept him scared, kept him quiet, even more so than that of his own body, was gone.

Though with that went his suit, she thought with a moment of abject horror, frozen in her limbs as if waiting for her god to be ripped from her too.

Her breath caught against her chest, waiting, waiting to be freed from the chains around her legs, the leash around her neck. She wanted this over, wanted to be a gift shoppist again more than anything. She would take hours of Donna’s shrill voice berating her over merchandise any day than this sense of ownership he held over her.

Because if it was just Khonshu imprisoned, the mission would fall onto her shoulders. And she couldn’t do any of this alone, any of it without Steven. She could do none of it without Marc. She would be alone in this again.

She’d rather die than live long enough to see either of them hurt for real this time.

Just get it over with. She near begged the gods. I can’t be the one to save them. I couldn’t even save her, I’m not the one you want for this.

That is, until she watched Steven’s legs give out from beneath him and his eyes roll to the back of his lids, his body going limp, and she felt her heart drop into her stomach.

“Steven-Steven!” Dove called, lunging to grab him under the arms to hold him steady. But it was no use. His breath gave a rattled huff, his body completely yielding to unconsciousness, nearly toppling her over herself had she not put a hand out to stop the two of them face planting into the course sand.

Hoisting him over to his back, she brought a hand up to his cheek, his eyes flickering closed in REM, shaking his head with more care than she knew she should. She couldn’t find it in herself to strike him any harsher.

Layla fell to her knees beside her, more forceful with her shoves as she pushed his muscled body with a desperate sort of anger, begging him for the both of them to wake up.

“Marc? Marc, come on!” The other woman yelled, bunching his jumper in her fists until her knuckles turned just as white as the alabaster fabric, “Come on! Where are you?”

Then she heard it. Dove felt her ears prick up, an engine stuttering in the distance, tires crunching over sand, a metal rattling of bodywork against a motor.

A car. A truck, full of bodies. Full of guns.

She could hear the bullets rattling in their chambers, hear the men’s breathing, jeering to one another.

Harrow’s men. Or maybe even Mogart’s. She didn’t know anymore. She just knew they spelled danger.

“We have to go,” Dove said exasperated, scrambling to her feet despite the sand shifting under their weight as the sounds approached, “We need to leave now.”

“Leave him, they won’t shoot him if he already looks dead,” Layla huffed, dropping Steven’s arm, grabbing the scruff of Dove’s collar ferociously, “Leave him,”

“We can’t leave him, what if they fire for good measure?” Dove asked, smacking Layla’s hand away from her with a scowl, “I’m not leaving him-”

A blinding light lit up their faces, their heads snapping to where headlights lit up the dunes surrounding them. The wind seemed to hold its breath as the women stood, spooked deers with targets on their backs.

“Stop being so god damn stubborn for once,” Layla seethed, grabbing the younger woman’s arm tight enough to pinch, “We’ll come back for him in a second, now move,”

It took everything in her to listen.

She was all but dragged into a run towards their own vehicle where they had been piecing together the map not even twenty minutes earlier. She hated how funny time was like that.

They waited on bated breaths, hoping the truck would drive past them with no consequence, no interference.

Though of course, that would never happen. That would be too kind.

Bullets whistled past their legs, something bigger than the pistol Layla had held from what Dove could tell, something made for killing quickly, killing messily.

The women winced hearing the trucks engine slow to a low rumble, carefully rolling down the dune as it shot blindly into the dark where they ducked behind the body of their car, Layla’s breath panting loudly in her ear.

She felt her heartbeat in her throat, praying on everything she’d ever believed in that they didn’t see Steven, that they didn’t shoot Layla. It was redundant worrying about herself, though part of her wondered if the God of chaos had been forced into a ushabti too, she wasn’t willing to figure it out by throwing herself in front of the barrel of the gun.

Layla reached up for the cold metal of the handle, clicking it open and practically forcing Dove in by the scruff of the neck into the wagon end of the truck, the grains of sand crunching under her boots as she lay still, waiting for the truck to hopefully pass.

Clambering in after her and shutting the door quietly, Layla ducked down next to her, the sound of their exhausted breaths cutting through the quiet night. She had faced worse than these men, than this one big gun, yet she felt without Marc there to tell her where to hit them, without Steven there to hold her face and tell her how brave she was, she was nothing.

“I saw them running!” One of the men called out, the two women freezing in their spots, “Check around the truck!”

The flickering of the headlights filtered in through the dirty truck windows, dust smattering the glass though Dove still got a clear view of the vehicle cruising around them, circling like a shark in bloodied waters, searching for the rest of the kill.

She felt Layla tense next to her when her boot hit something near the door, a red satchel with a muddied flame printed on the front.

Flames. Fire. There was a crate full of ammunition she could hear rattling around the back of that truck which only meant one thing. Gunpowder.

“Layla,” She whispered, grabbing the woman’s arm and pointing to the red bag, “Are there matches in there?”

“Flares- why?” Layla murmured back, a scowl on her face at the stupidity of the girl to be talking.

Dove hesitated a moment, keeping an eye on the truck as it rolled past them and looped back towards where Steven lay unconscious still. They didn’t have alot of time left. They would surely shoot at him to be sure, and without the suit anymore-

“There’s bullets in that truck,” Dove whispered, meeting the woman’s eyes through what little light the stars gave them, “Flares set on fire when you pull them right?”

Layla’s scowl seemed to drop as she understood what the girl was suggesting. The woman scrambled for the satchel, ripping the zip open to reveal six red, waxy tubes, the metal hooks hanging off as the triggers.

Shoving one into Dove’s hands, she took one for herself, head snapping to the girl nearly ten years her younger.

“You know what you’re doing?” Layla murmured, the two of them looking through the front windscreen where the headlights seemed to zero in on Steven. Steven, who was running out of time. Steven, who would throw himself in front of endless amounts of guns if it meant she was safe. Steven, who would wake up any second now and meet his end in the middle of no where because she wasn’t fast enough.

“You throw yours to get them away from him, I’ll go after them,” She replied hushedly, her hand opening the door quietly, sliding forwards until her legs dangled off the edge of the carriage. That is until a hand latched onto her shoulder to drag her back.

Her head whipped over her shoulder, worried they had been seen already, only to see Layla’s brown eyes unsure. Remorse ate away at her expression, twitching her eyebrows, scrunching her mouth bitterly.

“You had better be careful,” Layla bit, though Dove knew what the meaning beneath it was. Don’t die. Don’t get hurt. I’m sorry for what I said.

Dove nodded, dropping onto the sand silently, waiting for Layla to slip out of and throw her flare away from Steven.

She lost sight of the woman, her soft, tight curls bouncing around the corner of the truck, her own fingers crossing that the woman would stay far out of harm. She knew she was sorry, knew Layla had a way of exploding at her because she was the easiest target, she was the only one who would actually give her the reaction she’d wanted. She’d always known that hurt people, hurt people. And that’s all Layla was. Hurt, at the fact her ex-husband seemed to dodge every phone call, spill every lie, brush off every argument. She couldn’t say she agreed with how Marc handled the subject of Layla, but in the same way she was hurt, Marc was hurt too.

It’s just who they were.

Seeing a flash of red fly into the dunes, and the rumble of the truck's engine as it practically turned on two wheels and flew towards the commotion, shooting at the flare in the hopes of hitting one of them. She saw where the sand sprayed behind the wheels, stepping out behind their car and drawing her arm back for the shot.

Pulling the metal hook out of its socket, a small crack like a party popper sounded from the palm of her hand, and the red flame sprayed out the end. Before the men even had time to switch the gun onto her, she’d thrown it towards the rear of their vehicle, where she now saw a heavy artillery weapon, the clink and rattle of bullets rolling in the seat as the car came to a stop in front of Layla’s distraction.

She heard a shout of shock as her flare made contact, bouncing into the rear, before a white spark flew into the air and fizzled, like a star reaching its supernova within the inky black night.

She worried for a moment that that was it, that was all her brilliant plan could give, until ten more shots of the same ivory light flew into the sky, a crackle lingering in the truck before a huge ball of flame engulfed the car whole. Yells of fright from the passengers were cut off with one final whoosh and the yellow blaze licked into the black once more, silencing whatever protests the men had.

They had died. They had burned at her hand. And yet, thinking back to how suddenly they could have stuffed Steven full of bullets, she struggled to fight the relief that had filled her body.

Steven.

Steven.

Spinning on her heel, she nearly jumped out of her skin when she collided with a hard body, one that seemed to have watched the conflict splayed all over her face in the warmth of the fire. She readied herself to shove them away, to call Layla for help, until she snapped out of her haze and saw a very tired, very sandy face that looked at her as if he’d seen an archangel lighting his way.

Steven.

She said nothing, though she wanted to tell him how pretty his eyes looked in the dark. She wanted to tell him how she’d thought of him every single day since the day they’d met, that he’d be the one to drag her out of the shadows that smothered her, that if there was one thing that could take away her pain, her sorrow, that could make her feel alive again, it was him.

But she didn’t. Because there weren't enough words, wasn’t enough time, to tell him how she felt.

So she pulled him into the tightest hug she could muster instead.

She felt her breath leave her when his arms went around her waist, nose burrowing into her neck, sighing. She didn’t care he was dirty, so was she, didn’t care that he was breathing so close to her skin, she revelled in it in fact. Her every hair stood on end as he kissed her shoulder, bare from where her shirt had ripped, kissed it again for good measure, her whole body shivering under his lips. He was so warm compared to her, she’d felt cold ever since that night she’d died, like a constant reminder she was just a body, and he was so full of life. He was so Steven it filled her heart until she thought it would come running out of her eyes in tears.

“I missed you so much,” He whispered in her ear, as if utterly unaware how receptive she would be to the sound of his voice, “I thought I was going crazy,”

“You’re never crazy, not to me,” She murmured back, feeling him kiss her cheek.

She begged him to kiss her lips next. God she’d missed him. She wanted him more than the syrupy air they stood in, had a greed for him she’d never known before. One kiss hadn’t been enough, she needed more.

She needed all of him.

The pit in her stomach that had laid stagnant for weeks, that had been a dormant pit flared with heat as he pulled away from her, his eyes soppy and dizzy as he watched her, her heart caving in through her chest.

She could kiss him right there and he would kiss her back. She didn’t know how she knew it but she did.

Sighing as she heard Layla shuffling behind her, crawling out of her hiding place behind the truck, she tilted her head forwards until it met his forehead, the feeling of her nose brushing against his having her squeeze him tighter.

“I missed you too, Steven,” She whispered, feeling his body tense as her words fell in blankets on his lips.

Her mouth was right there for the taking, his head screamed to him. Her plush lips were seconds away from his, the scene he’d imagined for himself over and over and over was right there.

Yet they both pulled away, meeting each other's longing gaze once more before they turned back to the truck.

The drum and bass was pounding in her chest, constricting her throat. Her top rode up her stomach, breasts hiked up enough to touch her chin, the mini shorts hugging her legs much too tight for comfort. But this was what they paid for. For her.

It wasn’t so bad as far as nightclubs went. It was fast paced which kept her shifts moving quick, the drinks were easy to memorise, and for the most part she was behind a thick bar that separated her from the handsier customers. But tonight she was on shot duty, her job was to entice as many willing buyers into slamming little vials of jäger that would only drain their wallets. She knew it was unethical, knew she should have more shame, but life was shit like that sometimes.

Matty had brought home a whole baby, Billie, who she loved more than life itself, though the poor little girl couldn’t escape the colic no matter how hard the five of them rocked her, burped her, winded her. She kept them up most nights, and who’d have thought babies were so expensive.

Billie and Matty alone took the majority of their funds, if not the bills on the house, if not them then it was Sammy being bailed out of the holding cell every other weekend for “disturbing public peace”, that one she could believe.

Joey, her clever clever boy, had managed to get a scholarship to see him through most of university, but that didn’t negate the fact he was so busy with his extra classes, being the genius child he was, he hadn’t the time for an extra job to contribute to the family.

And then there was Mikey.

Mikey, who she had pretended to ignore came home with bloodshot eyes or a manic sort of excitement, or a slackened jaw. Mikey, who had done what he did best and tried to make friends, only to get mixed with the wrong crowd and end up addicted. Mikey, who needed to be sent to the very expensive rehab downtown quickly if they had any chance of pulling him out of this habit before he found himself too deep.

Times were tough, eighteen-year-old Dove liked to think she was tougher.

She pretended to ignore the way the men’s eyes trailed her body like a public footpath, barely any acknowledgement in their eyes that she was human and not just a nice ass and a tight top. She pretended they didn’t brush against her one too many times for it to be an accident, or even the fact they tipped her bigger if they were brave enough to brazenly touch her stomach, the soft of her arms, the plushness of her legs as she walked through the sea of dancers.

They began to blur into one horrid mess of men she choked out thanks to as they handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.

“You’re worth more than that, you know?” A voice interrupted her, where she stood near the bar, the waitress refilling her tray with shots.

Golden painted eyelids flicked up as she caught sight of the man, ready to give a catty remark when she saw someone leaning against the glass countertop, sticky residue of sweet alcohol under his neat suit. Certainly out of sorts in a place like this.

“You think?” She asked, boredly, picking at her fingernails as the man spoke. She couldn’t lie to herself, he was handsome. Not the most handsome man to ever flirt with her, though the others usually were slurring and asking if they would get their drinks free if they give her something nice in return. This man seemed sober, however, his drink small and barely touched, “Good to know,”

“I think a girl like you deserves to have the drinks brought to you on a silver platter,” He said cheekily, sipping his drink slowly as the bartenders looked between her and the man with teasing smiles.

“Don’t bother, Frank,” Eddie said, shaking a cocktail over his shoulder with little more than an eyelid batted, “She’s hard to get. Even said no to a date with me a few times,”

“How could I ever be so cruel to turn down such a stud?” She sneered, though the grin on her face told an entirely different story. She was kidding, ofcourse. “Such a pretty boy, and yet my answer is still the same. I don’t have time for boys,”

“Who said anything about boys?” Frank asked, aghast, placing a hand on his chest, “I would never expect a grown woman like you to want a boy. It’s a man you need.”

She was painfully aware of how much older than her he looked, easily approaching his thirty year mark if his grown attire and mature voice was anything to go off of.

It had been her birthday two weeks ago.

“A man, huh?” She asked cockily, rolling her eyes at the lust in his eyes as she became meaner to him. Men were so predictable. She treated him nice, he was interested. She was a bitch to him, he wanted her more. “Let me know if any of you find one,”

With that, she slid the silver tray of shots off the bar and took off into the sea of people, a little snigger leaving her lips at the way Frank watched her like a hawk.

She had certainly not been expecting a hand to grab her by the belt loops on her shorts, spinning her back to where she had just come from, only to be met with the grey eyes of the man at the bar that she thought she’d left in the dust.

“Are you out of your mind-” Dove cried, slapping his hand off her, though his smile only widened with a snicker of his own.

“One date?” He asked, tugging her closer by the front of her shorts, “One date is all I ask,”

“You don’t even know my name,” She bit back, back when she had it in her to be mean, when he hadn’t ripped the disobedience out of her.

His finger came up to flick the name badge on her chest that she purposely stole from someone else, the one reading Sandie. She never gave out her real name, not just for her safety but for her boys too.

“One date, Sandie,” Frank said, producing a business card out of his pocket, “Just your start date,”

She recoiled. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting what so ever. She’d thought he was flirting, she’d been so sure of it. But a job offer, that was something else.

Ripping the card out of his fingers, she read the sparkly red writing on the front.

for a good night, simply follow the yellow brick road

-frank osbourne

“This is the fakest looking piece of shit I’ve ever seen,” She retorted, which only made him laugh at her attempt of damaging his ego, “I bet this number isn’t even real,”

“No?” He goaded, stuffing his hand even further into his pocket to pull out a wad of twenties.

Her eyes widened as he wedged the roll of money into her front pocket, squeezing it into the fabric where it clung to her skin. Her mouth bobbed open once, perhaps to ask what he did for a living or if he was compensating for something smaller elsewhere. But the usual smartmouth she had on her was gone.

In fact she couldn’t even say anything when he picked up a shot off her tray and slammed it back right there and then on the dance floor, the black liquor dripping down the corner of his mouth.

He smiled at her, wiping it away with the back of his expensive cuff, diamond cufflinks she’d missed at first glance flashing under the strobe lights as the beat in the song dropped and rattled through her chest.

“Keep the change, honey,” He yelled, winking at her smoothly and disappearing back into the crowd as if he had never even been there.

She was embarrassed at how fast she pocketed his number.

Her body was jolting forwards, saved luckily by the seat belt wrapped over her chest, a small gasp crawling out her lips.

She realised with a quick look out the front of the window that they had come to an abrupt stop, a terracotta mountain face staring back at them through the bullet holes cracking the windscreen.

Seeing Layla’s stoic expression and the tension that immersed the car as she woke up, she felt whatever words had been said while she slept bite at her skin, rubbing the sleep dust from her eyes.

“Damn, girl. What did the brake pedal ever do to you?” She muttered, and she hated the way her tummy flurried at the sight of Steven’s bemused smile. She loved making him smile. She saw the bags that dragged at his soft doe eyes, wanted to grab his chin and force him to look at her to get just a moment more of his honeyed gaze, his pretty eyelashes, his expressive brows.

“We’re on foot from here,” Layla ordered, unbuckling herself and hopping out the side of the truck, slinging her rucksack over her back. Dove thought for a moment if she should ask what had happened while she had been asleep in the back seat, yet then she thought better of it. Layla was a bear she never wanted to poke with a stick, let alone more than she already had.

“Good sleep?” Steven asked, swivelling around his position in the passenger side, watching her carefully with a giddy smile.

She licked her lips, fiddling with the tips of her nails, where the odd one had begun healing, where they didn’t hurt as much since she’d stopped gnawing at her loose skin.

“Not as good as our sleepovers,” She mumbled into the quiet of the car, the air like the inside of a candy floss machine; sweet and wispy as he giggled.

“Never,” He replied, the two of them sharing a childish glee. They near jumped out their skin when Layla’s knuckles came down on Dove’s window, harsh and interrupting.

“Are we going, or what?” The woman said loud enough for them to hear the frustration in her tone even through the thick glass.

Guilt flashed across the younger woman’s face as she unlatched her door, the desert heat smacking her in the face like a hand.

Layla simply rolled her eyes at the two bumbling idiots, the way Steven seemed to half tumble out of his own seat just to be near her faster, the way it was clear from the way their hands kept falling to their sides they itched to touch even for a single moment.

She kissed her teeth, spinning on her heel as they looked to her for direction, feeling more akin to a babysitter now Marc didn’t have the body. She hated him when he was in control, hated him when he wasn’t. The entire idea of him was exhausting her, the knife twisting deeper when Steven told her Marc had agreed to disappear without a single goodbye for Steven’s sake.

It wasn’t that she wanted him back. But she was only human. She would have appreciated a real goodbye at least.

“This way. Map says they should be just on the other side of this gorge.” She called behind her, Dove and Steven trailing after her mindlessly, their eyes flicking up to one another wordlessly every few steps.

They took it that Layla wanted some time to herself as she took off on her own, muttering under her breath with a sneer from what they could see. She would keep close enough to listen for trouble, but far enough that she had some peace with her thoughts.

Dove felt a guilty sense of gratitude that her and Steven had a moment alone. She hadn’t known such calm in weeks.

“Marc said-” She started after a few minutes of quiet, “He said you didn’t know about all of this before. How are you doing, finding out you’re sharing your body with a whole other person I mean,” She prompted, chancing a glance at his face, his lip tugged between his teeth.

“Honestly,” He sighed, his tired eyes falling on her face that gazed back with nothing but worry. No judgement, no fear. Never from her. “Honestly, it’s frazzled me a bit. I mean it’s like being in a dream where I’m watching everything happen around me but I’m stuck in the backseat shouting how shit a driver Marc is-”

She couldn’t help the small chuckle that fell from her lips, the one that had him smiling too, not missing the way her shoulder bumped him lightly.

“It’s like I’m yanking on the reins, trying to get my own body back to being mine, and yet no one’s listening, you know?” He continued, and she felt the lump shift in the bottom of her throat.

Yes. I know exactly what you mean, Steven. I think you’re the only person who can ever know, only person since Grace who has ever known me-

And Marc. They were the only two to understand.

She nodded silently, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Oh god, what am I saying?” Steven muttered cursing to himself, looking at her with sorrowful eyes, “Seth still has you, doesn’t he? It was only Khonshu who they punished.”

She nodded again, keeping an eye on the ground as the terrain became a bit more rocky, stepping down carefully where she saw Layla’s boot print.

“Love, you have to know, that evening in the museum-” He began, following in her footsteps, stopping when his foot slipped on the grainy bank, feeling her hand grab his own, the very touch catching his breath as he stepped down safely to the rest of the sand. “Thanks- in the museum, I never meant for you to get hurt-”

“Steven, it’s okay, you don’t need to say that,” She brushed off bashfully, turning her head to the ground and pulling away from his saccharine touch.

But he wouldn’t let her. She needed to hear it. Needed more than the fair and few nice words Marc had given her the past few weeks. Not when she’d endured so much, so much for him.

He grabbed her hand again, feeling the cold skin under his warm palm, not letting her slip away so fast this time as her eyes flicked up to his and stuck as they traipsed through the sand.

“No, you shouldn’t have been hurt that day. You shouldn’t have had any of this happen to you, and I’m sorry, Dove.” He said perhaps the most serious she’d ever seen him and all she could do was nod wordlessly. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess because of me,”

“It’s not your fault, Steven,” She murmured, squeezing his hand with a frown, “It’s not Marc’s either. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, end of.”

“Still, I’m sorry it happened,” He said, bambi brown eyes falling over the planes of her face, “I promise, Marc and I will find a way to fix it when this is over,”

She smiled again, and he could swear he could feel his chest rattling with his own heartbeat. It was terrifying the effect she had on every inch of his body, the way his stomach and heart seemed to butterfly the moment she looked at him, the way her eyes softened under his gaze, the same woman he’d wanted even after so much hurt.

“It’s not so bad anyway,” She said, her attention returning to the path Layla trekked along, her chocolate curls glistening in the sunset, her lithe figure just close enough to see where she followed her tablet’s directions, “Marc has been a big help, although I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted to see me again after this. I can’t imagine he likes me very much,”

“Who wouldn’t like you?” Steven asked, as if it were the most obvious question out there. He felt Marc writhe with a flick of sorrow inside the body, the feeling of being on the outside still unusual to him. “I think he likes you just fine.”

She shook her head with a doubtful smile, “If you say so, Steven,”

“No, honestly!” He pushed, and she only snickered more as he pulled her closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, “I mean don’t tell him this, but I think he likes you more than he even likes me,”

“Me?” She giggled, entertaining the cheeky look in his eyes with another nudge to his shoulder, “Why? All I’ve done is annoy him since the day I saw him in my room and thought he was you,”

“Well, you’re my best friend for one,” Her cheeks heated at that, “And you’re the kindest person to ever walk the planet. And you’re honest, most honest person I know,”

Her smile dampened, not that he seemed to notice as he was lost in a dizzy world of his own, his thumb stroking the back of her hand gently. Honest. That’s what he valued about her. That she was honest.

She felt the life suck out of her stomache.

“Steven-” She started, her chest sunken. She was sure she could feel every breath rattling around the empty chamber, grabbing her throat.

Liar. They whispered. Liar, liar, liar.

“No, I know you’re going to go all shy, but you are, you’re the only one who doesn’t hide stuff from me like I’m a child, like Marc, all he does is keep things from me,” It was torture. Actual torture. It was as though he was bringing the knife down onto her chest with every sweet word, words that he meant to soothe and warm, words that tore and mutilated her. “You would never do that, now would you?”

It took her a moment to realise he asked a question, took a moment for her to snap out of the wallowing guilt that threatened to drag her under.

She needed to tell him. Needed to have it out with him, tell him what a disgusting, used up mess she was, tell him what she had done to Frank, tell him what she had let happen to Grace. He would be horrified, he would hate her.

She needed to tell him.

But instead she said;

“Never, Steven,”

They continued through the crevice in the land until they came out the otherside, onto a wide sandy ledge, Layla already scouting out across the remaining land.

“There they are,” She called over her shoulder as Dove and Steven caught up, the former much quieter than she had been initially, “Let’s keep moving. Looks like they’re already inside. We’ll need to find another way to beat them to Ammit.”

“After you, love,” Steven said with a besotted smile, holding a hand out for Dove to follow, “Promise I’ll save you if you fall,”

She smiled at him kindly, the ache in her chest weakening as she focused on the task at hand. He would understand. He would understand her reasoning for lying, he had to understand-

She stepped on in silence, carefully following Layla’s bootprints down the steep decline, the sharp rock edges scrutinising her every footstep. It wasn’t for another thirty minutes until they stepped foot on even ground, nearing the deserted campsite, fires reduced to a pile of small embers, not a soul in sight.

That is, until the trio talked to the centre of the camp, all three of them on high alert for any of Harrow’s men lingering for intruders.

Dove had barely seen the taupe four legged creature behind her until it bleated in her ear with a low grunt.

She squealed, stumbling back into Steven’s awaiting arms that wrapped around her shaken figure, her eyes wide as she turned to see two large onyx eyes blinking down at her through inch long lashes, munching happily on some hay.

A camel.

She felt her face warm as she heard the other two begin to snicker at her skittishness, Steven’s chest rumbling behind her with laughter. He stroked her hair softly, “Told you I’d save you,”

“S-sorry,” She muttered, releasing herself from him with a sheepish grin. Her hand came up to the camel’s snout to give it a short rub, the peach fuzz tickling her palm.

“You’d be scared of your own shadow following you,” Layla teased in probably the nicest tone she’d used all day. It seemed a brisk walk where you could curse out your ex all you wanted did the world wonders.

“You try having a god of violence following you, see how comfortable you are with bastards sneaking up on you,” Dove retorted, using the tips of her nails to scratch behind the camel’s ear, his lashes batting sweetly down at her.

Layla set off further into the camp, now it was clear they were the only ones there, urging them towards where an old mine shaft entrance seemed to open up into the middle of another mountain crest, undoubtedly where Harrow’s men had entered.

“Let’s check for supplies,” The older woman suggested, tightening the strap of her backpack with a small squint, the last of the Egyptian sun beating down on them.

Dove nodded, heading off towards one of the nearest tents, seeing a handful of tools resting against crates, small army grade beds set up, raised off the floor. She dug around the few crates, to find the odd bit of clothing, jackets she didn’t need, a torch she flicked on only to find it had run out of battery.

She snagged a few bits of mountaineering rope, tucking it into her satchel Layla had given her from the truck, a pickaxe she held and quickly saw how impractical it was to carry around.

The knife stared at her from on top of the bed. She should pick it up, she knew it was smart to defend themselves, if not for her then for Layla. Or for Steven. Sure, she would be fine, but they were human.

Her hand shook as she held the leather handle, the blade a good eight inches and covered with a rusty brown liquid she didn’t want to acknowledge.

She wasn’t there anymore, she repeated to herself in a mantra, she wasn’t with him anymore. He was gone, he could only haunt her now. She did what she needed to-

Dove was quick to wipe the blood off the metal onto one of the nearby jackets, stopping only when she could see her dishevelled appearance staring back at her in the shine of the blade. Chucking it into the backpack with the rest of her find, she stepped out the tent, heading towards the big canopy she’d seen Steven head towards.

Their conversation from earlier still gnawed at her gut, twisting and writhing inside her like a rot that ate at her. She needed to tell him. He would despise her, he would find her sickening to so much as look at, but she needed to. He deserved the honestly he thought he found in her.

Once they’d stopped Ammit she would tell him. She would hate herself every second until that moment, hate herself every second after too. She would be alone again, she understood. But even if her sweet, sweet Steven forgave her and wanted anything to do with her, there was not a chance in any hell that Marc would allow her around him. He might even turn her in himself, he’ll probably regret saving her life after all. He might even carry out some of Khonshu’s vengeance, might just finish her off, make her pay for lying to Steven, lying to him, liar, liar, liar-

“I know I’m not alone-” There was shouting. But it wasn’t that of Harrow’s men, it wasn’t angered, it wasn’t an order. It was Steven. It was raw, wounded. “I know I’m bloody not alone. I’ve got Layla, and I’ve got Dove. She’s got my back more than you ever have, Marc,”

This was wrong. She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, especially when Steven and Marc seemed to be at odds with one another, it seemed intimate, like watching family fight. But Steven sounded upset, god she hated that sound, he sounded like a dog backed into a corner, unsure, lashing out.

There was no verbal response as she stepped closer, one hand on the drape that acted as a door, preparing to call for him, ask him to tell her everything so she could just fix it for him.

“I appreciate your concern, mate, I really do-” Steven continued, a bite to his words she rarely heard, a snappy tone worlds away from the sweetness he addressed her with. This was violating his privacy, this was wrong, she needed to go in, needed to help him- “So what if I do? You and Layla are divorced, and I definitely didn’t sign any papers or say any vows. The way I see it, I love her and even if theres the smallest chance Dove feels the same way about me, I don’t want you being a grumpy git ruining it for me-”

Her eyes widened. I love her. He loved her? Her heart pounded behind her chest, far harder than anytime it had from fear, from anger, from guilt even. It consumed her lungs, swelling with a warmth that numbed her legs, her hand drawing back the flap to enter the tent.

She had to see him. Had to hear him say it for real.

He cut himself off hearing her enter the tent, his breath catching in his throat. He prayed for a second it was Layla, it would be so much less humiliating, less to explain if it were, though he was sure he was about as flushed as a school boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar as he spun on his heel to see her gobsmacked face staring back at him.

“D-Dove?” He spluttered, nearly knocking himself on his arse as he stepped back, practically falling away from her, the very sight of her burning him, “W-we were talking- just talk about-”

“Say it again,” She said quietly, yet it spun the room into a stifling silence of its own.

Steven breathed heavily, gasping for a breath that seemed to come too late as he felt his brow begin to sweat, his ribs rattling with a difficult sigh.

“I don’t-don’t know what-what you’re…” He hadn’t even the heart to finish his sentence as she stepped fully into the tent, the drape slipping over her shoulder fluidly, her eyes wild, desperate.

“Say it again, Steven,” She begged, and he could hear her laboured breaths about as hard for her as it was for him.

He gulped, his mouth becoming as dry as it was outside of this little bubble they were stuck in, bringing the cuff of his jumper up to swipe away the sweat that bunched up at his temple.

“Well, the thing is,” He started shakily. He had to tell her, rip the plaster off. He could only hope she would ever, could ever feel the same, even if he was enamoured with her and she just wanted him to entertain herself for a while, he could die happy. Even if she realised he really was the weirdo everyone at work avoided like the plague, he would live forever grateful to have been given a chance. He had to tell her, her eyes were too big, too warm to say no to, “See, the thing, love, is I think- no, I-I know, I-” He continued, his arms and legs numb with the shock of seeing her here, shock of what he was confessing after so long, “I love you,”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, her mouth gaping open, showing off her teeth that blew a held breath past them, her chest rising and falling irregularly as they settled under the weight of his words.

“You don’t need to say anything- or do anything-” He carried on after she stared at him with a gobsmacked expression and he began to fear the worst, “or even feel the same-” He felt like an idiot, felt like his face, chest, body was on fire, “If you want to stay friends, that’s alright with m-”

It only took her two full strides before she had grabbed his face with a fervour she had only ever dreamt about and taken his lips onto her own, silencing his bumbling words hotly.

Her body melted against his, pressing up against every crevice as he gasped into her mouth, hands squeezing into nervous fists at his sides before they seemed to wake up and grab her hips, feeling the plush fat underneath her shirt.

He made a sound, somewhere between shock and joy, something that slipped into a whine as her fingers wove through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Wait-” He gasped in the small moment they broke apart, his eyes fluttering open to see her face more at peace, more blissed than he’d ever seen, “Dove-”

“More.” She mewled, her face scrunching in desperation, brows pulling together as if in pain to be parted.

It took little to no thought on his part what came next after hearing her plea. Steven had never been one to take control, never thought he would be kissing a woman with so much heat, let alone her.

He tugged her closer, harder than before, so sudden she all but fell into him where he was waiting with dry lips that pressed against hers so hard she could feel his teeth behind them. His hands wrapped around her waist, clawing at the bottom of her spine, fingertips pressing into her skin as if worried he’d feel her slip through them like sand.

She breathed heavier into his mouth, whining like a dog for affection, her fingers weaving further into his chocolate curls and squeezing.

He gave an open mouthed bleat of surprise as she bit down on his lip, his own hand migrating up, up under her shirt, following her bare spine, feeling every groove, every mole, every millimetre of skin with a fire that burned her with feverish tingles. He seemed to freeze when he got to her bra, as if to forget such things existed, because he really did forget where and who and what they were wearing, his mind entirely unravelled, shedding all thoughts other than her, her, her.

He didn’t care that her shirt rode up as his arm pushed on, blunt nails pawing at her skin, until they reached the base of her neck, further until he grabbed at the roots of her own hair. He didn’t care for the surprise in her yelp as he flipped the two of them around, pressing her against the post in the centre of the tent, the thick wood scratching at her back, his hand protecting her head as he kissed even harder.

“Steven-” Marc’s voice pulled him out of his paradise. He couldn’t believe he was kissing her, that she was letting him kiss her. He couldn’t believe the way she grabbed at him just as tight, as if she felt the same frenzied need for his body on hers that he did, as only shown by the way she tried to pull him back when he disconnected their lips, “Steven, stop it. Steven-”

“Steven-” She whined, and if there was any chance of him listening to the American man screaming at him from the mirror, the same mirror he had been in a heated row with when she had first entered, that flew out of the window the moment he heard her soft voice in his ear.

He was so sure he had never wanted anything so badly in his life.

“Steven, stop it. This isn’t safe.” Marc tried to command again, his voice a venomous hiss, thick with something sad, only Steven didn’t listen.

Instead, his lips migrated to the bottom of her lips, catching the corner of them, his hand in her hair tugging tighter as she whispered his name again, the laboured breaths rattling against her chest that pressed impossibly closer to him. His hand reached up past her head, ripping the mirror from the nail on the wooden beam, tossing it far enough away he barely heard the clink of the glass breaking into three pieces.

“What was that for?” She whispered, her breath catching when he moved further down her face, a nip to her jaw, before he reached the soft, velvety skin of her neck, the air sucking out of her at the point of contact.

“Marc talks too much,” Was all he said, before he dove into kissing her pulse point, the beat jackhammering against her plush skin, vibrating on his lips as he settled back into kissing the very soul out of her.

She gasped a laugh, right hand remaining in the thicket of his hair as the other detached to reach for the toned fat of his hip bone, the sensation making him groan, flinching as her fingers glided under his own shirt.

He was a man starved, kissing harder and harder with every whimper of approval he received, a note to not stop whatever it was he was doing if it meant she would keep sounding so heavenly.

He tensed as her hand moved over his stomach, feeling over the wear and tear scars he had always wondered how he got. Ofcourse, being who he was now, he knew they were from Marc running all over the world, risking his skin for a moon god they both despised, the same skin she stroked softly where they raised in ugly white lines from his stomach.

He wanted to say something clever, say something to make her laugh, maybe about how Marc wasn’t as good a fighter as he seemed, but his every brain cells vanished when her fingertip so much as traced the hem of his trousers, teasing him with a slight tug at the material.

He felt the cotton brush against where his boner crushed against his soft tummy, harder and more vulnerable than he had ever felt it. The months spent pining after this woman did him no favours, granted him no justice as he melted at the knees under her touch. He felt her smile, not cockily nor with any semblance of lust, just happy. Happy to have him so close, feel him pouring over her with an affection she never deserved.

Feeling no signs of rejection, she tugged at his hemline again, her fingers looping under his boxers this time, the sensation of the warm dusk air flooding his underwear and hitting his sensitive tip like a freight train, the feeling enough to rip him from kissing at her throat with a gasp, his forehead falling down to rest on her collarbone, eyes squeezed together in a near pained mewl.

“Love-” He murmured, hand still grabbing at the back of her locks, pulling tighter when she tugged his clothes again, exposing him for the briefest of seconds to the thick air they’d found themselves in, “You make it so hard to think when you do that,”

“Do what?” She asked, the innocence in her tone snuffed out by the lust twinkling in her eye as she looked to him, gaze bleary, face puffing out from the thrill of it all, her chest rising between the two of them, taking in enough air to sustain a bird mid-flight.

He smiled back at her, a look of adoration and pure, unbloodied happiness smothering his face as he leaned in to kiss her lips a few more times, each one a little braver than the last as he nibbled at her lips, albeit a little too excited. But she didn’t care, it only made her smile wider.

“I want you so badly,” He said, the tips of their noses meeting as his forehead pressed against hers, sharing each other's breaths as her eyes shut in a dizzy sweet glow.

“Have me,” She replied without a beat of hesitation, pressing a kiss to his lips again, “I was always yours to have,”

If he thought he couldn’t get harder, he was sorely mistaken.

His stomach flurried with what felt like a sea of warmth that spread down to his legs, numbing his body as it crawled over his olive skin. He wanted to devour her with a hunger he had never known, wanted to commit every inch of skin to memory, wanted to kiss her until they both lost breath and then kiss her some more, even if his lips turned blue and his brain shut off from deprivation, because he was already feeling giddy from the taste of her alone.

“Really?” Steven asked, his nut brown eyes fat with puppy love, the hearts practically swirling in his gaze like a comic book, “I’ve wanted this for so long. Pictured a bed and candles and chocolates, the whole shebang,”

She giggled at his Steven-like ways that hadn’t faded away even when his lust was as clear as the boner that poked at her leg.

“The whole shebang?” She echoed with an amused smile, but the desire for more had yet to die out, “That sounds lovely, Steven, but there’s just one problem.”

“Which is?” He asked, the frown that flashed over his face smoothing out when he felt her kiss him again, a sharper bite to his lip than before, a harsher tug at his boxers to where she stood patiently waiting, her touch edging even closer to where he wanted her most.

“I want you now.” She whispered, trailing off into a whine, “Please,”

He stared at her with a slack jaw, only spurring her to kiss along the bone with a sweetness soft enough to rot teeth.

Pulling her hair back firm enough to move her away, not hard enough to hurt, he forced her back into his line of sight again, his eyes darker than she would have thought possible for a sweetheart like him.

“You ask me like that ever again and I’ll give you anything,”

A breathy laugh bled into a gasp as his hand released her head, moving down to her flowy trousers, the elastic waist giving in almost too easily as his large, warm hand skirted across the skin of her stomach, goosebumps chasing after the tips of his fingers as they brushed gently over her skin too quickly.

He wanted to kiss every spot of the velvety plushness he could get to, but he could save that for another day, instead he knew exactly where he wanted the most.

“Are you sure-”

“Please,” She whined, his fingers that lingered at her bare hipbone, freezing for a moment before they edged towards the lacey hem of her underwear.

The two of them gasped as his shaking hands went further, crossed the line in the sand, went further down. Steven was sure the air was sucked entirely from his lungs when he brushed over soft, neat hair, as if the feeling of it woke him up from whatever trance he was in.

“Oh my god,” He whispered against her cheek, nose pressed against her temple as she mewled under his palm, melting into where his other hand held her waist, “Oh god-”

He dared himself to go further, though he was sure his heart was in his throat. He could stake his life on waking up in his bed any second now, ankle tied up, a raging boner against his sleep shorts. This was too much for his poor, tender pulse, the sound of the thumps ringing loud as her voice in his ears.

Shaky hands ventured down, until they reached her waiting entrance, already soaked from where his kisses had weakened her insides, melting her into putty under his saccharine lips.

Fearing she would moan all the louder, her hands returned to his shoulder blade, looping under his arm that was busy trailing light touches over where her cunt waited patiently for more of him. She pulled his face back to hers, kissing him hard where she could groan comfortably, the sheer thrill and terror congealing in her gut if they were found in this position. It made her want him more, because no one had ever wanted her, her, so much as to risk their own life.

She felt herself squeak into his searing lips, a drawn out kiss that branded her for all to see, all to know that she was entirely his, when his index fingers curled up, exploring, mapping out what got the best reaction.

“You’re so-” He tried to say. Wet. But she had pulled him back for more the moment he tried to pull away, groaning as his digits slipped between her sex effortlessly.

It was then that he braved another finger, pushing just that bit further into her, still relatively unsure about what he was doing.

“You can go harder,” She seemed to sense his hesitation, but then why wouldn’t she. She knew him sometimes better than he knew himself. Read the exhilaration that faltered on his face as if as easy as flipping a page in a book, “You won’t hurt me,”

Steven nodded, the confirmation exactly what he needed to push his fingers into her further, eyes wild with lust as he watched her face contort in pleasure, her cushion walls squeezing his fingers tightly as he went deeper.

“Like that?” He said, the bite of her lip taking his attention wholly. He tried to hide the glee, the smugness in his tone as he said it, but when he pulled them out only to enter her again and she gave a mewl under her breath, his face was entirely cheshire cat.

“Yes,” She said, and he could have sworn it was something out of a dirty movie. Her face was something out of this world as he kept up with his movements, his mouth watering as her eyes flicked open to stare up at him, entirely at his mercy.

His breath was swept from him for the fourth time that day.

The thousands of years of faces passing this early, the sculptures and paintings even the greatest of hands had crafted, and yet it was his rough, tired digits that created the pinnacle of them all.

Feeling sure of himself with how his ministrations so far had been received, he pulled his fingers from her cunt, trailing back up gently to where he knew her clit would be. He fumbled for a moment, the spur of the moment confidence he’d found dwindling as he realised he was still as inexperienced as he had been the day before, that although he knew women’s anatomy, he had never actually touched a woman like he was now.

Again feeling him waver beneath her, his chocolate eyes dopey and pleading for help from anyone listening, she grabbed hold of his wrist and moved him to where she needed.

“Here, Steven,” She whispered, jolting into his chest when his warm digits met her sensitive nerves. She gave him a soft, loving smile and kissed his lips gently, not pitying but simply adoring his Steven-ness that she felt herself bathing in, felt his entire being shooing away every dark speck of dust that crowded her head too often these days.

“Here?” He asked, circling the small bundle gently, her head dropping to his shoulder with a knee weakened neediness. She drew a sharp breath, the bliss wiped from her face and met with a hot ecstasy, raw and soul sucking as he continued to kiss her cheek where her face buried into his neck more.

“There,” She moaned again, her fingers pulling harder at his hair, clawing at his back like an animal begging for mercy, “Fuck, Steven,”

It was muffled into his jacket, and yet the sound of his name said like that only had him pulling her closer, practically keeping her standing as her legs went to jelly, and he rubbed over her nerves faster, her arms shaking as she yanked at his clothes, his hair, anything she could hold onto.

“I love you so much,” He confessed into her hair; he just needed to say it again. If this, all of this, even without what they were doing, even if it meant he could hold her in his arms tight enough to hear her hummingbird heart against his for the rest of existence, he would die happy.

“I love you-I love you so much,” She returned in a needy whine that made him growl and move his fingers all the more faster. He pressed into her more, his cock raging against his seams to be inside her, to have her as much as she’d asked for, her body pressing harshly against the wooden post behind her as his legs straddled her thigh that shook weakly.

He was everywhere. His voice was in her ear, his chest was in her face, his scent was in her nose, his fingers were inside her, his hand tugged her even closer where it spread widely across her spine.

She felt it pooling in her stomach before she could put a name to it, her squeals and pants getting lost in his neck as he moaned with her, and she realised his own sex was pressing angrily against her, a problem that only made her cry out more, grab at him harder.

“Steven-I’m gonna-” She gasped, pressing her forehead to his jaw, “I’m gonna-”

If Steven wanted to say something, it seemed lost to his glazed eyes that watched her like a man on death row, took note of every facial feature as if he’d ever be able to forget how she looked when she came.

She felt the heat in her stomach fizzing up, felt the whole of her pelvis knotting together, her legs jittering as they fought to hold her up, Steven’s body taking the brunt of it as she all but fell into him, dragging his lips onto hers in a harsh, toothy kiss, her moans spilling onto his tongue, his fingers never halting or slowing in their circles.

“Fuck-” She cursed, the last of her pleasure seizing her body, ebbing and flowing away from her until the touch on her clit became too much and she grabbed his wrist desperately and pulled him away, “Steven,”

Fearing he had done it incorrectly, he pulled away as if burned, his free hand immediately freeing her waist to cup her cheek, eyes searching her face for signs of disappointment.

“Was that not it? Was that not right?” He whispered, face heating in regret, only to be met with a breathless smirk before she pulled him back towards her with a quick yank of his sweater.

She kissed him much sweeter this time, a worn out giggle weaving in between their lips, pulling away with dazed eyes that stared at him as if he’d handed her the entire universe in one go.

“That was perfect, Steven,” She said, pecking him again when he seemed unconvinced, “I’ve never been so happy as I am right now, here with you,”

“Neither have I,” He said, his gaze entirely dopey with love as he watched her breaths even out, lips twitching into a sweet smile as she stared back at him.

He wasn’t lying. He’d give her anything if she asked for it.

She seemed to snap out of their honey glazed daze, fingers fiddling with the somewhat softening pull at his trousers, her nail that had surprisingly not been mauled by her stress for a week or so, trailing over where his sensitive tip pressed at his leg, the sensation drawing in a breath from his chest once more.

“Wait,” He started, holding her wrist gently, pulling her hand up to his mouth where he gave her palm a gently kiss, “I want to just be here with you, we don’t have to do that,”

She smiled, though her eyes seemed incredulous that he would deny such an offer. She couldn’t say she was entirely surprised however, Steven had this way of proving her wrong about everything she worried he would be, had this way of making her feel ridiculous for ever expecting anything but softness from him.

“Don’t you want a turn?” She asked quietly, his nose brushing against hers gently as he shook his head, “I just want to make you happy,”

He pulled away then at those words, smiling at her disbelievingly, “If you think that didn’t make me happy, then you’re a very, very silly girl who needs convincing, I guess,”

Without giving her much room to reply, he grabbed her in for another searing kiss, before pressing small pecks all over her mouth sweetly.

“Don’t worry,” He said with a smirk and a mischievous twinkle in his otherwise soft brown eyes, “I’m more than happy to convince you over and over and over again once we get home,”

Her cheeks ached from the smile that grew at the thought of home, home for the two of them.

There was no place like home.

Taglists:

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST

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[tommygrace]

I saw some comments from Lizzie's fans , who say they love that relationship and they are beautiful together, because they are both so messed up. And I also read that they love it because their story is so dark and toxic and that is very realistic.

Now I'm starting to understand more how they see their story as true love and how they say the story with Grace is fantasy, and he never really loved her, and he always love Lizzie.

For them, when there is suffering in a relationship it is love, the worse Tommy treats Lizzie, it is equivalent to the love he feels for her, that's why they say that if he cheats on her with women, it means he loves her deeply. And there is not one scene where they show love for each other or are happy to be together, and her fans love that, because it confirms for them that this is true love, and he loves her completely.

And that's why they hate Grace so much, and her fans, because we consistently talk about the true love between Tommy and Grace, and it would be like denying them that the relationship between Tommy and Lizzie is one of love.

That's also why there is so much war, because each team, we have different ways of looking at a true love relationship.

It also makes you think about Lizzie's character , she has the same idea as her fans, of what a loving relationship would be like, she really thinks that Tommy is completely in love with her, and that accepting him cheating on her and telling him that he can do it but outside the house, for her that's strong and badass, and she thinks she is in control, which is the opposite. Tommy made her believe that it is okay for him to be with other women but not her with other men, because she belongs to him, she is his property, and he manipulates her to make her believe that this is a positive thing.

But it is also because Lizzie never received love, she does not know how to be truly loved, with affection, they never respected her, she thought that when she married Tommy, they would begin to respect her, and it never happened, not even the Shelbys nor Tommy respected her, much less upper class people like the Mosleys.

But Tommy, he knows what it is like to love him in a healthy way, with affection and love, and that you are the priority for that person and that person wants the best for you, and is happy to be with you, and he also knows how to love in a healthy way, he lived it with the relationship with Grace. So he knows that the relationship with Lizzie is completely wrong, it should never have happened , that's why he says he regrets marrying her.

In S5, he knew about the darkness of their relationship, he knew about there was no love and he knew he was using her and manipulating her but he didn't care because he was in a completely dark place , depressed, he wanted to die , he was trying to put himself in situations where he was risking and a lot, getting killed. At the time he couldn't see the damage, he was doing to Lizzie.

But by the end of S6, he was somewhere else in his mind, and he could see more clearly and that's when he realized this is wrong, she doesn't deserve this, there's nothing tying them together anymore, I'm going to let her go. They freed themselves from the toxic, because they were both willing to heal, and for that, they have to free themselves, with each other, because together, they will always bring out the worst in each other.

I think Tommy married Lizzie because he thought that's what he deserved because he hated himself.

Their relationship makes you think about how therapy is very important and it is fundamental to love yourself in order not to fall into this type of relationship.

[atla-confessions]

Katara is shown to be very willing to stand up for herself if she feels anyone has slighted her, including Aang. If it comes down to a decision between her feelings or Aang's feelings, she often dismisses his (like when he runs off at the beginning of book one, shes hurt he left and doesnt see his concerns on his failure or the need to fix it as valid, or TSR where she is hurting and since Aang disagrees with her point of view on how to handle it, she dismisses his own pain). M

Thank you anon for sharing and after reading through your ask I lowkey agree with a lot of it. I like kataang but only in a passing way I’ve never scrutinized it and admittedly it has been a while since I last watched the show. But you are so right on your reading on Katara she is headstrong and stubborn and she won’t take anything lying down even her friends opinions on her. I’ve always categorized her as selfishly selfless she is going to do what she thinks is right and she’s not going to hear any objections about it most notably shown in the prison break and painted lady episodes and don’t get me wrong these are good qualities! She freed those people even if they themselves had given up on their freedom it’s a nice counterbalance to Aang who is sometimes to cautious about what other people want to meddle. But your right in that this can often lead her to disregard Other peoples opinions

Katara gets a lot of unwarranted hate and I think that has led a lot of us as her fans to paper over a Lot Of her flaws for the sake of defending her character. But katara is flawed she has a lot of the same flaws as Zuko their temperament being the biggest one of these and I think that’s great especially back then we didn’t get female characters that were not “tomboy” coded that could express their anger their dissatisfaction with how they were being treated and so Katara was great and unique but she’s also not Perfect and I think we tend to forget that.

So much negativity towards Aang and Zuko on why they aren’t good enough for her or xxxx reasons why they are abusive and violent and katara is this saint that is a doormat and needs to learn how to stand up for herself from one of these two men and that is such an ungodly characterization of her and it’s reality interesting how this characterization has muddled the waters of who people remember katara truly is.

X

[marxism-transgenderism]

Working in customer service has really made clear how many women—nearly always white and rich—take their frustrations at misogyny out on those below them. I frequently talk to women who handle all of their husbands finances and records. The kind of women who get calls from their husbands to ask what their own social is because they don't have it written down.

But the thing is even though they handle their husbands affairs, they still frequently have to bow to the image of the husband as the head of the household. So they're made the secondary owner on bank accounts, loans, mortgages. The husband's name is used on titles and log ins. Which means they have to get their husbands permission to access their funds or even get logged in to their online accounts. Which is unfair. Deeply unfair. But the people they always yell at for these things is never their husbands for keeping them off of these easily fixable things, they yell at the service workers who she interacts with going about her day. The call center worker who tells her she can't access that account as her name isn't on it, the barista who takes her order before she drags her reluctant child husband to the bank or BMV, the receptionist who tells her she has to talk to her husband first before they can get that information.

They'll start yelling about how this is archaic and misogynistic, which it is, but refuse to accept that the only reason it is set up like this is because her and her husband set it up that way. Modern legal protections have freed her from that outright form of institutional misogyny, but they have not freed her from the institutional enforcement by her husband and by tradition, and accepting that it is your own husband you love that is responsible for your restricted access in that moment rather than some nebulous council of misogynists is a lot harder to accept. So they express their newly found feminist conscience by yelling at the low level workers she has power over in those moments.

But here's where we get to the real meat of my point here. Which is that I, understanding their frustrations woman to woman, will frequently guide them through how to change these things. How to put their names as the primary on their accounts and loans, how to make their own log ins to access their government and financial records, how to make sure their assets stay in their names.

And some of them listen, thank me, and go about their days. But I've found that in the majority of cases, after I explain that her accounts and documents are set up this way due to her own signature and that it can be changed rather simply with one or two more signatures, many of these privileged women don't even listen to me. They instead continue insulting me personally as if I am the cause of their problems. Saying I'm useless, misogynistic, unhelpful. They continue acting as if banks and governments still automatically make the husband the primary on everything and use that to justify berating me. And I had a woman the other day, after I explained this to her, let it slip that "oh my husband would never agree to that."

And that's the thing isn't it. I have shown them the exact solutions to their problems, but those solutions would require them to take action against someone above them instead of doing what they're used to doing: punching down. To no longer just be Facebook feminists railing against an abstract idea of patriarchy which their wealth and whiteness vastly insulates them from, but instead to directly confront the men in their lives about the unjust control they have over her. To tell her husband to either do more of the finances and record keeping or to remove himself as the primary. Or further, if he refuses, divorcing him. That's a lot harder to do than yelling at a service worker.

So they continue acting as if there's nothing they can do and talk about themselves as victims. But not as a victim of family tradition and those she's closest to. Instead she treats herself like a victim of all the random nobodies she knows she can scream and curse at and face no consequences to avoid doing the work to actually change her situation.

And it is those women who make my life as a woman who has to work 8-5 everyday hell on earth.

[lisannastraussisanangel]

I’d love to see any Laxus + the thunder legion headcannons, especially for ever and bickslow i feel like they’re such underrated characters and deserved way more screen time and actual backstories

I've got you! I could talk about them for days!!

Evergreen is so spoiled. Being the only girl in a group of men means you get treated like a queen (especially when having lady problems)

Freed, in particular, cannot handle listening to her whine about cramps and will do anything to 'appease the beast' (his exact words)

The team has a running gag about not liking Bickslow. Obviously they love him, but if they can make a joke about him being the worst they are gonna

Other members of the guild were stressed when they watched them roast Bix for the first time

Bickslow plays along too and his main goal is to be as annoying as possible. If Freed doesn't rub his temples in frustration, then Bickslow's failed

The entire team has one braincell. Laxus and Bickslow have never even touched it. Freed and Evergreen are the only users

They all live together! Evergreen lived on her on as a teen but joined the boys when the guild disbanded

They have movie nights. It's once a week and rotates who picks the movies. None of them like the same movies but they all agree Bickslow's taste in movies is awful

Bickslow knows this and picks god awful movies on purpose

If Evergreen is in a bad mood, they are all in a bad mood. Doesn't matter what the reason is

Evergreen is the biggest bully (playful) in the team. No one is safe, but she tends to go after Laxus the most nowadays (he's just so easy to make blush)

Evergreen is their 'lady expert'. Any issues with a woman gets run by her whether she likes it or not

She also beat all sexism out of them pretty early into joining the team

[rexxdjarin]

Dropping something that's been stuck in my brain:

"she looks cute like this, doesn't she?"

"she looks cuter when you squeeze her neck and get her to beg"

I don't trust any other writer than you to handle this kink properly and with dignity. FEEL FREE TO IGNORE or gobble up this idea. Love ya!

hehehehehhe ok so I’ve been in my pedro & tem feels lately so 👀

18+ MINORS DNI

tw: threeway, bdsm/bondage themes, dominance play discussed and brat taming referenced

How in the name of every star system in the galaxy did you find yourself in this position?

Your boyfriend sitting five feet from you, hard as he’s been in ages and sitting impatiently on his throne.

His closest…I guess he would consider him his friend, standing in front of you just as hard as Boba and moving around you to admire his handiwork.

And you, bound up with intricate and delicate knots secured by a master bounty hunter and presented before the Daimyo for a thoroughly satisfying and well planned night of reward for all three of you.

Your hands were bound together over the side of a soft cushioned chair of sorts, completely immovable other than to hold yourself up by your elbows when you needed to. Your ankles were bound, but with enough rope to keep your thighs apart the way they needed to get a look at you from any angle they wanted.

The lingerie you wore looped and knotted into your bindings on both your hands and ankles and you were sure it wouldn’t stay on long with how Boba’s dark seductive gaze was eyeing you. His Mandalorian friend’s leather glove smoothed over the arch of your back and admired the way you trembled in excited anticipation.

“She looks cute like this, doesn’t she?” His baritone voice rasped from through his large silver helmet’s modulator. Though he looked intimidating, you knew from experience he was much more tender, gentle and encouraging than your partner was. Whether that was out of respect for Boba or just his actual preference you didn’t know. But you knew Din was always the softer of your two partners in these situations.

Before anyone else spoke, Boba’s weighted boots hitting the floor echoed against the cavernous sand stone of the throne room. Din’s hand gently caressing the dip of the small of your back retreated as Boba stepped up in front of you. His own gloved hands pinched your chin to tip your face up to him, the bat of your lashes over your seemingly innocent gaze making Boba do that soft, devilish smirk of amusement you’d come to adore so much.

“Mmm she does.” He reached down, testing the strength of the knots on your wrists and nodding his approval of them. “She looks even cuter when you squeeze her neck and get her to beg for you.” Boba rasped, his gloved hands sliding slowly up your arms, over your shoulders and around your neck gently to apply the slightest hint of pressure.

You could feel your pulse racing, thumping harder and harder under his fingertips as his hungry, seductive stare never broke yours. Your full chest rose and fell, your breasts aching to be touched and freed from the cloth they hid behind to find the warmth of his calloused palms.

“That so?” Din’s vocoder rang out, almost ominously, as his hand on your back returned to start unlacing the ties on your lingerie to free you like he knew you wanted.

“Show him, Princess…how pretty you are when you’re begging for it.” Boba chuckled, the subtle pressure of his fingertips on your pulse releasing as he stepped back to watch you and let Din take his place.

Din’s hand smoothed up your back to curl his leather glove covered fingertips around your neck. His touch was more practiced than you’d expected and Boba’s brow arched as he urged you to go with it. You could practically hear his voice in your head. Princess, you know Din is as dangerous as I am.

Which of course was why you liked both of them. They were powerful, dominant and commanding and yet they weren’t threatened by you at all. They were the only men who had ever treated you as equal to them and the only men you ever felt safe being this vulnerable with. You’d all talked about boundaries and safe words and Din didn’t even mind at all that you’d always turned back to Boba for the love and comfort of aftercare immediately following every session you’d ever done.

But before now, Din had never tried being in charge and you were surprised Boba was even allowing this since he was usually possessive of you when it came down to it. Today he seemed like he was being especially generous and intrigued by the opportunity to show off the bratty side of you and didn’t seem to hate the idea of calling the shots either.

Din’s deep baritone muttered in your ear, “cmon, sweet girl. I want to hear that pretty voice beg for my cock.” You swallowed thickly, the dirty words igniting fire in your lower belly exactly the way it did for Boba. His grip on your pulse point tightened just enough to make your heart jump in your chest to catch up. Blood was roaring in your ears as you felt Boba’s hands sliding along the ropes lining the insides of your thighs.

You whimpered quietly, Din’s careful grip on your throat preventing any actual words from forming. His other hand shifted to your shoulder to snap the strap of your lingerie clean off you. His hand curled around the plush of your breast and pulled at the hardness of your nipple to make you squirm for more of his touch.

“Princess…you’ll get nothing if you don’t speak up.” Boba urged, his thumb hooking into your panties to slide them out of the way. His heated breath into your cunt made you audibly groan and Din chuckled in your ear.

“Maybe she just wants to listen to you.” Din pulled at the other strap, releasing the front of you completely to the cold air of the room.

“Maybe she’s used to a firmer hand, Mando.” Boba quipped almost in annoyance, never one to deny himself a chance to prove he’s the best in the room. “Isn’t that right, little brat?”

You giggled, opening your mouth to answer only to find that Boba’s tongue had licked a long stripe through your slit. You let out a high pitched moan, quieting as he pulled away quickly. “I’ll do whatever you…ask. Just please touch me. Please.”

Din’s helmet erupted with a pleased laugh, “there she is. You’re right, Fett. She’s very pretty begging..”

“Now since she offered so nicely, she’ll finally get her reward.” Boba’s voice almost threatened, his hands pulling your thighs apart to make room for him. The two men loosened the knots enough to prop you up on your hands and knees before them. And that’s how you spent the rest of the night between the two of them. Listening to both of their orders and learning that as long as you obey whoever’s in charge, you’ll all have some of the reward you needed.

[pandasan-power]

Zeke is my favourite fictional character. He's just so... fascinating. He's initially presented as weird and mysterious but he turns out to be a giant dork and a huge loser with the most severe daddy issues I've ever seen.

I love him so much. Here's a very long ramble that's kinda sorta a character analysis (it's bad though).

He gives off Reddit mod energy (then again, Eren has Discord mod energy (disclaimer: I love Eren too)), has the sense of humour of a 12 year old, hangs around people who are quite a bit younger than him (granted, his only other option is creepy old military men), has smoked since he was probably like 15 and spends his life "pretending" to be stupid.

And yet he genuinely cares about other people in his own way. He really did just want to make it so that Eldians didn't have to suffer. He assumed that because he had a shit life and was treated terribly (as were his parents), everyone else was in the same boat. It never occured to him that other Eldians were happy, because, like, why would they be?

He's willing to go to the ends of the earth and beyond to fulfill his mission, which he's held on to since he was a teenager. Even though Ksaver did plant the seeds for Zeke, Zeke came up with his plan himself. Ksaver never mentioned anything about reproduction, just that the Founder could be used to alter Eldian biology.

He's devasted when Eren goes "lol jk bro" and betrays him, because he finally found someone he thought he could trust (his first mistake was trusting Eren of all people). He couldn't understand why Eren went against his plan, or what Eren was even trying to accomplish in the first place.

Also, I think it's worth mentioning that Zeke's euthanasia plan undermines everything Ymir Fritz went through. She suffered severely, but I like to imagine that she really did love her daughters to the best of her ability. Zeke saying that Eldians would be better off not existing in the first place and that he's going to get rid of them is telling Ymir Fritz that all her suffering was for absolutely fucking nothing. Whereas Eren wants Eldians to live on, because that way, Ymir can be freed, and she can see that there is beauty in the world (which she did via Mikasa, as badly explained as it was lol).

Zeke never saw that beauty. He was brainwashed and abused and taken advantage of his entire life. By his parents, by Marley (yes, even Ksaver), and, later, by Eren. To him, there was nothing redeeming about the world.

Hence his final line where he talks about what a lovely day it is and how nice/clear the sky is, but that it ultimately is too late to realise that (? I haven't read the chapter in a while, I don't remember the exact wording). That's him acknowledging that he was wrong about the world lacking beauty.

Yes, Ksaver did care for him and did love him, but he did also use Zeke for his own gain. He was projecting his son onto Zeke, as he said so himself in canon, and he was also hoping that Zeke could accomplish what he (Ksaver) wasn't able to. Zeke may not have been as determined to save the Eldians (in his own way) if he hadn't spent time with Ksaver.

Zeke and Eren are fascinating to me, because Eren threw away his humanity in order to save the world/his loved ones, yet was very upset that he had to do so (given his paths convo with Armin), yet Zeke... was stripped of most of his humanity before he had a chance to even embrace it. My personal interpretation is that he never realised he was lacking humanity (which is something Levi kept trying to point out, especially in the forest with reminding Zeke about his Rakago crime) because death and killing were so normalised to him (and to him, his enemies weren't human because they were mostly Eldians and he, as an Eldian, wasn't considered human -- or at least he may have used that as a justification for his actions), and it wasn't until the very end that it hit him.

Lastly, part of why I love the dynamic between Zeke and Levi is that they're two sides of the same coin. They're both admired and feared by people (for different reasons), are traumatised in every possible way, and are similar yet also very different.

When they're interacting, neither of them give a shit about the other's status or powers or whatever. They fight like equals on par with each other and don't hold back. Warchief Zeke? Captain Levi? Nope. They're just Zeke and Levi to each other. (And they'd be friends if they were on the same side, maybe.)

ANYWAY Zeke Yeager is a great character and I love my monkeyman so much. He had such good character development and his backstory is really well done. The "I love you, Zeke" paths scene is my favourite since in all of SnK just for how much that means for both Grisha and Zeke.