#to the extent that he as a king shouldn’t be

[hikaruchen]

I believe the king of Wessex cares for you.

[fushic0re]

─ 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑

𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒, 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋

𝗡𝗔𝗠𝗢𝗥 𝘅 𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗔!𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — a prophecy has tied you to the feathered serpent god before you had even existed. now, it’s time to come home.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — 18+ ONLY; MINORS DNI. possessive behavior. near death experience. smut; penetrative sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie (lots of cum bc i'm disgusting), breeding kink.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — this has to be the most excited i've been for a fic in a long time 🥹 i had a blast including a little bit of my culture's superstitions and lore. my sincerest apologies for any inaccurate yucatec maya translations, i used a translator website. the song the reader sings is "daughter of the sea" by sharm. i hope you all enjoy! ♡

𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 —

⁀➷ “anak” - child.

⁀➷ “po” - a respectful term with no direct translation used when talking to someone of higher rank than you such as elders or your boss.

⁀➷ “mag ingat ka” - “be careful.”

⁀➷ “ka’a suku’un u?” - “cousin?”

⁀➷ “ko’oten tin wéetel in kaxtik ti’ le ajawo.” - "come with me to find the king."

⁀➷ "in yakunaj" - "my love"

⁀➷ "in k'áaté" - my one and only.

⁀➷ "le ba'alo' leti'e" - that is her.

⁀➷ "bienvenido tin wotoch ti', in reina." - "welcome my queen."

꒰ ͜͡➸ 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆! 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒❜ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 & 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑! ♡

FOR AS LONG AS YOU COULD REMEMBER, the ocean was your safe haven.

While others strayed from its depths for fear of the unknown, of the creatures that could be lurking down there, you had always been curious to know. There had always been an itch that couldn’t quite be scratched when it came to your love for the water. You frequented your local beach nearly every day, wandering aimlessly until you grew tired. Unlike others your age, your life was one of solitude. To an extent, you were content with it, for the ocean was your companion. It never judged you and always welcomed you. It listened when you spoke, carrying your worries far from you never to be seen again.

Nowadays, to your heart’s discontent, the ocean was not enough.

You were lonely. Truly lonely and feeling what it was like to be so for the very first time in your life. There were nights you stared into the abyss; eyes watery as you wished to drown in it. To be embraced by the one thing that was consistent in your life. Would you feel less alone then?

─

From the deepest point of the very sea you gazed into, the heart of a God grew heavy. K’uk’ulkan loved his people, adored them with every fiber of his body. Each and every one of the faces of those he ruled, dead and alive, were imprinted in his soul permanently. Every step he took was taken with them in mind. He prided himself for being a good leader, for doing everything and anything possible to keep his nation safe. After the events leading up to the alliance with the Wakandans, however, he did not know if that pride was deserved. He had made mistakes; misplaced his trust and allowed two of his own to die right in their very home. Namora, as loyal as she was, began to question his decisions. He was alone in bearing this burden with no one to rest his head on at night from the heaviness of the day.

What pained him the most? He knew he shouldn’t be alone.

He recalled the day he and his mother had been read the prophecy when he was a child clearly. The emotions he felt upon hearing those words spoken into existence were still fresh. There was someone for him. Just for him, and him alone.

“For His fealty, the First Son of Talokan shall be given a gift from the Gods; a descendant from the Heavens, a child of Bulan with the voice of an enchantress. For as long as He shall live, She shall rule the seas by His side.”

Years passed. Those years slowly faded into decades. After the passing of his beloved mother, it became difficult differentiating when those decades turned into centuries. Still, there were no signs of his soulmate. His people knew of the prophecy. K’uk’ulkan was all too aware of the anticipation his children felt as they eagerly awaited the arrival of their queen. Yet, she never came.

He grew angry at the so called Gods for turning on their promise – at her. Where was she? he’d hiss. My people, our people, have come dangerously close to being discovered. I have nearly died defending them all alone. My wings have been ripped from my flesh. Why isn’t she here? The prophecy meant nothing to him anymore. Just as he was naïve when he entrusted Princess Shuri with seeing his home, he was blindly foolish for believing in a fairytale.

Namor was without love in more ways than one.

─

You didn’t remember falling asleep. There was no explanation as to how you ended up perilously close to the edge of the water, the violent thrash of waves serving as a warning to you. Still, you remained completely still as fear immobilized you. You racked your brain for any recollections of your previous actions. Nothing came up. You couldn’t remember anything after you came home from the market.

Nothing, that is, aside from a single voice.

It cooed to you, whispered your name like it had waited a thousand millennia to taste it upon its tongue. Sang to you like you were its favorite person in the entire universe.

Come to me.

Come home.

In yakunaj.

In k’áate’.

Come home.

Taking a moment to steady your breathing, you slowly stepped away from the ledge before rushing back home. As you tucked yourself into bed that night, you tried your best to bury what had just transpired. You sought out every possibility – rational and irrational – that could have resulted in your odd behavior. You always went to the beach, maybe you just wandered there after dinner out of habit. Perhaps something went wrong with the batch of your usual tea and an ingredient that causes cognitive dysfunction was accidentally added to it. Maybe tomorrow morning you will wake up to a news report about your batch being recalled from all stores.

The explanation you vied for never came.

As time persisted, so did the bouts of blacking out, regaining consciousness, and finding yourself near the ocean. Each time, you got closer and closer to its waters. Every day after the next, you would feel the fatigue in your muscles from all of the walking. And yet, it did not stop you. You always found your way back to the ocean. It didn’t matter if you walked into ongoing traffic or if a concerned neighbor physically restrained you, the pull was stronger. Shamefully, you began to avoid leaving your home altogether. You couldn’t bear to face the condemnatory looks you were bound to receive. Whatever those in your area thought of you, you didn’t want to know. You were afraid enough of what you were becoming.

When you wake up from the next spell, you were waist deep in the ocean. Shivering as your thin nightgown stuck to your skin. Wrapping your arms around your torso, you salvaged any and all body heat. The gravity of your circumstances hit you all at once. Biting your lip, you held back your tears as your turned around and began making your way out of the water hastily. Just as your bare feet touched the white sand, you caught the eyes of the elderly woman who lived closed by. The two of you had never spoken, but her presence as a resident was always acknowledged.

“Sorry, po,” You spoke sheepishly, a polite and apologetic smile on your face.

Her expression was grave as she stared at you wordlessly. Silence stretched between the both of you and just as you were about to walk away, she harshly spat one single word.

“Magindara.”

Before you could seek clarification, she was back inside her small hut, the door slamming behind her acrimoniously. The only proof that the interaction with her was even real was the residual sting of her hostility and rage. Her persecution was the straw to break the camel’s back. Unable to maintain your resolve any longer, you fell to your knees and began to you’re your hands clutching at your chest in hopes to alleviate the pain. Humiliation, terror, anxiousness, and frustration were just a few of the emotions you were feeling. Even then, they were just the tip of the iceberg. As you cried to yourself, sand sticking to your wet limbs uncomfortably, you longed for nothing but someone to wrap you up in their arms – for someone to tell you that for once, everything would be okay. Just this once, you craved a life outside of isolation.

Once your breathing evened out, you stood up and leisurely began to talk along the shore. Soothing yourself in the only way you knew how, you began to softly sing.

“Beware, beware the Daughter of the Sea. ‘Beware’ I heard him cry. His words carried upon the ocean breeze, as he sank beneath the tide.”

Namora watched acutely as the quill in her king’s hands abruptly dropped to the floor. The warrior waited for the moment he would pick it up off of the ground and continue with his painting, but it never came.

“K’uk’ulkan?”

She received no response. His eyes held an indecipherable expression, one far away from the present.

“Ka’a suku’un u?” Namora repeated, her tone now carrying concern.

The King of Talokan turned to her for a split second before he stormed out of the room with speed she had never witnessed from him before. Namora was hot on his feathered heels, but the second she dived into the water, her cousin was nowhere to be seen.

“Attuma!” She bellowed. “Ko’oten tin wéetel in kaxtik ti’ le ajawo.”

K’uk’ulkan was stunned when he first heard it – the most beautiful sound to grace his ears. He was livid with himself for being unable to find a better word to describe the voice, for “beautiful” was such an understatement that it was borderline insulting. Without hesitation, he followed it. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know where it was coming from or who it even belonged to, he needed to find it. It called to him, turned him into a man possessed as he soared through the waters restlessly to get to it.

His head broke the surface, and that’s when he saw its owner – her. His soulmate.

She was the most exquisite living being he had ever laid his eyes upon. A gift from the heavens she was. Her beauty made him dizzy, his knees growing weak as he took in his beloved’s features. He admired her as she outstretched her arms, cupping the moon in her delicate palms. It paled in comparison to her. Everything did. Nothing could possibly compare. He remained paralyzed as she continued to sing, a foreign feeling settling in his stomach.

“Why this? Why this, oh Daughter of the Sea? Why this? Why did you forget your seaside days? Always the pride of our nation’s eyes, how could she go astray?”

The words of her melody pierced his heart. They reflected their journey far too accurately to be a coincidence. Did she know that she had always been destined for him? To be loved by the entire nation of Talokan? His lids fell shut slowly as he basked in her harmonies, feeling tranquil at last.

“I heard, I heard, across the moonlit seas, the old voice warning me. Beware, beware, the Daughter of the Sea. Beware, beware…of me.”

Namor studied her face as her song ended. He noted her red rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. Her damp nightgown stuck to her body tantalizingly. The despair in her hypnotizing voice was palpable. All of the wrath and resentment he had once harbored dissipated. Oh, my love. I have longed for you too. He could do nothing as he watched you turn your back to him from above, only pray for another encounter. He rose entirely from the sea, the wings on his ankles fluttering in the air as he watched her in the sky until she was safe in her abode. A quiet splash could be heard from under him. Attuma and Namora stared up at him expectedly.

“Le ba’alo’ leti’e’.”

He nodded slowly, eyes burning holes in the spot where she once stood.

“A human?” Attuma questioned, his voice rigid.

Namor shook his head.

“’A child of Bulan with the voice of an enchantress’.” Namor quoted the prophecy directly. “Bulan was a deity the heavens sent to the ocean to protect the moon from sea monsters. She is a siren; they are descendants of Bulan.”

“What is she doing on the surface?” Namora chimed in.

The king frowned, his fists clenching at his sides as he longed to feel her touch.

“She is lost.”  

─

Returning to the beach after the unpleasant encounter with the elderly woman who lived on its grounds probably wasn’t the most sensible decision. In your defense, however, nothing in your life was sensible nowadays.

Magindara was what she called you. A whole day’s worth of research, hundreds of Google searches, and several life crises later, you found out what it meant – siren. A subspecies of mermaids that were known for being especially vicious. You wanted to badly to laugh it off, to chuck it up to her being a senile old woman, but that was not an option. To do so would be like ignoring statistics. The facts of your life were laid out clearly; there was a connection between you and the ocean. A connection so strong that it bewitched you – mind, body, and soul. There were no traceable origins you could use to refute the woman’s claims. Afterall, you had no family. There was nothing more to do than return to the very place that could give you answers.

Your eyes darted everywhere in search of the familiar head of silvery locks. Once identified, you ran to her.

“Excuse me, po?” You called desperately, your eyes begging her for something. Anything. “What…what am I?”

She stared at you with a severe expression on her aged features.

“The man from the sea with wings on his ankles. Mag ingat ka, anak. He’s coming for you.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“Could you expla—”

“Do not come back here.” She warned. “He will drag you down with him.”

With that being said, she entered her home and slammed the door in your face for the second time. Vexation filled you as you were met with another dead end. A man from the sea with wings on his ankles. What the hell was that alluding to? Did the elderly have to always speak in riddles? Were you in danger? Why was he after you?

You dragged your feet as you trudged home dejectedly. You were already exhausted, not sleeping a wink once you returned home after your stint last night. Sleep was unfathomable considering you were haunted by unanswered questions. Once you crossed the threshold of your bedroom, however, you could no longer ignore your body’s need for rest. Flopping down on your bed, you shut your eyes and instantaneously succumbed to a peaceful slumber.

That night was the last time you slept in your own bed.

The beach was eerily quiet, void of the usual sound of waves crashing against the shore. Seemingly, the ocean yielded to you, it’s queen, the second you stepped foot in its territory, entranced and guided by a single voice.

Come home. Come to me.

Your feet carried you to a cliff high above the sparkling midnight waters.

My love. My soulmate.

Home. You needed to come home. It was time. 

Come home.

Just a couple of more steps.

Come home.

This is your destiny. Fulfill it. Fulfill the prophecy.

Come home.

With that, you took one final step off the cliff and prepared yourself to plunder into the deep waters. Your feet were only in the air for a brief moment before a pair of strong arms caught you midair. Upon physical contact, you snapped from your trance with a sharp gasp, your heart pounding in your chest as you began to panic.

A deep, gentle voice lulled you. It was then that you finally registered who it belonged to. The being who had saved you was the epitome is beauty. Everything about him exuded regality from the air of confidence and ease he carried himself with, to the adornments on his muscular body. A large gold and jade neck plate took up the most space on his expansive chest. Ropes of auriferous shells and opalescent-like pearls hung around his neck. Gilded cuffs were locked around his biceps, wrists, and ankles. You quickly noted the alabaster wings fluttering away attached to them, the very wings responsible for suspending the both of you in the air. Your eyes trailed to his delicately pointed ears, embellished with jewels just like the rest of him. The only clothing he sported was a pair of emerald shorts that left nothing to the imagination. The walls of muscle that were his thighs were on full display, the muscles of a man built to withstand the brutality of the ocean.

This was the man the elderly woman was speaking about. The man from the sea with feathers on his ankles.

That revelation should have scared you. Every alarm in your body should have gone off.

Escaping him should have been the only thing occupying your mind. You should have kicked and screamed until your throat was raw and bloody.

But you did no such thing.

Instead, it was the way he looked at you, gazing at you with the most intense smolder in his eyes that occupied your attention. He gazed at you with pure wonder, and held you delicately yet fiercely in his arms like you were the most precious thing in the entire world. Instinctively, you placed your hands on his bare chest, mindlessly tracing the dew drops sticking to his golden skin. The beautiful man shivered beneath your touch.

“500 years I have waited for you.” He whispered reverently.

Your mouth opened, prepared for a response that never came. Instead, your vision went dark.

─

You woke up to hushed voices and heedful, diligent hands. One set of hands languidly brushed your hair away from your face. Another daintily shimmied clothing onto your body once they were finished drying you off with the velvetiest cloth to ever touch your skin. The last set secured what you assumed was jewelry onto your wrists, neck, and ears. Upon opening your eyes, your assumption was correct. The dress on your body was stunning, embroidered with hundreds of crystalline beads. The jewels on your wrists alone were probably worth more than what you had made in your entire life.

The women who stood above you were unlike you had ever seen before. Their skin was a brilliant shade of cerulean. Vibrant, yet pleasantly understated. Masks covered their mouths and noses, but you could still see the bright smiles behind them.

“Hello,” You greeted shyly. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Each of them let out a small cry, their eyes welling up with tears as they bowed earnestly.

“Bienvenido tin wotoch ti’, in reina.” They spoke warmly in unison, forming a gesture with their hands at you respectfully. Their mother tongue was foreign to you, but not for long. As if you had spoken it your entire life, your mind made quick work of interpreting it.

Welcome home, my queen.

Once again, you were puzzled. You had no idea where you were or who exactly that man was and why he had taken you here. You obviously hadn’t a single inkling as to what he meant by “500 years I have waited for you”. Now, these women were calling you their queen in a language you had never heard your entire life but somehow had the ability to understand perfectly.

The sound of feet pattering lightly gradually got closer and closer until the man of the hour stood before you at the foot of the bed. The women attending to you immediately turned their attention to him, bowing and forming the same hand gesture you had seen moments ago. He looked just as regal still, now adorned in a cape tucked into golden plates of armor on his shoulders. He regarded them gratefully.

“Leave us, my children. Thank you.”

They bowed to you both once more before swiftly making themselves haste. You now had his undivided attention.

“I hope you slept well. The healers said showed signs of exhaustion.”

“I—” You cleared your throat nervously. “I did, thank you.”

The barest hint of a smile graced his features. With graceful and controlled movements, he poured water into a glass and handed it to you.

“Do not be nervous.” He spoke lowly. “Speak freely.”

“Thank you.” You squeaked out again, taking a generous gulp of water before speaking again. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“My people call me K’uk’ulkan. To my enemies, I am Namor. You are in our kingdom – Talokan.”

The water got caught in your throat mid swallow, causing you to cough obnoxiously. The man who you now knew as K’uk’ulkan, discreetly smiled to himself as if this was a reaction he had anticipated. Before you could blurt out another string of questions, he held his hand out to you.

“Come. I will remedy all of your concerns.”

As if you had done so a million times, you placed your hand in his and stood by his side. Namor lead the both of you through a series of corridors. Your eyes took in your surroundings with pure astonishment. Cavern seemed to be a secluded corner for the king, crystal waters surrounding its premises. Bits of glittery minerals were embedded into the sediment walls. An air of serenity blanketed the entire area.

From the corner of his eye, Namor gaged your reactions, his heart so full of unfiltered adoration that it felt like it would explode in his chest. His hand was still tightly clutched in yours like it was second nature. Subconsciously, you had drawn your body closer to his. He was a meticulous man of control and strategy, but at that very moment, K’uk’ulkan wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms and kiss you breathlessly. The moment was cut short when you reached his study. He offered you a seat at his desk, drawing the door shut behind him for privacy. It didn’t take long for you to deduce that the murals painted on the walls were ones depicting the history of Talokan.

“Centuries ago, my people took an herb that allowed them to survive underwater. The herb was infused with vibranium. We are the only nation aside from Wakanda to possess it.” He began, his hands tracing over a painting of a beautiful woman cradling an infant. “My mother was pregnant with me when she ingested it. That is why I am the way I am – why I am the only one out of my people that can survive on both land and underwater, fly, and age slower than the rest. For this, they made me their king. Their god.”

You listened intently, fascinated by the discovery that they had remained a secret for this long.

“There was a prophecy made shortly after my birth. The gods promised me a soulmate.”

Turning around to face you, he bore his soul to yours through his eyes as he read the prophecy to you. With each word that fell from his lips, the world around you spun quicker and quicker. It made sense. It all made sense.

“I gave up on the idea of the prophecy coming true as time passed. In yakunaj, when you have lived as long as I have, seen as much as I have, happy endings are nothing but meaningless fallacies. But then, that night came…the night I heard you sing for the first time.”

He approached you slowly, cautiously like a wild animal that would take flight if startled by any sudden movements. What happened next made your eyes fill with tears; he knelt before you. This man – a king, a god – surrendered to you with no hesitation.

“I have finally found you…” He breathed, his orbs shining with devotion. “You are home. Why do you think you have no family? No one to trace your roots back to? You were made for me. Mine.”

Your face fell in between the palms of your hands as you wept. Quickly, your hands were replaced by his. He held your face in his hands like he was holding the entire world, the pads of his thumbs gently brushing away your tears.

“Why the tears, my love?”

You shook your head, placing your hands on top of his. The spark you felt every time the two of you touched could no longer be ignored.

“Why did they just now bring us together?” You cried. “We’ve both been alone for all this time, how could they not do something about it!”

“Shhh,” Namor cooed. “You think I have not been angry with them, my sweet? I have held myself back from tearing their skies and oceans apart just to find you. But what I feel for you right now in this very moment? That feeling will always win.”

The both of you said nothing more, for there was nothing that needed to be said. Your long lost love held you in his arms as you liberated yourself from what felt like decades of anguish. His grip never faltered even as you gripped his flesh hard enough to draw blood. Instead, he soothingly rocked you as he recounted the stories of his people’s origins. Talokan was a clandestine national treasure, one of the only things on the earth that had not been bastardized. That was all the doing of this wonderful being who had been promised to you.

“They were wrong about you. Your name.” You whispered. “You’re not without love, quite the opposite actually. The actions you have taken, the lengths you have gone to protect your people and your home, are ones of a man consumed with nothing but love. You can see it in how happy they are.”

With cautious hands, you caressed his cheeks. He preened against your touch, melting right into your palms. The world would never see the stoic warrior king falter, but already, you had him firmly wound around your finger. He could sit there for hours soaking in your ardor.

“Our home. Our people.” Namor corrected. “They can’t wait to meet you.”

Lovingly, he pressed his forehead to yours, nudging the tip of your nose with his.

“Are you ready to meet them?”

He observed endearingly as your eyes widened as large as flying saucers as you nodded overzealously, a giggle tumbling from your lips. K’uk’ulkan noted once more how full of love he felt. He wondered if this was what your lives together would consist of, overcome with all of the possibilities. Was adoring you more than he did in this moment even conceivable? When your smile faltered slightly, worry filled him.

“I’ve never seen…myself.”

“I am honored to be the first to see your true form.”

The two of you stood, walking hand in hand out of his personal study and to the outermost cove surrounded with the most water. Inhaling shakily, you eyed what awaited below you with apprehension. You were not human, far from it, and yet it felt as if you and your true form were worlds apart. Namor was silent. He knew this was something you needed to do alone. The only form of assurance offered to you was a look of encouragement.

Slowly, you dipped one foot into the water and allowed the other to follow. Keeping your eyes closed, you focused on your heart rate as your body adroitly descended into the abyss of the sea. You could have easily fallen asleep if it weren’t for a tingly sensation disrupting your peace. It started small, gradually winding around you until all at once, currents of electricity bolted through your limbs. Instinctively, your lungs expanded, and you took your first gulp of air underwater. You ripped your eyes open in bewilderment when you didn’t choke on water. The clear-cut view you had of your surroundings despite no sources of light being near further consolidated your shock. A noise akin to a squeak and gasp escaped your lips and before you knew it, you were cutting through the waters with newfound ease until your head broke the surface.

Namor would have given everything to his name to capture the sight before him. There you were, beaming at him with unrivaled radiance. He stopped breathing when you lifted your tail out of the water. Just when he thought you could not be any more magnificent than you already were, you defied his expectations. The scales covering the muscle were a range of shades of lapis lazuli, emerald, and gold. Towards the tips of your forked fin, they all blended into a rich shade of dark indigo. Your torso was bare but hidden behind your locks as they cascaded over your breasts. Namor could have gawked at you for hours if it weren’t for you playfully flicking water at his face. He felt light and dream-like as your melodious laughter echoed through the cavern. He decided then and there that your laughter was his favorite song. The scowl permanently etched onto his face fell. In its place, a smile so wide it hurt spawned. For the first time in centuries, he laughed so hard his abdomen hurt.

Powerless to his desires, he dove into the water after you, finding shelter in your embrace once more. Intuitively, your tail curled around one of his legs. He submerged the two of you back into the water and before you knew it, his lips were pressed against yours. Skin to skin, naked chests were tightly pressed against each other, your arms locked around his neck as your mouths feverishly meshed against one another. A barely audible moan slipped from your mouth right into his as his tongue pushed passed your lips. Namor voiced his pleasure with a low rumble from his chest. Pathetically, you could cry again right then and there. How could you have gone without this your whole life?

A loud clearing of the throat caused you both to cease your ministrations. Namor was anything but sorry as he pulled away with the softest expression you had seen on his face thus far. He regarded the two individuals standing in front of you – a hulking man with long inky tresses and an ornate headpiece resembling the skull of a hammerhead shark and a fierce looking woman with a feathered lionfish-esque headdress. Though both clearly high up in the royal ranks with a cutthroat reputation to uphold, they studied you and Namor with mischief.

“K’uk’alkan, they are waiting for her.” The man spoke.

“You might want to put this on before you go.” Spoke the woman, pulling an opulent bra top from behind her back and extending it towards you.

The state of undress you were in hit you like a bus. Your face felt like it was on fire from embarrassment, your lover pressing a tender kiss to your heated cheek. Tactfully, he maneuvered you away from the eyes of the warrior you now knew was Attuma. The woman, his cousin and second in command named Namora, expertly laced you into the garment.

“That was so embarrassing,” You mumbled to yourself once your modesty was secured.

Namor cracked a hint of a smirk.

“Attuma and my cousin expected nothing less from us. Now, shall we?”

─

Talokan was a magnificent sight. The agriculture was impressive, the vibranium rich soil working wonders for the crops. Sea creatures from colossal sized sea turtles, lengthy luminescent jellyfish of different colors, lively fish, and enormous whales to start were one with the Talokanil, peacefully existing with one another. The treatment you received from everyone was something you would never get used to. Despite not knowing you, they acknowledged you as if they had known you their entire lives. K reina perdida they called you with earnest smiles and misty eyes. Our lost queen.

But you were no longer lost.

It was evident in the way the orcas sang with you as you glided through the waters, seemingly understanding you in a way no one else could. Namor’s soul was finally content after seeing you swim freely, laughing so hard your stomach hurt as a couple of toddlers crawled around on your tail. His people loved you. Just as he thought they would. And you fit right in just as you were meant to. With further exploration of your physiology, the two of you discovered that like Namor, you could survive both underwater and on the surface, donning a set of legs seamlessly upon contact with land. Your strength, speed, and agility matched up perfectly with his. For hours, he chased you through the ocean, the both of you weaving in and out between walls of coral and tall beds of seaweed with dexterity. You truly were made for him.

A week later, you were officially crowned their queen. You and Namor ended the celebration with an intimate wedding ceremony in the cavern. After years of going without each other, neither of you had the patience to wait for a union on a grander scale. You both were enough – you would always be enough. And as he laid your bare body across the bed he occupied by himself for half a millennium, he was confident in that conviction.

You felt dizzy as he pressed his hard bulge against your core. The most heavenly noise to grace your ears came out of your now husband when you raised your hips to grind against it. Your hands liberally roamed his chest, now stripped of his jewels, before slithering to his robust back. Your nails drew tiny half moons as they dug into his flesh when his lips made their way to the column of your neck. The decorum of countenance he upheld was nowhere to be found as he ravaged your breasts with his mouth, lightly tugging your erect nipple between his teeth before he began to suckle. You cried out pathetically. His lips twitched, umber orbs now staring up at you with lust.

“You are so noisy for me,” He purred. “I have not even touched the most sensitive parts of your body yet.”

“Please,” You breathed. “Please, I need you,”

Namor made his way down your body, leaving no part of you untouched by his lips. Deftly, he gripped your thighs and place both of your legs over his shoulders. Gently, he kissed your dripping core.

“You have me, my love. Always.” 

His mouth took you straight to heaven. He devoured you like a man starved, tongue flicking your nub of nerves tirelessly with precision. Your thighs were already trembling, but he had just gotten started. Your orgasm crept up on you, the strongest one you had ever experienced. It left you heaving with your back arched off of the bed, unable to do anything besides chant his name like a mantra. But your beloved’s ministrations did not cease. He continued working at your core, now swollen and glistening from your juices and his spit. The second orgasm built up slowly, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter with each time he sucked your clit. The final straw was when you noticed his hips gyrating. He was pleasuring himself while pleasuring you. This time when you came on your lover’s tongue, no words or sounds were able to slip passed your mouth. You were quite literally speechless.

With a satisfied moan, he lapped up the rest of your arousal, cooing to you as you quivered and whimpered from hypersensitivity. His scorching body covered yours once more, his lips familiarizing themselves with yours. Namor held you tightly against him, whispering sweet nothings against your lips as you steadied your breathing. It wasn’t long before you felt the head of his cock prodding your entrance. Gripping your face firmly, he forced your eyes open. The frenzied look in his eyes as he languidly sunk into you alone could have made you come for the third time that night. But alas, the universe was on your side. Instead, you savored that moment – the feeling of him. Every inch, every vein, ingrained into your memories for as long as you shall live.

“You feel incredible.” Namor panted, now beginning to steadily thrust. “You truly were made for me.”

You could only respond with wanton cries, too consumed with desire. The king began to piston in and out of you until he was fully pounding you into your marital bed.

“Namor!”

He grunted into your ear, pulling out of you for a brief moment to flip you onto your stomach. He plunged back into you and picked up right where he left off. This time, however, he was brutal with the punctuality of his thrusts.

“Am I your enemy, wife?” He taunted. “Are you even worthy of any mercy I have to spare?”

At this point, you could not even recognize the sounds you were making. They were debauched. Depraved. Combined with rhythmic percussion of skin against skin and the squelch of your wet cunt each time Namor entered you, the song you two orchestrated was one only for the lecherous.

“K’uk’ulkan,” You barely managed to murmur. “I’m s-so close, you make me feel so good,”

He hummed satisfactorily, driving into you even faster.

“You are, aren’t you, my sweet? That’s it, sing for me. Take my seed. Carry my children.”

“Please!” You screamed as your walls convulsed around his cock. Please come in me,”

With a shout and one final thrust, he released in you. Rope after rope, he filled you with his cum with proclamations of everlasting love on the tip of his tongue. His cock remained nestled deep within you as you both descended from your highs, keeping his spent from spilling. He shuddered at the image of you round and radiant carrying his child and just like that, he was hardening inside you once more. As you lay there, thoroughly cock drunk, he began to pull out of you and slowly push back in. This time, he was tender and gentle, unhurriedly focused on taking you apart for one final time that night. The two of you had centuries left together. There was no need to rush. Then again, Namor could live another 500 years with you by his side and still feel like it was not enough. He needed you forever, and then some.

“I love you,” He whispered against the blade of your shoulder. “You are everything.”

The next morning you would wake to the sight of your husband painting a new mural. One of a beautiful woman with the upper body of a human, and the lower body of a fish. By her side, a man with ears that pointed to the skies and wings on his ankles, their eyes locked and hands intertwined.

The beginning of your story.

[doudouma]

“angel and demon, ying and yang”

muzan with his (non-violent) s/o demon male!reader who has a appearance and bda of an angel!

_______________________________________________

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

somebody who is a demon, but looks like an angel. someone else who is also a demon, but looks scarily sophisticated. what are the odds that they’re a couple?〜

light mentions of killing. other than that, there are no warnings, my dear lotus.

reader is male.❀ 〜

a/n : this is a oxymoron isn't it?

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

muzan, the demon king, and you, a ethereal angel, clearly has both different appearances and most likely different viewpoints.

however, that doesn’t stop your beloved from silently adoring you, nor from being intrigued by your angelic nature〜

certainly, muzan will think you’re absolutely perfect, how couldn’t you be? you’re a demon, but your a angel! isn’t that wonderful〜？

i mean cmon! you’re entirely stunning, everyone loves your aura, you move with such grace and command in your walk, and is highly intelligent and collected.

you’re so amazing to the point where even the demon king credits you! not only because you’re his partner, but because he knows your independence.

your lover would not address you as a demon, but rather an angel. to him, you are only an angel♡

“as demons, chaos and killing is in our nature. but as for you, my angel, you’re quite nurturing and calm.”

however… he wouldn't be too fond of your angelic mindset. he doesn’t want you to be calm when in times where you shouldn’t be!

meaning, if someone hurts you, instead of walking away or something, he’d much rather you… unalive them. but you won’t!

that gets him a bit upset.. why are you letting someone who disrespected you live?! but don’t worry, that’s when your lover takes over…

speaking of taking over, he’ll also take over any dirty work you have, either doing it himself or telling one of his pawns demons to do it.

by the way, the uppermoons and other demons (like rui, enmu etc) is very doting of you!

to the extent muzan will allow :

kokushibo enjoys your silent company. also the fact that he can lower his guard a bit, knowing there’s a gentle yet protective figure he can rely on♡

douma pretty much enjoys all of your presence. especially since no one else really wants to be around him. he’s quite clingy knowing you don’t mind, almost like a small child〜

akaza, of course, admires your strength. he also likes the fact that you’re not nearly as annoying as douma or muzan (yes, your own lover!).

hantengu is much, much too scared to approach you. but your calm aura allows himself to slowly stop crying, even just for a minute. for some reason, i feel like he would buy you beautiful ornaments, but would be too scared to give them too you.

gyokko would simply think that you’re a work of art. he would get immensely happy and all blushy (like he did with muzan) if you even compliment his pots! is that all he cares about?

gyutaro & daki would love that you don’t look down upon them like the other uppermoons do. one person having faith in you goes a long way! because of this, they would see you as a parental figure. secretly, they call you “father” behind your back. it gives them a sense of comfort〜

rui would love you twos’ bond! it’s very adorable and wholesome, and muzan is even fond of it. he most likely knows about his “favorite privileges” so he would love to bond with you any time he can.

i had to explain it individually, because all of the demons are truly different. but, my point is clear, right? in their own way, they all yearn for your comfort〜

the uppermoons find you and your lovers’ relationship cute, although they won’t admit this to at least not muzan.

muzan wouldn’t mind though, he wants everyone to know that his lover is a perfect angel.

as we all know, muzan is quite a stressed man. but you, are able to stay calm.

he sincerely appreciates you in his life, because you remind him to take breaks from his experiments, and to take care of himself. which he will anyways, he’s obsessed with vanity.

if you have any special abilities that very few demons have, then expect muzan to want to do just a few experiments.

but don’t worry! he always asks for consent and never does anything that could hurt you〜

if you have any physical angelic qualities (like wings, halo, crown, sword, etc) then muzan will like to just touch them. he doesn’t know why he does it. he will claim that he’s trying to “keep your perfection up”, but truthfully he just likes it.

“as the second most perfect being, you must look as angelic as you are. there is no excuse.”

now that i’m thinking about it… your lover might use you as a benchmark to the other demons. “why can’t you all be as strong as (m/n).” is probably what he once said to the lower moons.

but since they most likely wouldn’t know you, they’re all like “???”

like i said before, muzan definitely recognizes your independence, but he would be lowkey clingy.

always taking you along to meetings, spying on people/demons together, taking walks in forests, having you in his lab while he works, and even doing shopping for luxurious items.

him dragging you everywhere is also a way how he shows love. the fact that he wants you in his presence♡

in his own way, he thinks of you guys as a power couple!

your partner will be protective of you. you’re now one of the most important aspects of his life, and he couldn’t be anymore grateful for that.

he is reckless, but muzan didn’t tell one of his soft desires. it’s just him and you being able to sit in the sun, smiling and enjoying the company of each other, even if you’re not saying a word.

for now, that’ll lie dormant. his faith will never leave him, not as long as he has you♡

this did take a minute to get done, my apologies. but! it did get done! i thought this idea was really cute, per usual. i’m very grateful for my continuous support, and i have other works i want to get out! my precious flowers, thank you for your patience❀〜

[adelheidvonschicksal]

hi i love your writings smm 🥺😩💞💞and i was wondering if you can write something for shy quiet , innocent fem reader whos like Literally an angel and very kind who haves healing techniques and also yuji's distant cousin with sukuna ?

A/N: I'm not the best at Sukuna, but here's a try! I kinda wanted to try to write him simped.

His predatory eyes have been on you for a while now.

Initially, it’s barely a development for Sukuna to learn that the vessel he’s stuck in has a cousin. It’s a distant relationship, separated by a couple of centuries, but it’s there. It isn’t a mark for concern until he sees your powers. Healing others isn’t special, but bringing back a missing limb, fixing a soul, the chance you could bring a body back, that’s more interesting.

“I didn’t manipulate their soul. The shape was wrong, so I gave it enough that it could put itself back to the way it wanted to be, and it worked out!”

You didn’t seem to really realize the extent of your own power, chirpily going on with life like a colorful bouncing baby bird from what he could tell. And as his interest in your technique starts to grow, it leads to something else he can’t explain.

Sukuna blames this body that he’s in for the reason his attention always sparks up whenever he hears your voice echoing in this body. Whenever Itadori interacts with you, there’s a torrent of happiness proliferating throughout his entire body, including to where Sukuna’s soul maintains itself. That’s where he decides this interest in you comes from.

That’s where the deliciously darkly satisfied sensation upon seeing fluster spread across your face whenever he decides to interrupt you and Itadori comes from. The way you squeak and shy into yourself, resisting that urge to tremble at his presence – which he can still make out – is mouthwateringly delectable. Sukuna presumed this was an easy way to piss off the other soul in this body, but that isn’t the case.

There’s a rush of something indecipherable when that innocent smile appears on your cherub face. The faintest hint of life threatens to lurch into his chest when you place a hand on this boy’s shoulder, sending that heat all the way down to him.

It irritates him because those actions aren’t caused by him but by the brat whose body he inhabits. It irritates him because he shouldn’t be thinking about these things in the first place. Desiring them. Desiring you. Never having the time to remember what this type of desire was in the first place.

At least not until now.

This body is failing, puddling with its own blood from the loss against a pitiful opponent.

Maybe Itadori should have brought you with him after all instead of leaving you behind at the mission start. Sukuna is already aware of the reason. His “precious little cousin” is the only family he has left after all, by his own miserable words.

(“How pathetic. You think you can’t protect her.”)

The brat was right to leave you behind if he died that easily.

“Uh, Sukuna?”

The King of Curses lifts his head; there’s cursed energy and light flooding this body, barely enough that his own soul clings on.

“Are you still…” a small cough, “in there?”

Sukuna wastes little time cracking an eye open. It’s a worth sight to see. Your cheeks are wet with the beginning of tears, a meek and scared gloss to your eyes when you notice him leering up at you from his head’s position in your lap, and your chest pumped up with a shaky gasp that makes him smirk.

“Isn’t this a surprise? Called on by the little lamb herself.”

Just like the name suggests, you tense and frightened like the fragile creature, a fear so palpable that he can smell it wafting in the air.

“Since this is such a rare occassion, I'll give you three seconds of my time. What do you want?"

Fearfully, you struggle to ask, “You can heal people, can’t you?”

Sukuna isn’t sure why you would ask that when you’re classified as a healer yourself. He’s positive the only reason he’s still here is due to your influence then it dawns on him.

“What’s the matter?” he cackles. “Not enough curse energy left to finish the job?”

When you fail to respond, he knows he’s got it right, and his brain already begins to turn with how many ways he could take advantage of the situation when you finally nod.

“What would I need to do for you to help me heal him?”

“You dare try to bargain with me.” His tone is brusque, pure intimidation mixed with amusement. “What could you possibly have to offer me that’s better than watching this punk sorcerer die?”

You’re as much of a fool as the boy, he thinks. The difference though is that unlike him, there’s more that the King of Curses wants from you: your power, your body, your soul, and the innocence comprising it and displaying in the doe-eyed look that you give him as you gently bite on your bottom lip.

“Please,” you shakily air out, tears spilling out in the weakness of your voice, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“You.”

“Me?” you ask. There’s a moment of hesitation as your eyebrows knit together. “I-I don’t understand. Why me?” you question; there’s an air of confusion about the question, brewed from the innocent nature that can’t even begin to think what you would have that could benefit him.

“Do you want the deal or not?” he asks, patience artificially short. You’re hesitant, unsure what to say as you stare at him. “I’m not going to keep the offer up for long, woman.”

Slowly, the fear starts to drain from you, which causes him to go silent as your fingers brush your fingers along Itadori’s forehead, pushing the messy blood-soaked tufts of hair away. Your eyes waver, flooding with another layer of tears that collect on your eyelashes, but you quickly blink them away.

“I accept,” you finally relent, a forced smile stretching across your face; a fragile attempt to offer him, or rather yourself, a little optimism and sweetness that sends a lustful pulse down his stomach. “I’m yours.”

There it was, easier than he ever imagined, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the irony. This boy’s decision to protect you would be the very thing leading you to him.

[maybeiwasjustjade]

I see so many post constantly degrading Nesta for being so nasty and mean and ungrateful; for using Rhysand’s money and staying on his land (not for free I might add) while refusing to play nice or care.

But isn’t that the bare minimum of what he owes her?

The IC and Feyre dragged Nesta and Elain into their world by manipulating them using their guilt over letting Feyre hunt for those 5 years when they were severely impoverished. Nevermind that Feyre doesn’t know how to cook or clean so someone had to have done that, or that someone was bound to do physical labor anyway. But I digress—the IC gave Nesta so much shit for refusing to be Feyre and Elain’s mom, for not being the one to take care of them by any means necessary (which we know would’ve been through marriage).

So the sisters agreed to help with the Human Queens, putting a major target on their backs. The IC sent away their staff and guards, promised to leave protection that failed miserably. Feyre told Ianthe about her sisters; Rhysand let the Attor live knowing that Hybern would have their location. So the sisters were taken—kidnapped and dragged and thrown into something that turned them into something they weren’t.

Murdered and tortured for however eternity it took to melt the flesh off their bones, for their bones to grow and lengthen, and magic to flow through their veins. There’s another word for this, you know? Nonconsensual body modification. And just because they came out young and beautiful and immortal, everyone around them expected them to be grateful. But what is there to be grateful for, if you were Nesta and Elain? Ripped from their finally stable human lives and love? Forced to join a war that had nothing to do with them until it eventually fucked them over too?

As far as I’m concerned, and how it should’ve been if SJM wasn’t so far up feysand’s ass, whatever debt owed by Nesta and Elain to Feyre was repaid in full when they were murdered over Feyre and the IC’s actions.

Elain came out of that Cauldron catatonic for months. Nesta came out something other, even for a Fae, and dripping with so much power that she made High Lords quake at the sight of her and that damned finger. And in order to spare Elain from further suffering, Nesta took the brunt of their missions and scrying, repressed and depressed as she was. Yet it was still them who killed the King of Hybern, effectively ending the war.

The bare minimum Rhysand owed them afterwards was a fucking lifetime of peace, and to be left alone if they wished with enough money to make a king cry. But that wasn’t enough for him was it? Feyre was pushy because she wanted Nesta around even when Nesta preferred to be literally anywhere else. I can understand that to an extent as a younger sister myself. But she went about it all wrong, and let her mate do what he does best: be a complete and utter bitch.

And if getting sexually assaulted and repeatedly nearly dying finding the Troves for the NC still wasn’t enough to repay whatever fucking ‘debt’ Rhysand and his stans seem to still think she owes (despite the dying and kingslaying), Nesta gave up a significant portion of herself to save Feyre, Nyx, and Rhysand. And despite his gratefulness, he still couldn’t help himself from berating her horribly behind Feyre’s back, even when Feyre herself has told him repeatedly to lay the fuck off her sister.

So, NO. Nesta shouldn’t owe squat to the NC and its shitty High Lord. Pretty sure at this point, he owes her more.

[bookish-bogwitch]

Thank you @roomwithanopenfire, @rimeswithpurple, @blackberrysummerblog, @nausikaaa, @larkral,

@hushed-chorus, @alexalexinii, @monbons, @whatevertheweather, @run-for-chamo-miles,

@artsyunderstudy, @mooncello, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @forabeatofadrum, and @aristocratic-otter for the tags over the past few weeks. I've had a crazy month (90% in crazy a good way) and too frazzled to come up with my own WIP posts, but have enjoyed reading yours and being included.

Here are six ten moody little sentence from Chapter 11 of Basil Pitch's Diary. (In case you missed it, I posted Ch. 10, September, a few weeks ago, then fled the country.) Baz is hanging in in Niall and Dev's room:

The last time I was here with Niall, he’d told me to hold out for more than ear scritches and the occasional carrot. Now we sat on his bed with a chessboard between us. “Baz,” Niall said quietly. “What are you doing?”  “Beating you.” I moved my queen to menace his remaining bishop. “With Snow, I mean.” Niall did that thing where the rook and king hop around, which shouldn’t be allowed, and I realized he’d won. Again. Somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a me who grew up with someone to play against, demolishing a Niall who never went to math camp.

Below the cut: musing, a posting plan, and more tags.

Musing: I've actually written a ton since the last chapter even though I've been AWOL, but for a while no matter what I wrote, Baz felt out of character. I'd write a scene, like it, and then think "but why is he doing this?" Then I'd rewrite with Baz behaving completely differently, and that also felt OOC.

I worried that I'd somehow doomed myself with inconsistent characterization, but then I figured it out: Baz at this point is deeply inconsistent. He presents himself to the world one way, he tells the reader / himself that he's something else, and deep down he's a secret third thing. And sometimes his masks slip.

To some extent this is every unreliable narrator. But boyo has REALLY tangled himself up at this point. Something's gotta give. Until it does--which it will, soon--I have to be very clear in my mind, even if Baz isn't, about which Baz is driving the Baz at any given moment.

A lot of you can do that sort of thing intuitively. I can't. So I've been building this out (showing you just the headers b/c spoilers):

This might stultify some (most?) of you. For me, though, it's freeing. When my brain isn't trying to keep track of everything, my imagination can unfurl.

"'Everything'?" you ask. "This isn't that plotty a fic." It's not, but it's already 2.5x longer than anything else I've written, which means developing skills I haven't needed before. Anyway, my BPD chart and I are having fun. We're very happy together.

Posting Plan

I pushed myself to get Ch. 10 up before leaving home for three weeks, because Ch. 9 had ended on such a wretched note. While I was happy to have gotten it up, I didn't love the self-imposed time crunch (though betas @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart, and @thewholelemon were fuckin' heroes). Feeling rushed had me stressing and second-guessing choices that were probably fine.

My plan now is to pause updates until I have at least a very rough first draft of the final chapter, then post it all at regular intervals. I know a longish pause means some folks who'd been reading along will wait until it's complete, if they return at all. To those folks--sorry, and I get it, and thank you for reading in the first place, and I love you.

Tags and shy waves to @brendughh  @beastmonstertitan  @carryonsimoncarryonbaz  @carryonmylovelies  @creepyspice

@comesitintheclover @cows4247 @confused-bi-queer @artsyunderstudy@chen-chen-chen-again-chen

@chronicallyhomoerotic @drowninginships @dragoneggos @excalisbury @emeryhall

@erzbethluna @ebbpettier @fight-surrender @fatalfangirl @gay-at-ikea

@fiend-for-culture @forabeatofadrum @foolofabookwyrm-activated @arthurkko @j-nipper-95

@gekkoinapeartree @goblindad-emoshit @henreyettah @hertragedyconnoisseur @hushed-chorus

@icarus-n-flames @ineffable-grimm-pitch @ic3-que3n @ionlydrinkhotwater @iamamythologicalcreature

 @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @shrekgogurt @im-gettingby @youarenevertooold

@monbons @mooncello @raenestee @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @messofthejess

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

This is mesmerising. Thank you my lovely friend! It's not exactly the happy part yet of the loudest silence sequel but it's hopeful? maybe? (This is the post-series one. Not to be confused with the season 1 inspired version)

“How bad is it?” Jamie asked, his voice breaking. “Just fucking tell me, Roy. You’re the only one I can count on to just to tell me the fucking truth.”

Roy paused. Jamie’s words both hurt and touched him and he wanted to tell Jamie everything, but he’s barely been awake, Roy wasn’t sure if this was exactly the right time to do it, if he should wait until Jamie has some time to adjust to his injuries, some time to get used to the idea that his right leg was badly broken. Roy has had two weeks and he’s not sure he’s gotten used to it himself.

“Please,” Jamie begged, his voice hoarser currently than it was even earlier, the lack of use during the last two weeks becoming more evident with each word Jamie’s forced to speak.

“It’s bad,” Roy admitted. “It’ll take a lot of work, but you’ll be back out there on the pitch. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

It wasn’t said in an angry or accusing manner like it could have been. It was just a fact, same as if Jamie was saying what day of the week it was.

“Yes, I fucking can.”

“No. You fucking can’t, Roy,” Jamie said, voice now the strongest it’s sounded since he woke up, but the hoarseness still cut through Roy. ‘What did the doctor say?”

Where was the fucking doctor he thought. He shouldn’t have to be the one to tell Jamie his career might be over that he might never dribble a ball that he might never run that yeah he’ll probably walk without a limp but they couldn’t even guarantee that and they couldn’t give a time table of when he would even be able to put weight on his fucking leg again.

Jamie was humpy dumpty and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t guarantee he’d be put back together again.

Jamie looked at him expectantly, his grey eyes glassy but open for the first time in more than two weeks, and at that moment Roy was glad the doctor wasn’t there. He didn’t want Jamie to hear this from someone he didn’t know. He wanted Jamie to hear it from him if he had to hear anything at all.

It has to be me. It could be no one else.

“The doctor said he doesn’t know,” Roy said, and Jamie’s eyes searched him for answers. “They don’t know shit for all their fucking schooling. They couldn’t tell me anything. Your leg should heal, but they don’t know to what extent, if you’ll be able to play or at the same level you were at before. But he doesn’t know, but he doesn’t know because he doesn’t know you, not the same way I do. He doesn’t know what a stubborn prick you can be, what a hard worker you are, how far you’ve come, on and off the pitch. Your story doesn’t end here in this fucking hospital.”

Your story doesn’t end because of me.

He doesn’t say that part, but he means it. Maybe even means it the most. But Jamie doesn’t need his guilt on top of everything he’s already fighting through. Jamie’s saved Roy once, but he’s not going to make it so the lad has to save him again. No, this time, Roy is the one that will help Jamie, save him if he needs to. It’s the least he could do after all.

Jamie looked at him, and a small smile crept into his face, “You did make me better than Zava.”

“You made you better than Zava. I just got your arse out of bed for 4 am.”

[s0lairee]

USUALLY i keep the incoherent rambling to @xanyiaz's dms, but y’all know how i feel about vincent. so, here: roughly 2000 words of me talking abt him and the house of solaire.

(also, all non-art, original posts that i make, whether they’re just me keysmashing or me actually dissecting a video will now be tagged as #jo speaks <3)

(possibly incomprehensible) spoilers for “questioning the king” underneath (and a bit from sam’s latest vid). this isn’t really theorising, it’s more “jo analyzes fictional characters and cries”

first of all. CAN we get a round of applause for the voicing and the thumbnail. erik did such a good job - i wasn’t actually expecting a william vid since hedral has been mia for two years, but this was INSANE. erik’s voice is much softer than hedral’s (i think it’s because erik is used to voicing younger characters?) and it really adds to the tone of the video. also, the thumbnail is so perfectly in style with the summit thumbnails. everything is wonderful i just needed a moment for that.

anyways. i did not expect the video to go like this? i mean, everyone expected vincent to call william out for everything at some point, but dude, this caught me so off-guard. and in hindsight, it shouldn’t have. obviously the fandom paints (or painted, before the summit) william as the vamp dad, but he’s a king. he’s going to be political, pragmatic, and sometimes callous. callousness is why he survived. if he was as feeling as vincent is, he wouldn’t have survived his maker.

but like. i completely expected william to stand his ground against vincent’s criticism and mention how it was the right thing to do, but i thought eventually he’d give in and (at the very least) apologise. what i DIDN’T expect was for william:

to not do that.

to pretty much only apologise for keeping vincent out of the loop

to emphasise that this was what being a vampire prince entailed - this was what politics meant

and to GIVE HIM AN ULTIMATUM. it didn’t seem like one, but “if you’re one of us, that’s part of the deal” very much implies “be a solaire and do what is expected of you, or leave.”

i’m glad that vin and william, in some way, found a middle ground. but (as much as i was on will’s side this whole time bc vin always seemed too naive for the rough politics), vincent is right. william shouldn’t have given that burden only to porter. that’s one vampire against dozens that are at least centuries old. also, not to mention, vincent would NOT have trusted porter. can you imagine the mental strength it took vincent to not only hear porter out, but hear stuff that his maker was supposed to tell him from the one person he couldn’t stand? can you imagine how porter felt to be the messenger caught between these two??? and somehow, it’s worse when william doesn’t back down and just accept that vincent was right. he can excuse everything else as politics, but he can’t excuse this. and it’s so weird that he tried so hard to brush past that. 

also. william’s favouritism is incredibly obvious. it’s insane. like, this entire audio, he’s prioritising vincent (and lovely, to some extent). his literal first lines are him choosing to speak to vincent and lovely alone, when sam is RIGHT THERE. he refers to sam as samuel, being one of the only people who does that. he also took the time to explain himself to vincent, but to sam he just says “say what you will.” it gives the vibe of the older sibling that the parent knows will understand, and i know sam doesn’t care about the house like vincent does, but GOD it really rubs it in. i know there’s that convoluted father-son dynamic between vin and william, but william put the pack, their mates, sam and darlin’ into the firing line. porter only gave vincent and lovely an alibi. none of the others. this was the pack's first summit too. if sweetheart was caught eavesdropping, they would have been in SO much trouble. it’s pure dumb luck they escaped. 

also. my brain ran away here. but porter, who isn't will's progeny but acts like his dutiful son, doing whatever is asked of his king because he saved his life - porter, who can't help but feel slighted when after everything, william still fights to justify his actions to vincent (while porter understands). porter who watches (in his mind, at least) vincent throw all of that away for what's "morally right". porter who is faultlessly loyal but so goddamn alone. are you picking up what im putting down <3

^ going off on that, the different reactions (or possible reactions) to will’s ultimatum have me frothing at the mouth.

i want to say porter is fiercely loyal to william and the house but i do think a lot of it is desperation and his own version of “morally right”? like to porter, the right thing is listening to whatever his king - the man that took him in and saved his life - says. or it could be cowardice. if he doesn’t do what will wants him to do, he would have to leave the house… and where would he go? to treasure? imagine explaining this shit to them. he literally has no choice.

to sam, it's the practical, good thing, and it's almost political. and this way of thinking is easy for sam, since he's not really as loyal to the house as vincent is. in fact, he's almost completely detached. so sam's idea of what's right is that william should've considered vincent’s opinion too, or have some kind of counsel, because they were the people who were most directly in the firing line. so when william so self-assuredly says he isn't wrong, and won't ever be wrong... he lost sam. (sam also never outright got the choice to leave like vincent did. he still made the decision. he's, like, 100% gone.)

and to vincent, it's almost completely emotional. he had this responsibility for the summit thrust onto him suddenly after william shielded him from a lot during his growing up as a vampire. he had so much information kept from him by his maker, his family, and he had to put up with the one person william knew he couldn't put up with. he also almost lost his partner, his brother and his friends in the whole mess.

+ need to add that vincent is very, very emotional. throughout the whole summit, there wasn’t one time when he was able to go with the (albeit fucked up) flow. partly, this is who he is; someone who feels everything in extremes, and partly because william had shielded him from the worst of the vampire world for so, so long. this isn’t a positive or negative character trait: it’s just a trait, and something will should have considered. then again, if not vincent, who would host the summit? not sam. certainly not alexis. and porter couldn’t. 

(also, it’s precisely how emotional he is and how much importance he places on family that makes “a prince is supposed to answer to his king, not the other way around” STING.)

now the part that GUTTED me: the ultimatum, and why sam is most certainly leaving (and vincent might consider it, but GOD i fucking hope he doesn’t.)

erik has established both sam and darlin' as being completely self sufficient. like they've both expressed that they're better with each other, and that they've grown as people, but also they're not tied down by any obligations to anyone. darlin' may be fiercely protective of their pack and their identity as a wolf, but sam is heavily disconnected from the house. he might only be sticking around because of vincent, and those two are BROTHERS your honour. but like, he doesn't really feel anything emotional to them nor does he have an obligation to them, even as a vampire.

(especially as a vampire, a status he did not want and is going to give up some time in the future.)

but vincent has both emotional (and i wanna say political?) ties to the house. one, being turned saved his life. he didn't have the choice that lovely had, but he also doesn’t completely hate it like sam did (maybe bc he was unempowered before and the loss of power didn't hit as hard.) two, he's kinda reconciled with his status as a vampire prince. he really does love william. whatever relationship they have (had.) was good - there was some amount of trust there (that will broke now). 

and also, being a vampire allowed him to save lovely. vin and lovely are COMPLETELY devoted to each other. they've had one of the most dramatic changes together.

more than that, the solaire house is family to vin. like, at least in the context of lore and the channel, it has been such a massive part of his life. he introduced his partner to his maker. he took them to the summit. he has confided in them abt princely duties. the house is, for better or for worse, his family.

(also, william bringing out all of vincent’s worst memories right in front of lovely (who was also there for those memories) is so fucking insane. wh. every argument he made in this video is so so insane.) 

somehow, for all the analysing i'm doing, i can't predict lovely's emotions. i know they're gonna be angry in their own way: very soon after mastering their powers, they had it taken away from them; and very soon after being crowned in the house of solaire, they're watching it crumble.

will giving them an ultimatum felt very final. i know erik mentioned wanting to wrap up a few plotlines, and i’m totally ok with that (not . i need vincent. but i can make my peace w things) but if this is how it ends i will cry

in conclusion, will was fighting between politics and progeny. he tried, desperately, to have both. unfortunately, you can’t have both. fortunately, you can try to rebuild the relationship the choice broke. unfortunately, will didn’t do that. he wasn’t fair to a single person here. he still sees tasks and details as a privilege given to solaires, not something that is expected of him as vincent’s family.

most of erik’s plotlines have a theme, and this one seems to surround trust and choice and how the right thing isn’t always in black and white. so yeah it would fucking suck and i would bawl my ass off if vincent and lovely decide to leave the house …… i know it would be the right thing to do but also i wish porter could knock some sense into william or something. 

i would love to see that, actually. feels shakespearean.

[revlischarm]

Wouldn’t call this one of my most exciting edits for the Noodle Shop Ghost AU, but it’s what I was able to finish recently so it’s what y’all are getting since I’m impatient to share more details and have to divulge them NOW

More LMK Morro info under the cut

• Red Son’s nicknames for Morro include “Accursed witch” and “dead meat” (the witch one is due to Morro having spooky vibes and carrying around a broom)

-Deadass? The first time Red called Morro a witch, Morro did a full 180° and said “did you just call me a bitch?” (Credit to @breathlessmorro for this idea!)

•Morro’s still got some anger issues they’re working out

•Princess Iron Fan shows up with her wind and he’s like “bro I am unimpressed I could do that when I was like, ten”

-The teleporting à la wind gets his attention, tho, since he obviously can’t do that and is immediately jealous

•Morro was a big fan of JTTW Monkey King after reading the story, but then he meets Wukong irl and is just like “Oh. This is it?? That’s…disappointing.”

Wukong: “I haven’t even interacted with you yet and you already dislike me, what the hell.”

-Like Morro and Wukong definitely have some similar interests and hobbies, such as martial arts, protective over MK, a distain for rules…but Morro is still twitchy around him.

-Morro owns a JTTW shirt because he still thinks that the story slaps tho

•Morro thinks the Mayor has cool vibes upon first meeting

-Like, Morro respects how unhinged and creepy he is

•Morro does have a broom for a weapon I’ve decided! It’s comical and it works. He gets a new weapon during Season 3, tho!

-He absolutely 100% knows how to use a broom as a staff because he’s used a staff before. In Season 5 when he possessed Lloyd and was trying to steal Wu’s staff, in the tea shop fight he was kicking ass with it. He’s very proficient with a staff and you can fight me on that.

•Morro forgets that he’s mortal again and ends up walking into a lot of solid objects

•Morro strives for success and likes to be in the spotlight still honestly, he can’t help it.

-The man absolutely despises failing in any way; he doesn’t want to be seen as a disappointment.

-At least he’s ambitious!

•Morro’s working on his inability to let things go, and it’s going. Okay. Ish.

-He struggles so, so much with letting go of a grudge, he never forgets nor forgives but he’s trying to

-It’s part of his goal towards being a better person/not being evil lmao

-“I probably shouldn’t hold onto so much hate for what happened before, huh…well maybe I’ll hold onto a few things.”

•MK sometimes does morning exercises with Morro (stretches and stuff), so for the episode “Duplicination” he makes another clone to do said activities with Morro

-How would that go wrong? Contortionist clone is how. Motherfucker stretches himself into a creepy pretzel

-He crawls up a wall like a spider and gives MK nightmares

-“NOOOO!! MY WORST FEAR IS MANIFESTING!”

-He’s super flexible and very hard to catch; good at dodging!

•Morro definitely sees a lot of Lloyd in MK, but it’s not like he can go back to Ninjago rn (he doesn’t know how), and even then! Lloyd and he are on horrible terms. So Morro is inadvertently projecting onto MK to some extent the apology and like…just feeling guilty and almost responsible in a way

-They’re not doing it intentionally, they really aren’t

-MK just gives them Lloyd vibes that make Morro feel guilty

-Took one look at MK and went: “Is anyone gonna big brother that guy?” And didn’t wait for an answer (credit: @breathlessmonkie )

•Morro being referred to ironically as the “family pet” by Tang and the gang is a reoccurring gag in Season 1. It’s for comedy purposes.

-Pigsy: “This is my husband, Tang, our son, MK, and the family pet, Morro.”

MK: “He’s a rescue!”

-Morro just goes with it

•Morro has residual traits from being a former ghost and you can fight me on that

-For example, his teeth are just slightly more sharp than the average person’s. It’s barely even noticeable but it’s there.

-Morro’s eyes have eyeshine (tapetum lucidum?), basically if it’s dim lighting and you direct some light at him, his eyes seem to glow in the dark. That thing that some animals have, you know? Deer.

-On that note, Morro can see in the dark slightly better than the average person.

-There’s more stuff but I’ll go over it later

•Morro loves flying kites!!! He adores those super complex ones and is saving up money to buy one

•MK called Morro “responsible” one time/refers to him as his “responsible friend”, and Morro ends up having a whole new episode dedicated to him having a crisis over that

-Think a midlife crisis except more aggressive and despairing. Morro’s trying to find an outlet for aggression! He’s adamant he maintain his bad boy persona, and MK’s comment shook him

-Like, his whole thing was defying destiny, making his own path in life, beating the odds and being stubborn…and yet here MK is, saying that’s he’s responsible. It goes against what he thinks of himself and just sets him off. Man literally skips work (which he never does) and gets everyone worried about him.

-He’s just acting out to try and prove that he’s not some domesticated ex-villain, but it’s also about him having difficulty adjusting to this new norm

-Before, Morro was doomed to a cursed eternity for the longest time. He was pent up and bitter and focused on a whole lot of negative stuff, and now he’s waking up and going to work and living life like none of that happened. It’s jarring, and he’s realizing that it’s so far from how he once was.

-He’s thinking, “That angry person I used to be was me, that’s who I was. What changed?” When really he’d just been so bitter and upset for so, so long that that’s all he can think of himself as being—that’s who he was, that’s who Morro was. It’s just he wasn’t actively thinking about it or anything until MK prompted it. He’s changed, and he knows that, but now he’s like…he’s moreso conscious of it, like actually realizing it’s not just that he gave up being so spiteful and tried to redeem himself—he’s forgotten what he was like before he was a vengeful spirit.

-That was what defined them for so long. And now who are they?

-The other part of it is that he doesn’t want to feel like he’s conforming, doesn’t want to be responsible, that it feels like he’s just following along to fate’s rules. And he abhors that.

-Uhhhhhh anyways tl:dr Morro has an episode all his own about self-discovery and also demolishes some stuff along the way.

-OH ONE MORE THING Morro divulges some more about his past to MK and Mei in this episode and also I don’t have a title for the episode yet so suggestions/help with that is greatly appreciated

•Back to our regularly scheduled program

•Morro. Does not trust Wukong very much.

-Like, Morro already has past trauma with Wu, given how Wu told Morro he could be the Green Ninja and fed him a bunch of hopeful nonsense and all that. Morro knows that MK’s been told he has some big destiny and power and whatever by this mentor-figure.

-Also. The Golden Weapons’ parallels with Monkey King’s staff?? Fun stuff. The staff “chose” MK and all that jazz.

-Morro doesn’t trust him from the start, although it’s less of Morro being perceptive enough to pick up on Wukong’s crap and instead that his paranoia ended up being right

-Morro would definitely go “At this point I can’t tell if you or Wu are worse, and that’s fucking saying something.”

-There’s one instance in which Morro straight up punches Wukong square in the face. I’m keeping that scene to myself for now because I gotta have some secrets, you know? Heheh

•Mei’s green power startles Morro every now and then

-Like there’s a flash of glowing green in their peripheral and they jolt. Literally they don’t even do it on purpose, it’s a knee jerk response to glowing green powers.

•Morro drinks soy sauce. He’ll get a little dish and sip from it. Yes, I based this off of myself.

•Macaque is Morro’s dad now btw I should probably mention that /hj

•During the episode “Macaque”, Morro shows up when MK does and actually manages to like. Demonstrate a decently strong attack at Macaque’s shadow kaiju thing. Wind does wonders against smoke monsters (I think Mac called it that??)

-Anyways Macaque quickly takes an interest in Morro! Morro tags along with MK for the training stuff because they’re not letting the kid get taken to some secondary location

-…unless they goes too, lmao

-Plus Macaque doesn’t actually mind him coming along, Morro’s wind powers peaked his interest

•Oh also Morro @ Macaque: “You know back where I’m from, we have an elemental Master of Shadow—I bet they could kick your ass, lol”

Macaque:

Macaque: “a fucking what”

•Also Morro? Actually really vibes with Macaque’s teachings?? Like he definitely reminds MK to take breaks and take it easy every once in a while, but for the most part Morro is like “fuck yeah? This guy is straightforward and makes a good point. Although strategy is important to take into account first and foremost it also helps to actually have a sense of direction here”

-So Morro thinks that Macaque’s got superior skills as a teacher to MK here

-Up until the whole betrayal thing haha

•Macaque keeps a close eye on Morro throughout the episodes following all of this actually!

-Like Macaque checks in on him throughout Season 2 and so they cross paths again fairly quickly

-Morro is very apprehensive at first but begrudgingly understands that it isn’t anything personal against MK, what Mac did—Morro’s literally been in that kind of situation before, sort of. “Nothing personal, just doing this to achieve my goals, you just happen to be involved in this and got hurt.”

-Like Morro gets it. You do evil and fucked up shit because it’s fun at the time and you wanna get back at someone who hurt you

•He’s still very protective of MK but he genuinely understands where Mac is coming from when he pulled that stunt

•They both absolutely open up to each other about their respective deaths eventually, though it takes time

•Macaque shows Morro some cool fighting stuff! They spar together a lot

-Morro finds himself looking forward to those sessions (he can get an actual challenge lmao) and so does Macaque! Mac hasn’t had a sparring buddy in. Well. You know ;)

•Morro 100% picks up on the ex vibes Macaque and Wukong have

•But anyways Morro and Macaque have a great time training and sparring together! Neither of them are afraid to get aggressive, but not because they’re angry—it’s because they know the other one can take it!

•They just overall bond offscreen (and maybe onscreen too? Do I need to make another new episode dedicated to this??) during Season 2/end of Season 1

•Macaque and Morro have a fun dynamic that I’ll expound more upon in Season 3 stuff, but I’m saving anything s3 for a different post because spoilers

•I will divulge that LBD has some difficulty handling Morro for reasons that are ghost-related and that Morro wants to kick her ass

-Well, related to the fact that Morro used to be a ghost and I have a very specific headcanon about his new physical body in that regard

•Anyways

•The Macaque thing is pure self-indulgence on my end because he’s one of my favorite characters

•If it feels forced in, it’s because it probably is, but serotonin go brrrrr in my head and that overrules all logic

•I want to draw what Morro’s intro screen would look like for the opening but I don’t have the skill (can’t draw complex backgrounds well at ALL) rip

-Concept for seasons 1 + 2 would have him standing in the front with a clear shot like the other characters do, arms are crossed or he’s leaning on his broom, and in the background we see a cool dynamic shot of him flying one of those neat Chinese kites. Color scheme is mostly greens and grays? I’m not sure.

-My idea for the Season 3 intro I’m reserving for now

•Morro doesn’t know how to drive I should mention. Man needs to learn to, lol

•Mei and MK teach him lingo and Morro honestly picks it up shockingly fast.

-He can understand some things about it? But others he’s at a total loss for.

-For example Morro doesn’t understand surreal memes or deep-fried stuff, he just doesn’t get what’s funny about them

•Morro knows a lot of occult/spiritual info!! He’s your man if you’ve got some form of spooky trouble ailing you

-So for spooky or supernatural happenings, Morro can give some decent advice.

•Don’t get him wet, he despises water.

•Also he’s still absolutely unhinged. Redemption doesn’t mean he lost any of his violent tendencies, so that’s a lot of manic fun.

-The vibe of what he’ll be saying is all good stuff, but the way he says it sounds like he’s delivering a villain speech

-Oh and don’t get me started on his dramatics either because this man is the smuggest and most theatric bastard ever and I love him for it

-A sore loser and a sore winner.

-So a ton of similarities to Red Son’s behavior, just…toned down a bit more and he’s not trying to be a villain. That’s just how he is. He slips back into villain mode sometimes because he was a villain, and he’s also just kinda like that.

-Morro’s villain tendencies/vibes are always more…creepy? Dark? Than Red Son’s are. Macabre, I’d say. He could actually scare you if he wanted to? It’s hard to describe.

-To sum it up: trying to do good things, but his attitude about it is so diabolical and dramatic. Aaaaannnnd his methods aren’t entirely moral all the time, either. He’s trying, okay??

•Although on that note, Morro is still a master at manipulation when it comes to it. He’s very adept at twisting his words around and can occasionally fall back on old habits without meaning to

-Fucking watch out for him when he’s intentionally being manipulative though, you don’t wanna mess with that

•Morro 100% attends Mac’s shadow plays, they really enjoy them and are the most enthusiastic person in the stands

-Macaque: The hero and the warrior were like the sun and the moon—

Morro: FUCK YEAH LET’S GOOOOOO

Macaque, confused and embarrassed: Uh, anyways.

•Morro would either be very good or very bad at fighting Red Son; wind can either fuel fire or snuff it out. Depends on the oxygen and stuff.

•Anything involving flying/air/heights? Morro is adept at that. Man would kill for one of Wukong’s clouds

•Trans he/they Morro rights

•This post is long enough so I’ll end it here

[olympeline]

You ever get struck with an idea for a multi-chapter, 100k+ word fic out of nowhere and you’re just: Damn, son, if only I had the free time to devote to bringing this word child into the world. It would be glorious

I was going about real life and I suddenly thought: #ScotFrUK #Enemies to Lovers #medieval kings and princes AU #Slow Burn #Angst With A Happy Ending. It would be so mmm *chef’s kiss* So good

Like, imagine it’s the early days of the Auld Alliance but it was much more of a big deal than in our world. To the extent that the king of France sends one of his sons to wed the Scottish king, Alasdair, to cement their pact against the English. Francis is reluctant, but obeys. Happily, he and Alasdair turn out to have what TV Tropes would call a Perfectly Arranged Marriage. A real opposites attract deal. They had to marry out of necessity, but soon neither would be with anyone else.

So, there’s the lovers. Where’s the enemy?

Arthur: 🫡

There we go. Arthur is a prince too. But, unlike Francis, he’s both an only child and the heir. Meanwhile Francis is a second or third son. Hence why he was sent away to wed sexy scotsmen instead of staying home to rule. Anyway, Arthur’s father is still alive, but old and sick and noone expects him to live much longer. Arthur comes back from leading England’s army on the continent and his Evil Uncle™ (who has been de facto king thanks to Arthur’s dad’s illness) immediately sends him north to Scotland. Deliberately misleading Arthur about the strength of Alasdair’s forces in the hopes of getting his nephew killed. Then Evil Uncle™ just has to wait for the old king to die and presto: England’s throne is his

So, Arthur and his men get fed some story about Scottish barbarians pillaging northern English villages and cross the border to try and break up this ragtag bandit hoard. Only to be met with the full force of the highlands army, led by the dreaded King Alasdair himself (gee, I wonder who could have tipped them off? Oh Evil Uncle™ you incorrigible scamp, you).

The English troops are badly outnumbered and are soon crushed and scattered. Those that aren’t killed are sent fleeing desperately for the border, Arthur among them. But he’s captured before he can get to safety and dragged before Alasdair. Arthur is smart enough not to reveal his true identity and manages to pass as a knight. Alasdair takes him back to his castle as a “gift” for his beloved Francis

See, despite their instant connection, Alasdair still worries life in the highlands isn’t enough for Francis. That his love will eventually tire of a life that’s more rugged and spartan than he’s used to. Tire and long to return to the rich splendour of France. Spoiler: he won’t. But Alasdair still worries and so gives his king consort a captive English manservant to torment. Hoping it will distract Francis from his (imagined) homesickness. Oh Alasdair, you silly soft headed twit. Francis doesn’t need distracting. Not when he has you ❤️

Either way, Arthur - still hiding his true identity - is presented to Francis. After that it’s the slow burn, enemies to lovers between all three of them. With plenty of ups and downs, and tension and drama (relationship and political) mixed in. Francis, still so in love with Alasdair, but sweating bullets over how attracted he is to Arthur. Alasdair, trying to quash his own attraction to their “guest” while also drowning in longheld feelings of inadequacy that are only getting worse. And Arthur wrestling with the guilt and self-loathing over the fact that he is indeed falling for his captors: the enemies of his people. Give me all that angst and drama and other good stuff! Pretty please

And pretty please also give me the eventual first sexy time. With royal husbands Alasdair and Francis seducing Arthur together, Arthur getting the full 👉👌👈 losing all his inhibitions, and loving every minute of it

Urggh. I want to write it. I really do. I shouldn’t, but I really, really want to

[ackerfics]

FAMILY LINE — a house of the dragon fanfiction | aegon ii targaryen x oc

act one, chapter three: little boy gone (wc: 8.4k) | masterlist

113 AC

The royal wedding between his half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, and one Lord Laenor is the first marriage Aegon will witness as a lad of six name days. (However, that won’t be the case since the children are not given the signal to attend any single one of the one-week celebrations except for the wedding itself, being too young for an affair that invited almost all of the Houses in King’s Landing.) It also means having to stand on a platform and have fabrics fitted to you and have pins poking through, which is something he doesn’t want. One silver lining, however, is seeing his Aesira being fitted for her gowns. He overhears Mother saying that since Aesira and her brothers are now staying under her and Father’s careful watch, they would receive pieces of clothing that will suit their liking.

“Aegon, what are you still doing here?” Mother asks him after he makes himself comfortable on one of the chairs in her solar, a poorly-concealed look of confusion begins pulling on the muscles under her skin. Aether has already long gone to tend to Daemian (in extension, Daeron, Aegon’s newest sibling), seeing as the girls are having their turns choosing their favourite colours from the variety of fabrics. She bites her cheek before continuing, “Shouldn’t you be with Aether heading back to the nursery? I assume you two are going to prepare for the day’s schedule because I do not recall receiving requests of permission for the Maesters to take a day off.”

Of course, how can Aegon forget his daily lessons on history and sums? Purely boring rubbish, honestly. Maester Orwyle talks a lot (though Aegon is thankful that he’s not as forceful as some of the Maesters loitering around the Keep) and is definitely not pretty to look at. Aegon tilts his head and outwardly stares at Aesira pouting at all the fabrics laid out on the cleared-out low table. He watches as she slowly reaches out for a fabric with flower embroideries before retracting her hand and placing it under her chin for further contemplation. She then turns to Helaena, who is on the side examining a dragonfly perching on the other side of the window, to ask for her opinion. The two girls converse in hushed tones and Aegon wants to hear what they are talking about, unconsciously leaning forward as if that will aid him in having to hear a conversation a couple of feet away from him. He wants to know what causes Aesira to giggle like that. 

“Aegon.”

“Huh?” He blinks away from avidly admiring his Aesira and finds himself under Mother’s scrutiny. “W-What is it, Mother?”

Mother sighs, never forgetting to roll her eyes. Aegon bites the inside of his cheek. She proceeds to tell him, “Why are you not in your tutoring?”

“Oh,” Aegon breathes, looking down at his lap and giving Aesira one glance. His entire face burns with the heat of the sun and reaches to the tips of his ears when Mother furrows her brows and follows where his eyes are being called upon. He tightly closes his eyes the moment Mother looks at him again. He is expecting another scolding so all he can hear is his breathing. Mother is awfully quiet for no reason but she lets out a light laugh, a sound that is almost like a breath but Aegon is sure it is a laugh. He’s heard Ser Criston do it countless times before when he finds something outrageously funny yet he cannot do anything to fully express his emotions. Aegon opens one eye. Mother is shaking her head. “Mother?”

“I suppose you can have this short amount of time to relax in my solar, Aegon,” Mother says with the same straight posture she always does as if that laugh never happened. “Only during the extent of the girls’ fitting. Do go back to learning once this is done. Understood?”

Aegon nods, still not used to Mother letting him go after an opportunity of scolding.

“Princess Helaena, Lady Aesira, we have dresses in the trunk that you can try on,” the seamstress chirps. “All of the fabrics you like will be reflected on the dresses after some mending. Go on, you can choose whatever you like, Your Highness, my Lady.”

Helaena looks at Mother for permission. Just a tilt of her head is all it takes for Helaena to pick up her skirts and pick out a dress that she may like. Aegon rolls his eyes when his sister asks for some bugs to be embroidered on her final dresses. The seamstress seems taken aback, glancing at Mother, who exasperatedly sighs before waving her hand regally in the air. He hears the seamstress trying to convince his weird sister about putting butterflies on the textiles instead of spiders but being the odd one that she is, Helaena bargains to have one dress with beetles instead since they don’t look scary. Aegon snickers when the seamstress defeatedly purses her lips and resigns to making the dress that will be the Princess’s favourite for the season. If Helaena has her creepy bugs, what will Aesira have on her dresses?

The boy of six once again gazes at the object of his affection. He may be young but he knows that he and Aesira bear connections with each other — not as strong as hers and Aether’s, but it is there. Aegon can’t seem to look away whenever she’s around; hair so perfectly styled with braids and ribbons (sometimes bows), chubby cheeks he wants to pinch between his fingers (maybe kiss but he doesn’t have any opportunity yet), tiny hands that are begging for him to take in his, dresses complimenting her in every way possible, and a presence that seems to call for his full attention. Looking at her is akin to looking at his favourite food; his eyes would gain that sheen of appreciation and his lips would curl in an unconscious smile. He once asked Maester Orwyle if what he feels around Aesira is considered normal and not an impending disease. The learned man simply laughed and said to wait it out until he becomes a man grown, and if the symptoms persist, Aegon can come back to him and inquire about them again. It is only at that time Maester Orwyle will truly answer his question. That sounds like a lot of time to wait out, so Aegon grumbled the rest of the lesson while the Maester chuckled in front of him. But one thing’s for sure, Aesira is his princess; his one and only maiden.

And when it’s Aesira’s turn to pick a dress to measure, she twirls in a peach (the seamstress said something about it being the colour coral orange) dress that has Helaena clapping in glee, Aegon stares and stares — all thoughts inside his flying in the air except for her.

“A soft princess whose world is the colour of pearls will have it dripped with the sunrise,” Helaena remarks, a smile even visible in her voice even though Aegon is not looking at her. “You look so pretty, Sira! Just like in my dreams.” She bounces from Mother’s side to where Aesira is standing on the platform. Helaena moves to help Aesira down from the low stool to spin with her, admiring the shimmering details on the skirts and bodice. The two girls turn to pick other dresses for each other and Mother looks down with a sad smile.

Six name days is too young to decide who you’re going to marry but Aegon can only name a single person that he wants to see wear white and stand with him in the Grand Sept. And it just so happens his Aesira is trying on an ivory dress that has puffy sleeves on the upper arms and fitted ones covering her forearms and wrists. He doesn’t care that Aesira will never wear this dress for his half-sister’s wedding nor the pleased hums coming from Mother at the sight of it. Seeing her in it is enough to solidify what’s running through the constant thought in his mind for the past couple of days. Aegon is practically vibrating in his seat, his little legs kicking in the air. He can’t wait to ask this one thing from Mother and maybe, Father, if he’s being lucky. The old man Aegon sees nowadays is a large contrast to the man walking around the court; he can’t blame Father, when he sees Aesira, he smiles as well. 

So, at the supper before the wedding festivities, he manages to make everyone stop as he shouts with stars for eyes, “I want my wedding with Aesira to be as grand as this!”

Father laughs openly in front of his family, purple eyes alight with nostalgia. Mother looks bewildered that she drops her spoon onto the plate of chicken and peas she has been trying to take tiny bites from. His half-sister raises her eyebrows in mild amusement, making Aegon the first person she ever looks in the eye the entire supper. Helaena is being weird again, muttering things with a smile on her face. Aemond’s eyebrows meet, giving the little twat the villainous look that he can muster at three name days. Aether nearly spits out the juice he’s been drinking like he swallowed down the wrong pipe before gawking at him — scandalised.

But all that matters is Aesira, whose flustered face should be painted for the castle’s atelier, and he is the one responsible for it. Pride settles in his bones as Aegon goes back to eating, giggling the butterflies away as if he didn’t spark the idea of a new royal wedding after Rhaenyra.

Daemon can vividly envision his first wedding each time he closes his eyes.

It was a sad event; not at all revered like the impending royal wedding that will take place at the end of the week. His act of taking Aellara Arryn to wife was nothing more than a stepping stone to further establish his claim as the previous Heir to his brother, which soured because his birthright was stolen right under his nose. Now, it was more like a pathetic call to make his older brother look his way. See, I finally married the most sought-out woman in the realm, surely you are going to acknowledge me as your equal, brother. Viserys never did. And so, he simply married the Siren because it was truly long overdue that he didn't take someone as his wife, preferring the company of whores to the shackles brought by marriage.

Though beautiful in her own right, Aellara, his beloved lady wife, never possessed the correct shade of their Valyrian root in her hair nor she held the violet hues in her eyes — instead of the lavender pair he dreamed of and was plagued with every night without fail, her eyes were a reminder that she wasn’t the true Valyrian bride he wished to bed and plant heirs in. It all added to his well-concealed disappointment.

However, he never expected the warmth this marriage carried.

Aellara wasn’t just the Siren he lusted for at first sight, she was a companion — a friend Daemon poured his heart out to when the subtle scent of the night called for memories to be at their height. He found himself craving for the small, dainty palm she would cup his cheek with or the forehead she would gently place on his in a promise that he was the most heartfelt man she ever came across. Daemon searched the windows of Dragonstone every chance he got, hoping to catch the sight of his wife—he couldn’t believe it, Aellara was his wife—overlooking his training with that fucking smile of hers. She had him questioning the tickling sensation happening in every inch of his body. He could map out every single constellation etched on her skin; he could perfectly say the exact shade of her eyes without even looking; he could listen to her childhood tales … 

Daemon Targaryen knew this meeting was fated when he found meaning in each of the words they exchanged, in every moment they shared. Aellara took every bit of his being and made them hers to care for.

At some point, the line was blurred — duty became love and meshed into one messy masterpiece without them knowing.

And ignorance of this continued to be bliss for Daemon.

His precious niece’s wedding will be as sad as his once was.

He had a plan, always has. There was a reason why their sigil was a three-headed dragon. Aegon the Conqueror chose to take two wives during his reign. Who was to refuse him, the Targaryen rumoured to have surpassed The Conqueror in terms of bloodlust and fire, to take a second wife? You would dare disgrace your wife and children, Daemon’s cowardly brother spat in his face after begging him to give his innocent, delightful niece for him to wed after coming back to give the crown of the Stepstones in the name of the King. He never begged. Taking Rhaenyra as his second wife would have been the pinnacle of the Targaryen dynasty they worked so hard to maintain; a Valyrian match so pure no one would dare oppose it (if tongues wagged, they’d be cut). It was the one thing he truly wanted. Daemon already had heirs to his bloodline (two gorgeous babes who never stopped crying for their mother; he had enough of hearing their wails from daybreak to the hour of the bat). He would give the Iron Throne trueborn sons as well.

“Think of the glory, wife,” he told Aellara a year after being exiled because of his foolish decision of suggesting a polygamous relationship to Viserys. He never had a stopper when it came to telling his wife his plans, so the words flowed freely from his mouth without even thinking of the consequences. “You would be Queen when Rhaenyra takes the throne — a beautiful ruler who will wear Rhaenys’ crown on her pretty head.”

“Is this your way of confessing your disloyalty to our marriage, Daemon?”

Daemon — she called him Daemon. It was always ‘husband’.

He never imagined his pliant wife would possess that Targaryen fire. Maybe he didn’t delve deeper into how she was as a person, always seeing her through a shallow lens that many men wore while looking at her from afar. It took him by surprise that Aellara could look menacing enough to breathe blue fire. Her eyes were wide, nearly dead with no thoughts flashing behind the pupils, and her jaw tight from the clenching. Daemon, for the love of him, smiled despite the impending doom he would get from his very pregnant wife.

The Rogue Prince chuckled. “You really are a Targaryen—”

“Daemon. Answer me truthfully. Did you or did you not take Rhaenyra to the Streets of Silk the year prior? Was it you who people saw planting his lips on his—our—very own niece or they were just delusional to have seen such a sight?” She took a breath. “Tell me the truth, Daemon.”

He has never seen his wife this broken. And angry.

(If he paid closer attention and played the part of the besotted husband every person saw him as, he would have seen it.

Aellara was described as the embodiment of youth by Aemma and was a much beloved younger sibling to all her older brothers and sisters. Nothing of it remained when she was taken from the Eyrie at the mere age of nine and ten to be wed to Daemon Targaryen, a man that would leer at her the same way fat Lords would fix their eyes at her figure and the man who would wrong her in so many ways that she was starting to see it as a normal occurrence. The youthful Aellara the Vale had the honour of seeing, drowned in the depths of the seas with the man she married being the large waves pushing her underneath the waters. If Daemon has any shred of chivalry in him, maybe then he could be the one to relit that Targaryen flame Aellara inherited from her mother.)

Daemon was a man of murky actions, more of a man borne from hubris and less of a man of honour. Why would he answer to this pesky questioning when he provided this lowly woman (the youngest daughter, not even in line to inherit the Eyrie seat) everything he could possibly give? At the start of this horrendous pregnancy, she was always pecking at his entrails, pulling them apart as if she was finding the smallest of faults in the process. He stayed with her, right? Why would she bring up a thing of the past that was supposed to be tightly closed in a chest somewhere in the depths of the Narrow Seas? Was this her way of torturing his poor mind to submit to a life he didn’t want? Daemon was a seeker of glory and fuck him to the Seven Hells and back if he was going to throw it away right when he was so close to taking his precious niece as his wife. Not even the fucking Siren of the Vale could stop him from having the honour that should have been his since Rhaenyra breathed her first cry.

She had the gall to look at him in such a way that she was the god and he was the grovelling idiot. He earned the title of the King of the Narrow Seas, how dare his wife appear to be above him than anyone else. Not even Viserys looked at him like this. Those who did stare at him with such contempt was primarily a fucking cunt who paraded as the Hand of the King, a person who longed nothing but his banishment from King’s Landing. And now, this woman, a fucking woman, held her chin up high as if she was granted the position to do so. Aellara would be nothing without him.

At that moment, he was overtaken by rage, a rage so deep that it grated his long bones and travelled in a shivering cloud toward his mind.

“What do you want me to say?!” Daemon roared, with Caraxes feeling his bonded’s plight in the Dragonmont — the beast breathing dragonfire into the brewing storm around Dragonstone. “That I nearly took my niece’s virtue in a pleasure house? That I nearly planted an heir in her in the throes of my long-awaited need to have her?” He took thundering steps toward their marital bed, her shoulders flinching with each resounding stomp he made on the hard floor. Daemon wore wrath well; he might have been the walking deity for it. “I truly hope this will help you sleep at night the way the Milk of the Poppy tranquilises patients. Yes, it was I who took Rhaenyra to that fucking brothel but I never finished the act.” He laughed—cackled—an ugly sound in their chambers. “How I regretted that. Still, you doubted me and pointed fingers that I took her virtue when I flew us back here and fucked another child for you to pamper right away.

“If this is how you see me even when I didn’t stick my dick into her, I might as well supplant her heirs right then and there!”

A crack rang and Daemon’s head flew to the side.

And she had to squirm to appear strong, too. Fucking pathetic.

They spent a few moments in the eye of the storm until Daemon returned the gesture with a backhanded slap that pierced through her skin and threw her off her chair.

“You bitch!” Daemon spat at the wide-eyed, cowering form of his wife, her hand shaking over her protruding belly. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “If someone should be accused as a whore who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, it should be you, you fucking wench! Do you think of me blind with the way you walk through these halls relishing in the eyes of the men lingering just to get a glimpse of you? I’ve heard about you entertaining my fucking Gold Cloaks while I was giving you my back.”

Frantic cornflower blue irises rose to finally look at him. He thanked the Gods that the lilac shade he was lusting over since their birth wasn’t under this much strain. His pliant wife was a fucking sight. What would the men who lusted for her say now? 

“When,” her voice was hoarse, “have I ever done that, Daemon?” He kept quiet, still staring at her with those dead eyes, only one emotion swirling in them. “Tell me when did I entertain men—your men—while you were training?” He forgot he wore his rings until a single trail of her blood ran down her cheek. Not the perfect shade. Never a god in her right. She was not worthy of him. “I was giving them the courtesy of being the Lady of Dragonstone. What would you want me to do? Sit still and look pretty like everyone expects me?”

“Truth?” Daemon’s tone gained belittlement. “Yes.”

Her face wasn’t beautiful anymore. A pity.

He kneeled in front of her, his forefinger and thumb pinching her chin. She yelped at the pressure. “Because that’s all you are, wife. A fucking pretty face with a cunt in between her legs, asking for every man to fuck her with a bat of her eyelashes.” He flicked her head to the side before standing up.

“And you—do you think I wanted to be born this way?” She now hugged her pregnant belly, eyes not seeing anything yet focused on a single speck on the rug that gave her knees burns. There was a guttural tilt to her next words, resentment present in each syllable, “Do you think I wanted to be presented as the seducer who took away husbands from wives?! That I am tossed away by my father just to be a fucking broodmare to birth out sons?! Do you think I don’t feel repulsed by how men see me?! I want to skin myself! I never asked to be like this! If I could have taken my life just to experience serenity and never the married life I have right now, I would have with a single heartbe—”

“I never wanted this either!” Daemon yelled. “This union was the last thing on my mind. If I had known you were this fucking difficult, I would have let you be assaulted by the Lords you enjoy the attention of!”

She shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

Daemon scoffed. “I do. Wedding you was never an option because my heart, body, and soul already belonged to another. But you looked so desperate to be betrothed to me that I gave you my hand when I could have given it to—”

“My niece,” she breathed out.

“She is the one the Gods gave me to have. Every morrow I wake up to is spent longing for her. It has been that way since I held her in my arms and when she first opened her eyes to see me. You will never hold a candle to the love I feel for Rhaenyra. You don’t even begin to compare to her.”

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish in need of water, not finding the words to say. She was a master of crafting masks and she did it so perfectly that Daemon truly felt the magnitude of disgust displayed on her face. He wanted to slap her to erase such a degrading expression presented to him, a person who was born with both of his parents’ divinity in his veins. She made it seem like he needed his cock cut off. “You are a vile being, husband.”

“Say that again.”

That was all it took for her to prove that she, in fact, had the dragons’ blood in her veins. “You disgust me!”

He had never felt the intense need to handle a woman this way. Daemon saw opaque red; he didn’t even see the shred of fear on his wife’s face when he raised his hand to hit her again; this time, maybe she would be quiet now, giving him the silver lining of finally taking Rhaenyra as his wife and be done with it. What he never expected was the tiny body getting in between his palm and the subject of his ire, the smack of skin against skin echoing in the chambers like the chilly ringing of the Sept’s bells. A softer thud belonging to a body lighter than a pregnant woman came soon after. 

“Aether!”

Abysmal waters enveloped every fibre of his being. It was then that he realised the position he was in. On his hands was the blood of his wife and firstborn. They were mere splatters on his pristine, calloused palms but it was enough to make his son see him for who he truly was. Daemon remained standing in front of the hearth, the tangerine reflection of the flames licking on one side of his profile. It wasn’t enough to unfreeze himself.

In a fit of childish rage, the boy of five stood from the ground and pounded his tiny fists against the garments of Daemon’s night trousers. He couldn’t feel anything; he kept staring at the spot in between his wife’s body and his son’s. The boy had angry tears streaming down his face, snarls taking root in his throat. “You hurt Mother! You’re bad! I hate you!”

“Boy—”

“You’re not my father anymore!”

Again, that deep-rooted fury in his soul erupted. “You fucking brat—!”

“Aether!” She was successful in clutching the boy close to her, halting his attempts in bruising the man who rode his dragon to war. “Don’t you dare lay your hands on my son!”

They were looking at him like he was not a husband or a father. They were looking at him like he was a monster void of reason.

Now, he knew which side his coin landed on when the Gods watched it flip.

He fails at taking Rhaenyra as his wife after witnessing the bloodbath that has taken place at the first wedding feast of the celebrations. Instead, he has seen a new prospective bride in the untouched, tumultuous daughter of the Sea Snake. Laena Velaryon. Just her very name sparks his blood, very much like when he first saw his first wife peering through that window in the Eyrie. That look on Lady Laena’s face is a mirror to how Aellara saw him for the first time — curious and demanding attention. Though he may not be the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror for taking two wives during his reign as a Prince, he follows through by marrying both of his wives due to desire — never duty, however. Both of them are pretty, alluring little things, with one bearing the name of the Siren until her days come to an end while the other is gaining the reputation for her eligibility. 

And now, Daemon lurks in the secret tunnels of the Keep with one purpose in mind. Upon arriving at a fork, he takes no hesitation whatsoever to turn to the right. He walks and walks until he comes face to face with a loose section of the brick wall, shaped to fit into the intricate stone arcs on the other side. Right beyond this wall is the very last thing he is going to collect. For someone with a bravado that can fit the entire realm, Daemon hesitates, hand flexing and fingers itching to fiddle with the handle of the hidden dagger inside the lapels of his tunic. His eyelashes flutter with an unnecessary need to turn back.

He takes the time to draw a huge breath, exhaling it into the night air. Then, he opens the door.

The nursery is a drab thing to be inside. The paintings aren’t hilarious like they are around the Keep; rather, they portray woodland creatures prancing with their wooden instruments while women with otherworldly features on their skin and hair dance to their tune. None of the dragons fucking each other and dragons fucking humans around here. The dragons presented in the painting of the nursery are a fucking joke; dragons aren’t this adorable. He pushes the paintings to the back of his mind and carefully stalks on the rugged floors of the chambers. Thank the Gods that people installed such a feature — it is making his job easier. He creeps into the dark, lilac eyes appearing like the sharpest gems while assessing the children asleep on the mattresses.

He passes by that Hightower bitch’s children, all with the Targaryen colouring. What a fucking waste. If Viserys married any other woman, Daemon would have been proud of his brother’s wife for bringing another generation of Targaryens to keep the bloodline secure. But, alas, such a pity that that woman is the once innocent daughter of the Hightower cunt. Anything miserable revolving around that fucking House is a pure delight to him — it’s just the right amount of entertainment. Then, he notices an odd thing.

The eldest of the Hightower brats is hugging someone close to his rising and falling chest.

Daemon has to dig his fingernails in his palms to physically prevent himself from tearing the pompous brat (Aegon is his name, blegh) away from his precious daughter — the light of his life, the object of his true affection, one of the only good things that came out of him. He peers over Aegon's small body and the sight nearly buckles his knees, eyes stinging with an unknown emotion.

She is still so perfect. Aether truly inherited his fire, that rowdy little boy, but it was Aesira that he rarely stopped carrying every minute spent in Dragonstone. His Gold Cloaks even remarked that the babe could have been a part of his armour, a jest that always elicited a bellied laugh from deep in his stomach, with his beloved baby giggling along with him. Aesira is the best of him. Even he was baffled that he helped create such a lovely, beautiful thing from a marriage not borne from love. Daemon can’t help himself; he kneels right beside the mattress and simply gazes at Aesira sleeping peacefully in the arms of another boy that is not her brother. His hands are itching to caress her chubby cheeks, playfully biting them until she kisses his nose with unconditional care. Aesira is still the prettiest baby he has ever seen. He’s captured a glimpse of that Hightower bitch’s daughter a few minutes ago and she is as plain-looking as her mother. She doesn’t hold a spark to the babe who managed to make him love something so acutely at first sight.

The shade of her hair remains the same. Daemon wishes that she would at least open her eyes. Her tiny fists still grip the nearest thing she has on her side while she sleeps. During their time in Dragonstone, the twins would sleep in between their parents and Aesira would never let go of Daemon’s nightshirt through the dead of the night. Now, raw anger pulls at his stomach because he has been replaced by a babe unworthy of the Targaryen name. It melts away after one look at his slumbering daughter. The Rogue Prince has to hold back a chuckle at the little nose scrunch Aesira does when she dreams of something — an adorable little thing.

He certainly has a favourite out of all his children as much as his first wife had hers. Shame his favourite doesn’t have a cock swinging between her legs.

Daemon forces himself to peel away from the reverie his daughter created and shifts his attention to the true reason why he sneaked into the nursery. On the mattress beside his daughter’s is his reflection. Limbs askew and covers tossed around, Aether Targaryen is Daemon’s miniature copy. His little shadow. The boy made it his personal mission to trail after him like a little dragon following the warmth of its parents. He was always entranced by Dark Sister’s glare under the height of the sun, with him declaring that he would be the third Targaryen to wield it. The boy could dream as high as the stars. If Aesira was the doll he would boast to the court, Aether was the son he would flaunt to the Lords — the son they all wanted. When Aether would become a man grown, he would be the perfect weapon to utilise upon the calls of war and the perfect bachelor Houses would want their daughters to be married to and taste the ferocity of House Targaryen. Daemon was the luminary for Aether and just like any satellite, the latter basks under his glow, borrowing his light to shine in his own right.

But after that night, Daemon guesses that he is the most hated person on this boy’s list.

Then again, he doesn’t care about other people’s feelings other than himself and those who he wants to impress.

Daemon swiftly stands up from his haunches and scoops the boy to hang over his shoulder. With one look over his little girl and the babe in the crib who killed his wife, he slinks through the nursery and into the tunnels, darkness his companion once again.

He dreams of flying.

There are no land masses in sight, only azure waters spanning the entire realm. He can feel jolts while soaring in between cloud formations but he never stops flying. Time stands still in this dream. Maybe he has been flying for hours or mere seconds, he may never know. All that matters is that he is big enough to dive closer to the surface of the ocean and taste the puffs of clouds in his skin. He is swaying, though — head lolling to the side yet he can never explain why. All this time his vision is showing nothing while letting his draconic beast guide him through his first flight. He tries opening his eyes to further feel the experience but it isn’t the glorious sky he is so in awe of.

Aether wakes up to a moving floor.

He is not flying but he is in the air due to someone carrying him over their shoulder. There is no dragon and vast skies; there is just this one person and the walls caving in around him. Aether blinks his eyes to erase the bleariness before turning his head to see who is taking him. Suddenly, fear wraps up his throat again and he is transported to the front of the crackling fireplace with a split-up lip and a bruised cheek.

“Father?”

“Shit.”

Questions start pouring into Aether’s mind like a never-ending water pump the maidservants use while hustling for the day’s meals. Where is Father taking him? How did he get inside the nursery? Aether remembers there being a Kingsguard stationed by the doors of the chambers, having known that they were sworn to protect anybody of Uncle’s blood. Can Father even go past them? He’s seen the Kingsguard train by the main courtyard of the Keep and they are capable of defeating men twice their size. They are adults and they tower over little Aether like he is one of the insects Helaena enjoys watching as they crawl on the ground or the ridges of her palm. All this thinking is making him squirm but Father keeps a firm hand over his body. 

What about Aesira and Daemian then?

Oh, no.

Aesira and Daemian are all alone in the Keep if Father finishes taking him away from them. Who’s going to protect them more closely without him? Aegon has already announced that he was going to marry Aesira last night during supper with the royal family, so Aether wants to be there to prevent him from tainting his sister any further (his hugs and kisses on the cheeks and forehead are dirty enough to soil Aesira; Aether doesn’t want more of that from happening, not on his watch). Then, little Daemian. He’s just a babe; still in his swaddle and is clueless yet so pure as to what the world truly is to children like them — abandoned. Aesira won’t have the help to take care of him if Aether’s not there. Yes, there are going to be wetnurses and maidservants but they are not what the babe craves from time to time. Their baby brother at least needs more family members than Uncle’s side of the family. He should have both his big sister and big brother to guide him while living his childhood.

Aether grunts, fully kicking his feet in the air. “L-Let me go!”

Father answers with pained groans of his own. It looks like Aether kicked him in the cheek and the side of his neck. “Can you keep still?” He struggles with saying the words with all the commotion Aether is making.

“Not until you tell me where we are going!” Aether screams while continuing his assault on Father. The more he fights back, the angrier Father gets; but he’ll take his chances at the moment. Anything to escape this man who hit Mother and made her cry on the floor. Aether is only calling him Father because he doesn’t know what else to call him. Maybe he’ll learn the more colourful terms from Ser Criston during his training. He doesn’t get to hear them often because he’s surrounded by Lords who take the time to bet on the winner of the sword fight; the words get muddled and mould into one that it becomes hard to fully register what they mean. He never stops squirming until all he can hear from Father are words in High Valyrian, a language Aether is going to learn with the Maesters. “Put me down! Bring me to Aesira and Daemian now! I hate you, Father, I hate you!”

“Seven Hells!” Father yells when Aether finally gets his eye.

“I will kick more if you don’t return me to Sira and Damy! So, let me go!” He screams every word, the sound echoing in the tunnels. He’s not scared if there’s a monster waiting to pounce in the shadows, he has to get away from Father and hug Aesira and Daemian in the nursery, wordlessly vowing to himself to never sleep tonight for fear of Father returning and separating them for good. Besides, Father is scarier than any monster depicted in the tales crafted to spook children into behaving themselves. The Rogue Prince has defeated the man who took away the Stepstones according to Mother’s stories and he rides the most dangerous beast known to mankind. At first, Aether is all starry-eyed but after seeing Father that cruel, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near him.

Father still goes unsuccessful in keeping him in place. “Fucking brat!”

“I hate you, I hate you! I want Sira and Damy! Return me to the nursery!”

Father clamps both of his large hands around Aether’s arm, holding them so tightly that they will most likely bloom purples and reds the next morning. The ground touches his bare feet, the dirt digging into his skin and clinging to the seams of his soles. The screams morph into cries of pain for Father only worsens his hold around him. Air becomes non-existent in this suffocating tunnel, the world caving in around him like gnarly arms piercing through his brain. Aether raises his hands to wretchedly claw his way out because it hurts — everything hurts. He just wants to bury himself in that mattress Queen Alicent gave him out of the goodness of her heart, let the scent of freshly-washed sheets cover his senses, and introduce him to another series of dreams that he doesn’t want to wake up from. He just wants to take in that innate baby smell coming from Daemian while Aesira chatters in his ear about the latest book she manages to borrow from one of the desolate libraries of the Keep. He just wants to get away. Aether never realises that the wetness on his cheeks starts making drop tracks on the floor, glinting a brilliant silver against this darkness that Father takes a deep breath, loosening that monstrous grip he has over his arms.

The tunnels are eerily silent. There’s no breeze making the curtains flutter in the high moonlight. There are no signs of Aegon letting out low snores on his mattress or Helaena’s mutterings, not even the two babes fussing in their cribs. Gooseflesh erupts on every visible part of Aether’s skin when he hears the slight scuttle of small feet on the edges of the floor, the squeaking only adding to the haunting whispers of the walls. The tear tracks in between him and Father appear like blood under the mellow lighting brought by the lantern that is discarded at the side, the glass preventing a fire from happening. The silence rings in his ears the moment Father’s pair of lilacs clashes with his wide eyes. His chest rises and falls rapidly and he hopes this is a nightmare because Father has never been this mad.

Aether seems to forget another one of his wishes — he just wants to cry.

“I won’t be returning you to the nursery nor letting you see this castle once again,” Father starts with a steady voice. But that doesn’t help in calming Aether down. Father might as well resort to taming a dragon than face a rattling child like him. “You are coming with me, boy.”

“I-I don’t understand, Father.”

Father narrows his eyes and Aether expects the hand with rings around the fingers to make him tumble to the ground. The man in front of the boy doesn’t make a move in wiping the tears on the latter’s cheek like any other parent, like what Mother did when Aether was terrified of the boom of thunder or what Uncle Viserys did to Aesira when she cried one time during their meetings in his solar. Father never cared; he simply said that he should brave his fears because he would be a man, the example for his siblings. “I’m going to Essos to make a new life there. I choose you to be a part of it.”

Aether still doesn’t understand what Father is talking about. “Why me? What about Aesira and Daemian? Don’t you have a life here, Father? Why are you choosing Essos instead?”

The man clicks his tongue as if everything irritates him. “Carrying three children is something I don’t see myself doing in the middle of the night. Daemian is still a babe; it makes it even harder to do if I want to come out of this castle unscathed. Then, there’s you. You will help me in creating this new life across the Narrow Seas.” Something is brewing inside Father’s eyes and Aether doesn’t like it one bit. His lips are quivering to smile but he maintains the stoicness that will have Aether following his every word. And listen, Aether does best. “There, you can be whoever you want to be. No excessive grandeur that the court expects you to do just because you are my firstborn son. You can even fly your dragon there without direct supervision of the dragonkeepers, blasted old farts. I can teach you the ways of our history, our Mother Tongue, and how to wield Dark Sister. Now, stop your moping and get your shit together.” He stands up but Aether keeps on staring at a random circle of his tears on the dirt floor. Again, Father scoffs. “Boy, don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I—” Aether sniffles. He roughly wipes off the remnants of a sob from his face and stares up at Father. “I won’t leave Aesira and Daemian here.”

Father rolls his eyes. “We will come back for them, I promise.”

“You have to swear it on a pinky.”

A bark of laughter erupts from Father. Aether slowly retreats into his shell. Father seems to be doing a lot of that lately — sucking every piece of bravery from the eldest of the family. He should be the protector of his little siblings but in the presence of Father, he wilts like a blossom that stands too close to the sun. “I forgot how stupid being a child is,” Father murmurs under his breath. He thinks Aether doesn’t hear. The silence in the secret tunnels opposes it to be a secret. The boy tearfully stares at his pinky. All the promises that Aesira kept were forged with their intertwined pinkies. For their little tradition to be called stupid makes him rethink doing it anymore. It was Mother who taught them to honour their oaths and promises with their pinkies, even kissing them when she was the one doing the pinky promises. Aether’s tears resurface. Father keeps talking while the boy spirals, “Who taught you that?”

Aether inhales a sharp breath. “Mother.”

“Fuck,” Father curses. “Of course, she did.” The boy stares at him with a glare. “Remember what I said about having a new family in Essos? It includes a new mother and new siblings.”

The fire spreading through his limbs is redolent of the flames in the fireplace of Mother and Father’s room in Dragonstone. The dirt floor tickling his toes transforms into the rug scraping his skin. The eeriness of the tunnels brings back Mother’s cries and screams of his name. Don’t you dare lay your hands on my son! They say that fathers are supposed to be the protectors of their Houses but it was Mother who hugged Aether close to her pacing heartbeat, protecting him from Father’s wrath. It was Mother who vowed to always shield them from any harm and that once their baby sibling comes into the world, they would be flying away from Dragonstone and back to the Vale. It was Mother who secured a love for them, telling them that they were already so loved by her even before they were born. Father wasn’t in the picture at all. He was out training but he was almost like a ghost. Aether only sought him out and followed him because he was taught to be like Father when he grows up — strong and daring, fierce and loyal; a perfect mix of darkness and light in one person.

How can he force Aether to forget Mother? Mother who was the best hugger in the world, Mother who had the arms that held him and his sister, Mother who had the most beautiful smile around the realm, Mother who was the kindest and most courageous of all.

How dare he?

Aether explodes. “I HATE YOU!” He hit Father just like the man hit Mother all those nights ago. He may not have the rings but he makes up for how fast he punches. Aether knows he’s doing a great job when he hears the pained grunts coming from Father’s mouth. “I don’t want to go with you! I won’t ever leave Aesira and Daemian here alone with no one to protect them! I will never replace Mother with a stranger because I love her the most! I hate you and I hate the girl you’re going to marry! I hate the family you’re making in Essos! I hate you for hurting our family!”

He tastes the dirt from the floor, his pupils shaking from all the adrenaline. His cheek is numb at first but then, it erupts in blooming pain that has him crying more tracks on the ground. A glacial chill runs down from his face to his spine, making his heart spike up and his breathing to hasten. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Everything hurts. The slap Father gave him makes his head ring, blaring warning signs that he is about to sink into this abysmal pool of loathing all his life. A trickle of something thicker than water runs down from a jagged line making itself known to the ghosts howling their frustrations in the night. Aether looks up and sees a monster — a beast wearing Father’s face. From outside, he can faintly hear a dragon’s roar, probably Caraxes. His Achilles is not that big enough to terrorise King’s Landing with its shrieking.

“I gave you the easy way out, boy,” Father says in a hauntingly calm voice. “You can have everything you want if you would just be the obedient dog that you were to your mother. It would seem I have left you with the fucking Hightowers for too long.” Aether scrambles back when Father sits on his haunches to meet his eyes. “If you wish to live here and be manipulated by that Hightower bitch, then by my guest. I expected more from you — it seems like I should have expected nothing at all.” He stands up and takes the lantern from the ground.

“F-Father?” Aether voices out, watching him start to walk away. “W-Where are you going?”

Father looks over his shoulder. “I don’t see the point in staying.”

Panic grips his throat, never letting the air pass through but is on its way to welcome the incoming rise of bile. Father’s figure becomes smaller, the darkness swallowing him from all planes of his body. Aether can hear the squeaking of the rats and the grates of the invisible hands on the bricks. “Father!” He croaks but Father doesn’t hear (or he is pretending). A cold breeze wraps around his back, sparking all hair on his skin to stand on end. An invisible mouth is whispering sweet nothings to him, telling him to take the dagger on Father’s thigh and drive it into the skin until the sinews of the muscles scream, with the edges of an imaginary lip curling in a devilish smile. He ignores the voices and screams, “Father, don’t leave me here!” Father is still walking away, the small pinprick of light in the lantern swaying from all the movement. Fear is still shackling Aether to the floor but if he doesn’t move, he will go ballistic with the thought of being alone in this tunnel. So, he stands on shaky legs and braves himself to take the first step. “FATHER!”

“Farewell, Aether.”

The world caves in and the ghosts consume him whole, piece by piece, with only a scar from Father left behind.

It takes three whole days for the Kingsguard to find the young Lord, staring at nothing and dirty from head to toe right at the base of the castle. The King orders everyone to search for the one responsible for endangering his blood and while the Queen attempts to hug the young Lord in her arms, he releases the most spine-chilling scream, only one emotion present in his face for the first time since he was found — terror.

and with this chapter, i established my side and i am ready for battle.

reply or send an ask if you want to be added to the taglist !!

taglist: @winxschester @darylandbethfanforever9 @averyyreads

[dusty-daydreams]

Hi Hate Anon!

I didn’t post your ask, because I’m not interested in giving you direct space on my tumblr.

However I did want to say a few things.

First of all, I don’t think that Colin is unsexy, I just don’t think they needed to make him a rake to make him sexy.

In fact, I kind of hate the Rake x Virgin romance trope.

I don’t know if you actually read my posts because the anon ask didn’t make it seem like you did, but if you read my posts and my one and only Bridgerton fic you would know that my particular soap box about this silly show is the way it mishandles sex education.

Personally, I hate the Rake x Virgin trope because of all the ways that it can lead to sexual assault. A person’s first and usually only sexual partner should NOT be the one teaching that person about sex. There is just too much danger there.

Plus - and I know this is me very foolishly complaining about historical inaccuracies in the historical inaccuracy show - but I really don’t understand where the show got the idea that all men of high society were Rakes.

The Prince Regent in this time period was a rake and the public kind of despised him.

The Rake is a figure that is traditionally a villain - a character that cares more about his own sexual pleasure than the social and physical safety of the women he seduces.

It is wild to me that the show seems to think that the only way you can make a leading man sexy is by showing him to be a Rake.

Realistically Colin shouldn’t be feeling social pressure to carelessly sleep around.

Like aside from anything else all the older Bridgerton Boys should, if the show was historically accurate, have syphillis.

Finally, if you had read my fic you would have come across my recreation of the Anthony & Colin “I should have taken you to brothels” scene, and in my version Colin calls Anthony out for being misogynistic.

In other words, I hate the fact they took my respectful king and turned him into a man that would compromise the woman he loves.

And before the book lovers come for me about disparaging the carriage scene. I don’t care. I haven’t read the books. I will not read the books (especially with the amount of sexual assault that is framed as sexy and romantic in those books). I do not care about the books.

I am taking the show on its own terms and the show has proven to be lazy and paint by numbers to the extent that they couldn’t imagine the audience finding a respectful king romantic and sexy so made him a rake. (I know he doesn’t want to be a rake in the show, again I do not care I am not talking about the story in universe I am talking about what likely happened on a production level)

[fukia]

Fionna & Cake final thoughts , opinions and nitpicks lol

This will be unorganized and random and stinky, sorry

• great pacing first 2 eps

• good ideas

• ignoring multiverse saturation, is p decently done here!

• I miss Neil Patrick’s take on Gary/gumball- he sounded so freakin princely :(

• marshall sounded kinda less mischievous than he used to? Like vocally more down or something- I’m super glad he had the same actor tho lol Donaldddd

• I miss old Prismo voice too but I know why these didn’t work out

• Hunter’s voice either could’ve gone for a deep gravely stoicism or could’ve just been w/ the same actor as Huntress Wizard

• Scarab is ehhh- decent design but feels kinda out of place for adventure time- voice is similarly the same offness too, reminded me of kinda bad anime dub voices, it doesn’t feel intentional to the right extent —- either make a more surreal villain or a funnier one, his presence was rather generic

• the spooky faces and scurrying beetle of scarab was kinda funny

• lemongrab. Why justnonce roiland.

• I will end my life a million aeons over for Orbo - bluey’s dad: “say goodbye to your legs!”

• mmmarceline dress

• bubblegum mmmmilitary

• I wish we saw the fucking MOON vampire

• MOON vs STAR (super cool naming if the uh tarot thing is carried on here I legit don’t know if star is an actual tarot card lemme check)

• ORGALORG WHYYYYYY

• marshall n Gary was sweet- but I really wished they played up the bitter exes part before they did just the fluffy dating, bring a bit of parallel consistency

• fionna was good acting! The crying bit made my heart ouches- Character herself was a tad frustrating at times admittedly

• cake is great still - cake and vampire king hilarious

• why no “the star”’s actual dad :(

• BETH SHERMY GIBBON YES YES YES- back to old adventure time: I love the intro theme for Beth and shermy, it’s so melancholic and desolate, cold, with backgrounds that make this so fascinatingly depressing a turn for the land of oo (happy endings impermanent- life goes on kinda deal, so cool, so consistent with adventure time’s own concepts & “everything stays”)

• Simon and Betty made me emotional

• uhh how old was Betty when she starting dating simon? Just offhand lol I’m sure it was fine

• Golbetty had beautiful scenes

• way better simon and Golbetty than that weird adventure time published comic I’m sure some of you read

• the animation is great on some places, other times while well made, feels out of place for adventure time; like it’s trying too hard to be pretty (not the Ice Prince song, stuff like that made sense for adventure time)

• like some bits reminded me of Steven universe’s inconsistencies (same bits that made me really really dislike some of adventure time distant lands’ execution)

• [funny nitpick incoming] like there were points where the characters had really big eyes even tho they r supposed to be dots (not when exaggerating certain emotions cartoonishly, I meant prolonged); adventure time’s deal is keeping them small and kinda hard to decipher

• some bits were just a tinnny too anime that it bothered me, just some! Anime is cool!!!

• I was really expecting or hoping for a Korra styled multi-season just with lesser episodes

• the resolution was… kinda haphazardly handled

• same with some of the final themes, like w/ simon n betty

• adventure time is kinda known for being almost ambiguously optimistic so the whole super happy thing was kinda strange to me

• I know like it shouldn’t have to be the same as adventure time obviously, but that was the general identity of adventure time; the cosmic ambiguity with absurd humor delivered nonchalantly

• like I think of patience st pim’s ice domain during elements and the melancholic quietness of it - also PATIENCE ST PIM WHYYYYY I LOVED YOU (patiencevstheempresscough)

• ORGALORG COME BACK TO MEEEE

• yes it was a great thing to have this miniseries I enjoyed many parts

• the music was fucking fire!!!

• where was the dr two brains reference ? -3-

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hurricanes / Hummingbirds: III

Series Synopsis: As the years go by, you find that it is incredibly difficult to survive wars and fight storms, especially when the only thing you have by way of a cursed technique is the blessing of a tiny bird.

Chapter Synopsis: You spend some time with your upperclassmen, the infamous trio of Gojo, Geto, and Ieri.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Hajime Kashimo x Female Reader; slight Kento Nanami x Female Reader; slight Satoru Gojo × Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 7.1k

Content Warnings: swearing, enemies/rivals to lovers, character death, canon-typical violence, angst, gore, original characters included

A/N: guys i promise i don’t hate classic literature y/n and nanami are just haters #justiceforclassicliterature #justiceforhinode

“Give up,” you said, pressing the tip of the Sword of Syrinx against Nanami’s throat. “Even your technique can’t get you out of this one.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, slamming his palm against the ground. “You win.”

“Yay!” you said, immediately sheathing the sword, which hummed in content at the victory. As any sportsmanlike person would, you reached out and helped Nanami stand; he took your hand gratefully, squeezing to steady himself.

“Nice job, Y/N!” Haibara shouted from where he and Hinode stood on the sidelines, watching your practice match. “You might even be able to beat me at this rate!”

“I’m stronger than you,” Nanami called back, which only led to Haibara sticking his tongue out at him.

“Maybe in a match of techniques, but, no offense, I’m way more muscular, and that’s what matters when your opponent only has swordsmanship on their side,” he said, flexing his muscles for comedic effect.

It had been some time since you had arrived in Tokyo and befriended Nanami, Haibara, and the Sword of Syrinx. With Hinode’s tutelage and the boys’ willingness to practice with you, you had quickly learned how to wield the special grade cursed tool. You were helped along by the fact that the sword seemed to be almost sentient, in a sense — not that it could have full-blown conversations or anything, but it was capable of transmitting basic emotions and sentiments via cursed energy. It had taken a liking to you ever since that first day, and it was generous enough to sometimes lend you power when your own reserves were running low or guide you into a move you hadn’t quite thought of when you were stuck in a tough spot.

“I think it’s time,” Hinode said.

“Time? Time for what?” you said.

“I think you can go on your first mission. You’ve managed to beat Nanami enough times that a lower-level curse shouldn’t pose any threat to you,” he said. Equal amounts of fear and anticipation blossomed in you at the thought of actually going out and exorcising a curse, using the Sword of Syrinx to its fullest extent instead of as a dummy to hit Nanami with. It would probably be pleased; judging by how thrilled it got whenever you managed to defeat Nanami, it possessed an innate bloodlust, a desire to win that outmatched even yours.

“I don’t know if I can do it alone, though,” you said. Hinode immediately shook his head, showing you his phone. There was a mission alert on it, but it had already been accepted by someone else.

“You can tag along with him. He won’t let anything happen to you; worst comes to worst, all you’ll have to do is stay out of his way,” he said.

“Will he even let me go?” you said. “I would just be an annoyance.”

“He’s the king of being an annoyance, so it’s what he deserves,” Nanami said, peering over Hinode’s shoulder and reading the mission details with a frown.

“He is still a student of the school, which means he does have to comply with what his teachers tell him to do, at least a little bit. Besides, you really won’t slow him down too much, so don’t stress out. You’re more likely to be a help than a hindrance,” Hinode said.

“If you think so, sir,” you said. “And I guess technically the Sword of Syrinx does belong to him, so maybe it’s only fair that he gets to see me using it. It’ll be an assurance that he did the right thing in giving it to me, at any rate.”

Satoru Gojo. Since the day that he had allowed you to have the Sword of Syrinx, you two actually hadn’t spoken all too much, contrary to Nanami’s expectations. To be sure, you’d nod politely at each other when you passed in the hallways, but you were usually engaged in conversation with Haibara or Nanami and he with Geto or Ieri, so it wasn’t like there was much opportunity for any sort of meaningful interactions. You didn’t really mind; to you, he was nothing more than the owner of your sword. Beyond being cordial enough to him that he allowed you to keep using it, you had no need for interaction with the boy.

“Hey, Miss Sandwich Taster,” Gojo said when you jogged into the driveway, where he was stretching as he waited for a manager to arrive and take you to the mission site. “How’ve you been? I see you still have that crappy sword with you.”

“It’s not crappy,” you said. “And I’ve been doing fine, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, and sure it’s not. Anyways, Yaga told me that Hinode told him that you’re coming along with me to see how the real masters exorcise curses,” he said.

“Well, that’s not quite the full story,” you said. “I’m supposed to be helping you on the mission…”

“Helping me?” he said. A car screeched into the driveway and skidded to a stop almost on top of you; you jumped back in surprise, afraid the wheels would roll over your feet or something. Gojo snorted, opening the door and motioning for you to get in before sliding in beside you. “I don’t need help, though.”

“I told Hinode I’d just get in your way, but he insisted I come. You can blame him, if I’m really that much of a bother,” you said.

“No, you’re fine, it’s just laughable that anyone would be sent along to help me, let alone a first year — even if the first year does have admittedly good taste in sandwiches,” he said.

“Are you going to hold that sandwich over me forever?” you said.

“For the next year or so, probably,” he said.

“Well, you know I like sandwiches,” you said. “What kind of food do you like?”

“Sweet stuff, mostly,” he said.

“You have a sweet tooth?” you said. You hadn’t really expected it; he seemed like the kind of person to refuse to eat anything sugary for some ridiculous reason such as it making him too hyperactive. Although, he already was decently hyperactive, so you supposed a little extra sugar wouldn’t really change things for him all too dramatically.

“Massively,” he said. “Shoko makes fun of me for it, but with the way she smokes, she has no room to talk.”

Shoko Ieri was the mysterious third of the second year students. While Gojo and Geto were the bright, flashy, well-regarded strongest duo, she was calmer, avoiding conflict and confrontation with a practiced finesse. You saw her even less than you saw Gojo, but the few times you had run into each other, she had been kind enough.

You both were quiet for a bit, him busy reading the email containing the mission details and you staring out the window, watching the scenery fly past. Sitting in the car next to him, you thought that he wasn’t all too intolerable; in fact, he was actually pretty nice.

“Can you tell me the mission details? I didn’t get the email, since I’m not officially on it, and Hinode didn’t let me stay and read anything,” you said, breaking the silence.

“It’s pretty run of the mill. Some curses have popped up at a graveyard and are currently picking off any mourners that come and visit,” he said. “It should be in-and-out. Wanna get snacks afterwards? Exorcising always makes me hungry.”

“Uh, okay,” you said. He didn’t seem nervous at all, which led you to believe that people hadn’t been exaggerating his abilities by calling him one of the strongest; the title was one he truly, genuinely deserved, at least if his casual demeanor was anything to go by.

“Cool!” he said. You blinked, still quite unable to believe how unserious he was about everything. Would you ever be like that? Maybe after a few thousand missions, but likely not even then.

“So, Hinode said that curses usually appear in places with high concentrations of negative emotions,” you said. “Schools, hospitals, graveyards, that kind of thing.”

“Huh, are you talking to me? Yeah, that’s right,” Gojo said. “Are you confused or something? The theory behind it is pretty simple, though.”

“No, I understand the theory, I was just — well, isn’t that sad to you?” you said.

“Sad?” he said.

“I mean, the curses are taking advantage of people who are already hurting. The people at the graveyard, they’re grieving the loss of someone they loved. That’s not a crime that should be punishable by death. That’s not a crime at all,” you said.

“They’re called curses, what did you expect?” he said. “Obviously they’ll be all nasty and evil and bad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s just not very fair. Those poor people, they don’t even know what their mistake was,” you said.

“You sound like Suguru,” he said, sticking his tongue out in disgust. “Honestly. There’s no need to give speeches or try to assign morality or reason to things. Word of advice: you go on your mission, you kill the curses, you get some snacks, you go home. Anything else is unnecessary.”

“Why are you even a sorcerer?” you said. “It doesn’t seem like you care very much about protecting others or anything like that, so what’s the point? Why are you risking your life to go on missions?”

You couldn’t be sure if he was looking at you just then, his eyes covered by glasses as they were, but certainly you could feel the intensity of his gaze as it rested on you. You gripped the hilt of the Sword of Syrinx, not as a threat but because you wanted its cursed energy swirling around you like a buffer, protecting you from the Six Eyes of Satoru Gojo. It responded immediately, power flaring around you, holding you tightly, seeping into your very bones and reinforcing them.

He laughed raucously. “No way, that hunk of scrap metal has that much cursed energy of its own? I can see why you wanted it so badly! Also, Suguru just texted me about this shop in the area that we should definitely check out once we’re done.”

“Stop making fun of my sword,” you muttered, earning you an appreciative surge of cursed energy from the Sword of Syrinx.

“Looks like we’re here,” Gojo said instead of apologizing. “Come on. Let’s just get this done with.”

You followed after him, staying in his shadow as best you could, forgetting the entire conversation in the car and your irritation at his callous way of referring to the Sword of Syrinx. This was your first mission; consequently, it would be the first time you would be faced with the beings known as curses since your near-death before you were sent to Tokyo.

A face twisted into a leer. Hands gnarled into talons, reaching at you, scraping at your collarbone, your cheeks, trying to tangle into your hair. A gaping maw, endless darkness threatening to consume you entirely, yanking you closer and closer as you skidded backwards. And then bright lights, a blaring horn, asphalt digging into the shallow wounds the monster had gouged into you, tires rolling to a stop mere feet before they crushed into you.

“You’re so distracted,” Gojo said, flicking you on the forehead and breaking you out of your reminiscing. “Get your head in the game.”

He was right. It would not do if you were lost in thought about events from the past that could not be changed. Things were different now; you had Gojo and the Sword of Syrinx with you, as well as the knowledge and training to actually do something to the curses. Never again would you have to cower helplessly. Never again would you close your eyes and wait for the end.

Drawing the Sword of Syrinx and marvelling at the iridescence of the blade, which even now astounded you, you took a deep breath and began to scan the rows of tombstones for anything out of the ordinary. The entire graveyard was buzzing with residuals, which made it difficult to pick any one element out, but despite that, Gojo was utterly calm, strolling along the grassy hills like you two were out for a holiday.

“Ooh, there’s a grade 4 curse. Do you want to do the honors?” he said, pointing at something vaguely resembling a rat but far larger, roughly the size of your forearm. It was dark green-black, though its eyes were a wild, gleaming yellow, its teeth clacking together as it gnawed on the decaying remains of something.

“Sure,” you said, twirling the Sword of Syrinx in your dominant hand, avoiding looking at the body that the curse sat protectively atop of. With one clean strike, you separated the rat’s head from its body, causing the entire mess to melt into a puddle of goo that then proceeded to evaporate into nothing.

The sword seemed pleased enough with the first exorcism, and you swished it in the air to clean it of the steaming innards of the curse. This seemed to make it happier than the actual act of fighting had, and you smiled slightly at the thought that the cursed tool was a vain one.

“I’ll polish you once we’re home,” you said, earning you a dash of approval from the sword. You patted the crossguard comfortingly and then turned to Gojo to see what his thoughts were, only to find that he was busy on his phone.

“Do you like my new background?” he said, showing you a picture of a beautiful woman. You rolled your eyes.

“Did you just have me exorcise that curse so that you could mess around?” you said.

“I would never dream of doing something like that,” he said.

“I get why Nanami doesn’t like you,” you said under your breath.

“What was that?” he said innocently. Your eyes widened before you smiled beatifically at him.

“Nothing. I’m assuming that wasn’t the main curse?” you said.

“Nope, it was just a bottom feeder taking advantage of the bigger curse’s leftovers,” he said.

“So that was a —”

“It’s best not to dwell on it,” he interrupted you before you could turn to look at the body once again. It had been mangled beyond belief and into the realm of obscurity, but maybe there had been a time where it had been something. Been someone. “Let’s go. Our job isn’t done yet.”

You wandered around with him for a bit, Gojo bidding you to dispatch the lower-level curses you encountered and you willingly doing so with a few motions of the Sword of Syrinx. It was barely difficult, though part of this was probably the nature of the boy at your side — his presence alone was enough to scare weaker things off, if they had the presence of mind to recognize his power.

“Say, Gojo,” you said as you continued to walk. “Did you ever put up a veil?”

“What?” he said, freezing and turning to look at you. You furrowed your brow.

“Er, a veil? Hinode said we have to put one up every time that we go on missions so that non-sorcerers don’t see us exorcising curses,” you said. Gojo’s face, which was already pale like the moon, became impossibly whiter, nearing the shade of his hair, and he began to inch backwards.

“I definitely did that! Also, unrelated, but I forgot something over there. Just wait and don’t move, okay?” he said, sprinting off, definitely not to put up a veil. You shook your head as you watched him disappear, a veil slowly creeping over the sky once he was well out of sight.

The Sword of Syrinx’s cursed energy spiked in warning, the closest thing it had to screaming in alarm. Immediately, you brandished it in front of you, tightening your lax muscles, every single one of your senses going on high alert as you tried to discern what it was warning you about.

“Who’s there?” you said. High, mocking laughter resounded in the air around you, and if you had not been holding onto your sword, you would’ve covered your ears in an effort to shield them from the pain that the sound caused. It was an unnatural sort of hurting, and you knew without a doubt that it was the work of the curse you and Gojo had been sent to exorcise, the main one, not the weaklings you had been working through up until now.

Gojo was off somewhere, probably still setting up the veil and playing with his phone, so you were well and truly alone. No, not alone — your constant companion, your sword, the one that had warned you in the first place, you did have that much. It would have to be enough to hold back the curse until Gojo could come and exorcise it fully.

First, you needed to locate the curse. It was obviously shying away from the intense aura radiating from the Sword of Syrinx, which was after all a special grade no matter who its wielder was, but the effect of the weapon would not last long. Almost as soon as you thought about it, as if it could read your mind, the curse appeared, in the form of a misshapen blob with almost as many eyes as it had tentacles.

You feinted a strike at its core before slicing at the tentacles that it shot forwards to defend itself, cutting them all off, though it did no good, as they immediately regenerated. The severed tentacles fell to the ground and flopped around uselessly, and you swore as you danced around them, trying to avoid tripping as you dodged the curse’s blows.

Every time you cut more tentacles off, more appeared. It was an endless cycle of the same thing, over and over — cut. Dodge. Cut. Dodge. Even with the Sword of Syrinx’s help, you were running out of energy, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before the tentacles got to you.

“Gojo!” you shouted, more in anger than fear. “What the hell are you doing, anyways?”

This time, a tentacle managed to lash against your ribcage, sending you sprawling onto your side. You managed to raise the Sword of Syrinx to block it from wrapping around your neck just in time, but the gooey cursed energy burst from the wound and directly onto your face, sluicing into your eyes and effectively blinding you for the moment. There was a wet ‘thwap’ as the piece you had cut off fell on the ground next to you, and you groaned, using one hand to keep your sword tentatively in front of you and the other to claw at your vision in a desperate attempt to make it return.

Before you could regain your sight, the curse’s assault abruptly stopped. There was an explosion of cursed energy, and then remnants of what had once been the creature came raining down, bits of it splashing against your skin and clothes, causing you to gag, both at the smell and the sensation. You knew why the curse had been dispatched so quickly: a bigger monster had arrived. Luckily for you, this monster was on your side.

“Wow, Y/N, you look disgusting!” Gojo said. A cloth rubbed against your face, wiping away the residuals of the curse, and you sighed in relief before allowing him to help you stand. He inspected his sleeve, which he must’ve used to clean you, with a slight pout.

“What took you so long?” you said, replacing the Sword of Syrinx back in its scabbard and glaring at him with your hands on your hips. “That was definitely not a lower grade curse, and you left me alone to deal with it!”

“Sorry,” he said. “I decided to change my background again. At least you didn’t die?”

“You decided your background was your biggest priority despite being in the middle of a mission?” you said.

“Aesthetics are one of the things I value most,” he said. “By the way, I’m hungry now. Exorcising curses always does it to me!”

“I hope you starve,” you said. Unfortunately, at that moment, your stomach grumbled, punctuating your statement ironically. Gojo pointed at you with a smirk.

“You’ll starve then, too. I can pay, if that’s what’s stressing you out,” he said. “I happen to be the head of my clan.”

“I’m sure they really appreciate a teenage boy spending their accumulated wealth on post-mission snacks,” you said. It remained that you were hungry, however, so you didn’t protest too much as he dragged you to the shop Geto had recommended and proceeded to buy you both one of everything.

Oddly enough, despite your initial reluctance and snark, you actually enjoyed yourself. Besides being a somewhat unreliable mission partner — though he had come through when it really mattered, so you couldn’t be too harsh — Gojo was fun to talk to, even if his sense of humor was a little childish on occasion. Plus, he had bought you so much food like it was nothing and offered to take you along the next time he and his friends went to the arcade, though the latter was done under the guise of saying Ieri needed a partner for the multiplayer games, so overall it was really a fun time.

“I don’t understand why you guys dislike Gojo so much,” you said that night, balancing the Sword of Syrinx on your lap as you polished it on the floor of Haibara’s room. Nanami, who was lying on Haibara’s bed with two cucumbers on his eyes, exhaled in defeat.

“How things can change in one day! How fickle the hearts of humans can be, that such even such a strong woman was swayed by the charms of the white-haired devil,” he said, reaching his hand out to the ceiling and then curling his fingers inwards like he was delivering a soliloquy. “Also, can I take these cucumbers off now?”

“No, man, your dark circles are really bad,” you said, deciding not to even acknowledge the rest of it, knowing it was probably influenced by the classic literature Hinode was making you all read. “Leave them on for a few more minutes or so.”

There was a loud crunching sound, and a mumbled apology fell from the lips of the guilty-faced Haibara. He was sitting at his desk, and technically, he was supposed to be finishing the essay you all had due last week. Hinode had been gracious enough to give him an extension, but he was far too busy munching on the leftover snacks you had brought to his room to get any work done.

“These are really good,” he said when you raised your eyebrows at him questioningly.

“Haibara, if you don’t turn that essay in, you’re literally going to fail. Do you know how impossible it is to fail Hinode’s class?” you said.

“It’s true,” Nanami said. “Some remarkable idiots have passed that class. I don’t want to name names, so let’s just call them…Nojo.”

“Nojo,” Haibara repeated incredulously.

“I thought you said that Gojo was decently smart, though?” you reminded him.

“I’m not talking about Gojo! I’m talking about Nojo,” Nanami said. “Different person. And, Haibara, if Nojo could pass, then I’ll never forgive you if you fail.”

“Especially if it’s just because you’re eating snacks that Nojo — sorry, Gojo, different person — bought instead of doing your late essay,” you added, using your nail to scrape away a stubborn bit of grime on the Sword of Syrinx, causing the sword to let out a contented trickle of energy.

“They’re just so delicious!” Haibara said.

“Look, Hinode said you have to turn the essay in by this Friday, right? That’s five days from now. He’s a pretty lenient grader, so you can probably get away with a standard five paragraph essay. That’s a paragraph per day. You can do that, right?” you said. Actually, for this specific assignment, your essay had ended up being about seven paragraphs, and Nanami’s had been six, but five would be sufficient. Anything more would just scare Haibara, and at this point, his grade was in such desperate need of help that even partial credit would be a blessing.

“A paragraph per day? It’ll be hard, but…I’ll do my best!” Haibara said. That was the nice thing about him. Once he was fired up about something, he would give it his all, and in the case of Hinode, who only cared about seeing some kind of effort, that was enough.

“Good job. Let us know if you need help,” you said as Haibara determinedly returned to his work, setting his snacks out of reach so that he had nothing resembling distractions in his way. He did not respond, evidently serious about finally focusing and doing his best, leaving you and Nanami to talk to each other.

“Can I get rid of the cucumbers now?” he said.

“No,” you said.

“I’m bored, though,” he said.

“Just take the time to relax. If you’re that bored, you can talk to me,” you said. He considered this as you switched the cleaning off the Sword of Syrinx’s scabbard.

“You really like Gojo now?” he said.

“Yes,” you said. “He invited me to his group’s arcade night next week so I can be Ieri’s partner. Do you want to come? If you go, Haibara can come and be your partner, so it’ll be all nice and even.”

“You can’t just invite people to other people’s gatherings,” he said. You put down your cleaning supplies and whipped out your phone, texting Gojo and waiting for his response. It came within a matter of seconds, and you tucked your phone away so you could continue to clean.

“Gojo said it was fine, and that he’s tried to convince you to come before but you’ve always said no,” you said. The tips of Nanami’s ears turned red.

“I mean, that’s a possibility,” he said. “I can faintly remember it happening like that, yeah.”

“It’ll be fun if you come. Don’t be a party pooper,” you said.

“Fine,” he said.

“Really?” you said.

“Don’t push it,” he threatened. “But yes. I’ll go. And I’m sure Haibara will, too, since he’ll have turned his essay in by then.”

“I’m excited now!” you said. “The second years feel so unreachable sometimes, but in the end, they’re just normal people. It’ll be fun to spend time with them in that context instead of as just their underclassmen. And of course, I always love hanging out with you and Haibara.”

“You have a point,” he said reluctantly.

“Look forward to it! It might be the only way we get through Hinode’s classes. I don’t know why he’s going through such a literature kick at the moment, but if we have to do one more interpretation of a book from the 1800s, I’m going to lose it,” you said.

“He’s not even licensed as a teacher,” Nanami said, peeling away the cucumbers and giving you an exasperated look. The effect was somewhat diminished by the ring of juices shimmering around his eyes. “He was hired to help us practice sorcery, so while giving papers on curse theory and the like is within the scope of his job, literature just…is not.”

You choked back a laugh. “What about the math?”

“I think he picked the wrong career path.”

The two of you could only manage to hold it in for a second longer, and then you dissolved into a fit of laughter and Nanami let out a dry chuckle — which, coming from him, was akin to hysterics.

“Guys!” Haibara whined, slamming his hands against his desk and swiveling in his chair to face you. “Can you quiet down? I’m almost done my essay.”

“Do you mean your paragraph?” you said.

“No, the entire essay. It’s amazing how fast I can work when I’m not eating and I’m actually concentrating,” Haibara said.

“That’s generally how it is, yes,” Nanami said.

“Okay, so do you two mind shutting up for a bit so I can finish? Then we can all talk together,” he said.

“Anything for you, boss,” you said, saluting at him.

“Finish quickly, alright?” Nanami said. “If you turn it in tomorrow, Hinode might even give you extra credit.”

Haibara’s eyes lit up, and he turned back to his essay with a newfound vigor. Discreetly, you tossed a pillow at Nanami, who did not even attempt to get out of the way, giving you a baleful look as it hit him in the chest.

“You’re such a liar,” you said.

“Anything to motivate him to work faster,” he said. “Now, stop talking before he gets distracted again.”

“Guys! I said shut up!”

The week seemed to pass by in a blur. Hinode was so shocked by Haibara’s newfound work ethic that he actually did end up giving him extra credit, and he even freed the three of you from the shackles of learning about classic literature, instead doing his real job, which was helping you learn how to become sorcerers. You managed to beat Haibara in a practice match, though it had the unfortunate side effect of him tackling you to the ground in a hug of congratulations, leaving your tailbone somewhat bruised and sore. Nanami, in a fit of inspiration, declared that while you might beat them in sparring, you would never come close to their arcade game prowess, as you wouldn’t have your sword to help you there.

The night finally came for all of you to go out. For once, you wore clothes that were not your uniform but casual and comfortable, and you felt entirely like a normal girl setting out to do normal things instead of a sorcerer-to-be whose life was constantly at risk due to the nature of the job.

“I’m sorry,” you said to the Sword of Syrinx, which was resting on the bookcase again. “I can’t exactly stroll around Tokyo with you, though. Don’t worry; Gojo and Geto will be there, so I won’t be in any danger.”

The sword seemed a little annoyed about being left behind, but all you could do was pat its scabbard in consolation before flicking off the lights and shutting the door as gently as you could. It was true that no matter how bad you felt for the strangely sentient cursed tool, there was no way you could carry it around with you amongst the many civilians of Tokyo. Anyways, no matter how sentient it might’ve seemed, it was also still a sword. A special grade cursed tool, yes, but a sword nevertheless, and as swords did not truly have emotions nor souls, there was only so far you could extend your sympathy for it.

“Hey, Y/N. Satoru told me you and the rest of the first years would be joining us tonight,” Geto said as you rounded the corner and almost ran into him. His smile was as soft and pleasant as his voice, and he did not seem to bear you any ill-will despite the fact that you had almost directly collided with him.

“Geto! Ah, yes, he invited us to come along. I hope that’s alright?” you said. Though he was far less obnoxious and in-your-face about it, Geto was the other half of the strongest duo. He was the only man that could stand against Satoru Gojo and win, so it would do you well to show him some respect.

“Of course! I would’ve asked you myself if we ever had the chance to speak,” he said, keeping pace with you effortlessly, his hands shoved in his pockets and his warm eyes contemplative.

“I didn’t realize you wanted to talk to me,” you admitted.

“You’re my underclassman. Why would I not want to talk to you?” he said, reaching out and ruffling your hair fondly. Ordinarily, you would snap at anyone who dared to touch your hair, but when Geto did it, it was different. It felt kind, caring, the way you assumed it would be if an affectionate older brother did such a thing. You could not be upset by it, so you decided that he would be your one exception.

“I never thought about it like that,” you said.

“If you ever need anything, you can definitely ask me,” he said. “Or Satoru. Or Shoko! I mean, you can come to all of us.”

“Thank you,” you said, embarrassed by how kind he was. It didn’t feel special, either; just as being fed up was part of Nanami’s personality, being kind was part of Geto’s. He was simply like this, you assumed, with everyone.

“Has Tokyo been treating you well? And what about those classmates of yours?” he said. “Because if either of them have been acting up, you just let me know, and I’ll send a couple of curses after them. Small ones, of course, the kind that would do little more than give them a scare in the middle of night, but I think that would be enough to get a laugh out of us both.”

“Tokyo has been wonderful. The same goes for Nanami and Haibara, so no need to sic the curses on them quite yet — if that ever changes, you’ll be the first person I call,” you said. “It’s really been so different from home.”

“Is that a good thing?” he said.

“Yes, I would say. I feel like I’m accepted here in a way I wasn’t before,” you said, tapping your chin in thought. “People outside of the sorcery world can’t really understand those in it. Did you know that?”

“My parents aren’t sorcerers, either,” he said. “I’d wager I know it as well as you do.”

He did not offer more, and you did not inquire. Whatever his past was, it was his alone, as yours belonged to you. But you had this much in common, that both of you were born of non-sorcerers who would never, not truly, know what it was like.

Sometimes, you wondered what your parents were doing, if they missed you, or if they were relieved that you were gone now. Surely, it was the latter, as they had never made any attempts to contact you, but the smallest, most childish part of you wanted it to be true that they regretted sending you away, that every day they ached for your return.

“It’s nice to have friends, as well,” you said. “Nanami and Haibara, they are so different from each other and from anyone I’ve ever met, but I would not trade them for the entire world. They are very precious to me.”

Nanami with his reluctance to do just about anything and the way he would do just about everything, just because he cared about you and Haibara. Haibara and his cheerfulness, making it impossible to be sad for very long at all. Where would you be without them? Who would you be without them? They had forced you out of a shell you hadn’t even realized was built around you. They helped you take aching, vulnerable steps into a new world where you were strong, where you were brave, where you were yourself.

“And what about exorcising curses and whatnot? Has that been alright?” he said. The concern was nice. It evoked the same emotion in you that had arisen when Yaga had shown anger at your past circumstances: a kind of gratitude that there existed someone who cared about you.

“I’ve only gone on that one mission with Gojo, but it went well enough. My cursed technique hasn’t manifested yet, so I mostly rely on the Sword of Syrinx, but that’s a special grade cursed tool, so it could be worse,” you said.

“You have a technique?” he said.

“According to Hinode, it’s some ancient technique called Hummingbird’s Blessing. It allows its user to borrow the strength of the hummingbird. I still don’t know what it means, let alone how it’s used, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” you said.

“Hm,” Geto said. “I know it sounds like a weak technique, and I don’t know the details, so I could be entirely wrong, but might I say something?”

“Go ahead,” you said, the rest of the students coming into view. For some reason, Haibara and Nanami were diligently massaging Ieri’s shoulders, and Gojo was taking pictures of the spectacle with a digital camera. Noticing you and Geto approaching, he turned the flash on and snapped a shot of the two of you walking together, one you were sure would be absolutely horrible, considering both of you had been caught entirely by surprise and weren’t even facing the camera when the photo was taken.

“The simplest techniques tend to be the most powerful. See, the more complicated a technique is, the more restrictions it usually has. Or, alternatively, the cost of cursed energy to use it is so high that it’s barely ever a viable option. But if you can take a weak, straightforward technique and use your mind a bit,” he said, tapping you on the forehead. “That’s how you really become strong.”

Flash. “Cute pose! These are going to come out so good!”

“Gojo!” you said, startled both by the blinding light of the camera and his sudden appearance in between you and Geto. “Will you at least take one of me where I’m looking at the camera?”

“Sure!” he said, taking the opportunity to take another picture, this one likely of you scowling directly into the lens.

“When I know what’s going on and have time to prepare!” you said. Perhaps you had been a bit too hasty in saying you liked him.

“Eventually,” he said. “Now, the question is, do we convince the managers to drive us, or do we just walk?”

“It’s a nice night out,” Ieri said. “I don’t mind either way. Walking will give me more time to strategize with my new teammate, however, so if you guys are feeling threatened, then we should call a manager.”

“We’re not threatened!” Gojo said.

“We’re the strongest. Do you think we’ll let you two beat us? We’d never live it down,” Geto added. Ieri exhaled a puff of smoke from the cigarette dangling between her teeth and turned back to wink at you.

“Then I suppose we’re walking,” she said, looping her arm through yours and using her other hand to motion the others forward. “Go on, now, we can’t have you all eavesdropping on our groundbreaking strategies.”

Of the four, only Haibara was impressed, his eyes sparkling and his jaw dropping, likely at the thought of you and Ieri having ‘groundbreaking strategies.’ He bowed, and it was made even more humorous by the fact that he was probably being completely serious with it.

“We’ll let you two discuss. I look forward to seeing what you come up with,” he said, grabbing the back of Nanami’s shirt and using it to yank him forwards, away from you and Ieri. Gojo and Geto exchanged looks before simultaneously shrugging and following after them, leaving you and Ieri to take up the rear at a more sedate speed.

“What groundbreaking strategies are you thinking of?” you said.

“I just have one,” she said, holding up her pointer finger for emphasis.

“Let’s hear it, then,” you said.

“Beat Suguru and Satoru,” she said. You waited for her to elaborate. She did not.

“Sounds like a plan,” you said. “Are you good at games?”

“No,” she said. “Are you?”

You winced. “No.”

“That’s fine. We’ll just have to go the old-fashioned route,” she said firmly, elbowing you in the side.

“What’s that?” you said, tilting your head towards her curiously. Her face split into a conniving smile.

“Lying, cheating, and scamming our way to the top.”

“How the hell did we lose again?” Gojo screamed, banging on his controller like he was trying to force it into working.

“I guess you guys just aren’t as good as Y/N and I,” Ieri said, tossing her hair.

“Where is Y/N, anyways?” Nanami said, narrowing his eyes at Ieri.

“Bathroom. Uh…womanly issues?” she said. Nanami made a face.

“Alright,” he said.

“I hope she’s doing okay, she’s been gone for a while. Oh, I know! We should all buy her some chocolate! That’ll cheer her up, right? I mean, chocolate helps because of its high magnesium content, so it’ll make her feel better,” Haibara said.

“Yes. You all should go get her some chocolate,” Ieri said.

“Good idea, Haibara,” Geto said. “I’m sure she’ll really appreciate it. Let’s go.”

“I still can’t believe we lost to her and Shoko,” Gojo said as the four of them walked away in search of chocolate to offer to you.

“You can come out now,” Ieri said. You slid out from behind the machine, where you had been manipulating the controls to make it seem like your team had won more points than Gojo, Geto, Haibara, and Nanami combined. “Nice job.”

“It was so worth it,” you said. “You’ll mess with the next game?”

“Think they’ll be suspicious if we’re both experiencing ‘womanly issues’ at the same time?” she said, making air quotes with her fingers to highlight the sarcasm. You peered around the corner, where the four of them seemed to be arguing about which chocolate had the highest magnesium content, and then shook your head.

“Nah, I doubt they even know what that means,” you said.

She high-fived you. “They are going to feel so bad by the time the night is over.”

You smiled, half out of affection for the boys coming back with bags upon bags of chocolate in tow, half out of affection for the girl in front of you who you barely knew but could already consider a fast friend.

“Y/N! We got chocolate for you,” Haibara said, thrusting the bags in your hand. “Wait, where did Ieri go?”

“She’s a bit under the weather,” you said. From underneath the game machine, Ieri snorted, which none of them seemed to take heed of. “I’m sure she'll be back soon. We can probably get another round in while we wait.”

“We’ll win this time!” Gojo said.

They did not win that time, nor the time after that, nor even the time after that. In fact, whether by chance or fate or perhaps copious amounts of subterfuge on yours and Ieri’s part, they never won again.

[shellyseashell]

@panthera-tigris-venenata an introduction to the demon hunter au main characters just for you like three weeks later! as i was writing this i realized some characters i intended to be main characters don’t actually have much of a plot, so these are just the ones with solid arcs. subject to change, as it’s a big series with a long timeline.

claudine frollo: demonic ward of frollo. no one is sure why she’s still alive, even her. maybe frollo thinks he can cleanse her, maybe he hopes it’ll prove his virtue. she’s allowed to train and hunt, because frollo doesn’t see her as a real person and what better way to hunt demons than with a demon? she desperately wants to prove to her father that she’s human and not like the demons they fight every day, but for the past few months she’s been starting to work closer and closer with the rebels.

charlotte turner: quartermaster of the sovereign dread, a ship in what can only be tangentially called their navy, and undeniably cursed. she has a knack for magic that she physically shouldn’t, being a full human, leading many to believe she’s caught the eye of one of the many gods that hang around them. she is determined to do absolutely whatever it takes to free the isle, including kill god or become him.

elaine pendragon: princess of logres (camelot), one of the only kingdoms to not be conquered by auradon, she’s been a prisoner in auradon for two years now. forced to train as a king’s guard squire for her country’s safety, and tortured regularly with iron, she is convinced she won’t survive her third year at the prep and is making it everyone’s problem.

clovis de chateaupers: legal son of phoebus and esmeralda and a king’s guard squire only to avoid an isle sentencing. independent and overprotective to a fault, he grew up in some of the darkest parts of auradon society, he therefore is able to provide some of the best intel to the guild and coalition. aside from being the son of one of guild leaders and brother of the coalition founder, this has earned him a prominent position in the rebellion.

ielenia faery: a stolen child of the moors, fairy godmother adopted her from an orphanage/training school aiming to make her a king’s guard soldier. while she is grateful for this, she doubts much of what her mother tells her. however, she’s afraid of the repercussions of going against her. and so, she is one of the most loyal soldiers.

li lanying: one of the most skilled squires currently in training, she’s likely to earn herself a position as crown prince ben’s personal guard. this is both for her skill, and for beast to keep an eye on her. her family is already under her heavy surveillance, with mulan training soldiers at the prep. when charlotte arrives in auradon, she’s assigned to mentor her, to show her the ways of the kings guard.

benjamin beauchene: despite growing up surrounded by the people he did, he doesn’t believe anything the council says. having been mentored by phoebus, who is definitely not loyal, he was exposed early to rebellion. though he’s sheltered from the extent to which the rebellion reaches, and even a bit how much people suffer, he’s determined to help who he can.

audria rose: while her grandmother is on the council, and she’s thought to be one of the most loyal to auradon, she secretly holds a deep hatred for the regime. however, she’s unable to do anything, because she needs her betrothal to ben in order to protect her home, which includes the moors. she doesn’t spend much time there, but the good fairies helped raise her, and her mother loves the moors.

zephyr de chateaupers: when he was a baby, his father made a deal: he would be captain of the kings guard and in return, the romani would be (relatively) protected. so zephyr grew up with the safety of his people on his shoulders. when he’s 15, he forms the coalition of the arcane, a vigilante-like group working within the kings guard (mainly made up of prep students and recent graduates) and allied with what’s left of the guild. they work to protect who they can, and spread rebellion within the kings guard squires.

melody triskelion: co-founder and second in command of the coalition. she’s grown up knowing she has no choice but to be kings guard, per the deals beast made with all the royal rebels so they can keep their kingdoms: their kids must be his soldiers. while she’s helping her people in auradon, lately she’s turned her attention to the isle and the people they abandoned there.

[camels-pen]

Dietary Needs

Ectoberhaunt day 10 - Harvest & Hunger

Summary:

Clockwork calls Danny to their lair for breakfast and explains a little bit about ghost biology.

It doesn't go completely to plan.

warning: ghost hunger (no real depiction, just mentioned in a joke)

Ao3 Link

“Cloooockwooooork,” Danny groaned as he pushed through the doors to the mirror room. “Why did you call me at seven in the morning? I have school in, like, an hour.” 

“I made you breakfast.” Spread out on the coffee table were trays of gingersnaps, snickerdoodles, shortbread, gingerbread, jelly sandwich, and chocolate chip cookies, all with little glowing green flecks inside them. The little blob ghost that frequented Clockwork’s lair—Blobbert as Danny so affectionately named him—was setting down a tray of differently shaped sugar cookies while wearing the little red bow tie Danny bought for him.

Danny scratched the blob’s head as he passed and Blobbert gave a small purr, nuzzling up into his hand for a few moments before floating out of the room. Danny pouted at the little guy leaving and looked back at the table as Clockwork set down another tray of shortbread cookies, these ones in the shape of blob ghosts with different coloured icing on top to make them look like Blobbert with his little red bow tie.

The cookies looked mouth wateringly good, but internally Danny sighed. He’d probably eat all eight trays and still be hungry later, thanks to his newfound and annoyingly constant hunger pains. 

He sat down on the couch next to Clockwork as they poured them both tea and started shoving cookies in his mouth. After eating silently for a while, he said, “Thanks Clockwork, but uh, what’s the occasion?”

“I wanted to make sure you ate until you were full as well as give you a short lesson on ghost biology.”

Danny slumped back against the couch. “Sorry, but I don’t think that first one’s gonna happen. Nowadays, I’m pretty much hungry all the time no matter how much I—” Danny paused. The constant pulsing pain and mournful noises his stomach had been making for what felt like weeks now were… gone.  “Holy shit, I’m not hungry anymore.”

Clockwork smiled. “To be more specific, your ghost half isn’t hungry anymore.”

“What?”

“Ghosts need to absorb a certain level of ectoplasm in order to stay healthy. It varies based on how frequently each ghost uses their powers and how strong they are.” Clockwork took a sip of tea. “Since you recently defeated the former ghost king and took his place, you’ve had quite a bit of a boost in strength. Your previous intake of ectoplasm wasn’t enough anymore. Thus,” Clockwork gestured to the cookies.

Danny blinked, coming back to the present. “If all I needed was food with ectoplasm in it, shouldn’t my parents’ cooking have been enough?”

“Well, to an extent it would help, however those meals are ectoplasm infected food, rather than ectoplasm rich food.” Clockwork hummed. “The closest comparison would be that ecto-infected food is more like junk food while ecto-rich food is like eating your vegetables. While you could live off of ecto-infected food alone, it would cause a myriad of mental and core health problems. For you, it would also affect your physical well-being and expected life span.”

Danny furrowed his brows, vaguely remembering a lesson about nutrition from health class. “If ecto-rich food is like healthy food, why did you make cookies? Wouldn’t that, like, cancel out or outweigh the health benefits?”

“With your unique biology, I’m not sure, but currently my only goal is to keep you well fed.” They added in a mumble, “I’m also not the best at making much else.”

Danny hummed. “How do you make ecto-rich food anyway?”

“Well, others may refine ambient ectoplasm into a purified liquid form, but I however prefer to use a more… direct source of enrichment.” They picked up a decorated shortbread cookie. “And blob ghosts make for excellent livestock.” They took a bite out of it.

Danny’s face drained of colour and he spat out the food in his mouth. Grief flooded his entire body as he looked at the trays of cookies. A wave of nausea tore through him and tears formed a lump in his throat. “Blobbert,” he whispered mournfully. He dragged his gaze up to Clockwork, pure rage starting to push back the grief as he yelled, “How could you?!”

He heard a questioning chirp to his left.

Danny snapped his head to the side and as soon as he noticed the little blob, he cuddled him to his chest. “Blobbert, thank the Ancients you’re okay,” he sobbed. The blob chirped again, but he just continued to hold him and sob.

Danny didn’t turn to see their face, but he heard the genuine remorse in Clockwork’s voice when they spoke. “I’m sorry, Daniel, it was a joke. I didn’t think you would react this way.”

He turned slightly and glared at them. “Why would you say that, if you knew I wouldn’t take it well?”

“Contrary to your belief, I don’t constantly look at possible futures. Sometimes, I simply want to exist in the present.” They moved closer to him and laid a hand on his cheek, rubbing it softly with their thumb. “That goes especially for time spent with you.”

Danny felt his cheeks and ears burn. He averted his eyes, but still leaned into the caring touch. A different kind of lump was building in his throat now.

“So if I asked you not to make jokes about Blobbert getting hurt or Ending, would you?” His parents wouldn’t—didn’t; they still make jokes about dying dogs and cats despite his pleas, saying he’d get over it eventually. Danny didn’t really expect Clockwork to say much different. 

“Of course, I would. And I will.” They held an arm out to Danny, but didn’t move any closer or attempt to touch him. Danny had to blink back tears. His parents never gave him the option to refuse physical affection, especially not when he was overwhelmed. 

Danny leaned into Clockwork’s side and they wrapped their arm and cloak around him. Blobbert nuzzled further into his chest and started to purr like a little motor engine.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” he said with a sniffle. Then, something Clockwork mentioned earlier gave him a realization, “Wait, am I the new ghost king?”