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sephyathredon-writing · 1 year ago

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Whumptober #9: So This Is How It Feels To Fall

Summary: Both Ballister and Ambrosius’ lives had begun to spin out of control when they realized that they had been caught having an intimate kiss in Ambrosius’ room by someone discreetly taking a photograph and what was supposed to be a private intimate moment was plastered on the front page of the newest issue of “GARD” magazine. An Entry for Whumptober under the prompt "You're a Liar"

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Note: Whenever "The Danks" are mentioned in this fic, I mean the poor part of town where the commoners live. The Nimona Artbook confirms that's what the place is called.

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It really happened, the thing Ambrosius had been dreading might happen since he got with Ballister.

Both Ballister and Ambrosius’ lives had begun to spin out of control when they realized that they had been caught having an intimate kiss in Ambrosius’ room by someone discreetly taking a photograph and what was supposed to be a private intimate moment was plastered on the front page of the newest issue of “GARD” magazine.

Ambrosius remembers staring at it in horror, he remembers pushing it into Ballister’s face and demanding that he see what they had done, anger clear in his voice. He remembers breaking down in Balister’s arms, sobbing about how things were never going to be the same. Ballister tried to soothe his worries, but Ambrosius could tell that he was upset too, just trying to hide it for the other’s sake.

He had been right on all accounts to be cautious about not revealing the true nature of his relationship with Ballister. For the next few weeks Ambrosius was plagued by that picture, by people trying to talk to him about his relationship with Ballister and trying to talk him out of it.

He had to sit through a lecture from the Director on how he couldn’t marry Ballister because he was a man and Ambrosius being with a man meant that an heir to Gloreth’s legacy could not be produced. Ambrosius listened to all this holding back tears, with his nails digging into his palm.

Todd had found it hilarious that Ambrosius was in love with Ballister, he made it his mission to mimic some very obscene motions and laugh whenever Ambrosius or Ballister were nearby and he knew he could do it without getting in trouble.

People all over the Kingdom put in their two cents about what they thought was best for Ambrosius, which was usually something that had to do with breaking up with Ballister. He recieved endless requests for interviews about it and the few that he accepted ended in disaster.

He was exhausted by the end of the week. He found himself laying in bed in the dark, head on Ballister’s chest sobbing while the man ran fingers through his hair.

“I can’t do this, Ballister. I can’t do this…” He sobbed, “They always talk about what’s best for me, but they don’t know that you’re what’s best for me… and they won’t let me tell them. They only see that you’re a commoner and I’m sick of it…”

“Shhh,” Ballister soothed, “The only thing that matters is that we know we’re good for each other.”

“But what if they try to tear us apart?” Ambrosius’ voice was full of fear as he buried his head into Ballister’s chest, “What if they hurt you? I don’t think I can take that…”

“If someone tries to hurt me, I’ll fight back. You know me, I can take a hit and return it well enough. Now please, love. Go to sleep.”

Ambrosius’ eyes darted around the room as if he expected to see someone, to see a camera. That front page picture has made him paranoid now. At least it was dark so they couldn’t get a good picture without having to use flash, which would instantly alert the two of them.

Eventually, Ambrosius calmed down enough to fall asleep, tears still running down his cheeks even in his unconscious state. He kept his arms wrapped around Ballister’s waist as he slept.

When he awoke the next morning, Ballister was gone. Instead he held a pillow in his arms. Ambrosius could sense that there was something wrong with Ballister not being with him. A stone of dread that he didn’t quite understand settled in his stomach as he got out of bed and went about his morning routine.

“It’s okay, Ambrosius… he’s okay…” He told himself in a faint whisper as he brushed his hair. It was a weekend so they didn’t have class. Ballister didn’t have any other friends, especially now with the news that alienated him so much from the other Knights in training.

Ambrosius’ breath hitched as he paused in the middle of running his brush through his hair. A thought occurred that Todd and his lackeys might be hurting him. Of course Ballister had learned to deal with Todd’s physical abuse since he joined the academy, but what if he rallied other knights to outnumber him.

He couldn’t shake the thought from his head. He repeated Ballister’s words in his mind as an attempt to calm himself down, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that settled over him.

He slammed his hairbrush down on the counter and stared at himself in the mirror. Disheveled was an exaggeration for how he looked, but his mind amplified every imperfection he had tried to cover every single morning. His routine lasted easily over an hour.

He couldn’t do it today.

He watched his lips move in the mirror as he spoke.

“I’ve got to find Bal…”

----

It wasn’t long until Ambrosius spotted a crowd gathering in one part of town. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it was so big he couldn’t see what was in the middle of it, the people in the middle were moving though. Most of the people in the crowd wore the bright colors that marked them as nobility. It wasn’t until he heard shouts that he really realized what was going on.

“Go back to the Danks, where you belong!”

“How dare you taint Gloreth’s descendant!”

“He deserves better!”

“You’re just using him for his status! There’s no true love there!”

Ambrosius stumbled back as if he had been punched, eyes wide as he realized he could hear shouts and cries that sounded familiar, a voice he’d recognize anywhere.

“Ballister…” He whispered, hardly even able to breathe as the full extent of the situation donned on him.

He looked around for Knights to see if he could get their help, and he could spot them on the outskirts of the crowd, their armor reflecting the sunlight. They just stood there watching, not making any move to stop people from hurting the love of his life, a few of them even jeered along with some of the others in the crowd.

“You’re just a gutter rat, you don’t belong here!” Ambrosius heard one of the people close to him shout.

It made his blood boil and his eyes fill with tears. His expression was one of determination as he pushed his way through the crowd. Their shouts were closer than ever.

“Go back to the shadows and leave Ambrosius alone!”

“You’re a liar!”

“There’s no way a commoner could ever love a noble!”

“You’re a monster just looking to use him!”

Ambrosius hissed at that last one. It hurt him hearing someone call Ballister a monster. It hurt more than anything else in the past week, but he kept pushing on, angrily shoving past people. A few noticed his presence, but most of the people were focused on Ballister.

“Bal! No! Leave him alone!” He shouted, but his voice was drowned out by everyone else’s

Soon he got far enough in the crowd that he could actually see Ballister among the people in the center. He recognized one of these people as Todd, who currently had Ballister’s head pinned between his boot and the pavement.

Ballister’s teeth were gritted and his expression showed how much pain he was in.

It appears that Todd didn’t see Ambrosius yet because he was looking down at Ballister.

“Did you really think you’d have a place here? The only reason you were even considered is because the Queen is too nice. There’s no place for a charity case in the Knights, and there’s no place for a commoner in the arms of nobility.”

That was it, the final straw. Ambrosius snapped, pushing the last of the crowd aside and delivering a punch to Todd’s face. He was sent sprawling back into the crowd, knocked out cold.

Ambrosius saw someone aim to punch Ballister out of the corner of his eye and he moved to intercept it, the blow hitting harmlessly off his armor as he gathered Ballister in his arms and tried to wrap himself around the other as best he could to keep him from getting hurt.

“Enough!” He cried as loud as he could.

Everything stopped.

Ambrosius looked around. Some people had stopped mid wind up to a punch, others just stared at him.

Now would be the time to talk, Ambrosius realized. They wouldn’t hit their beloved descendant of Gloreth.

Ambrosius showed everything he was feeling in his expression. The sadness, the fear, the anger.

“I love Ballister.” He spoke confidently, looking around at the crowd, “I have loved Ballister for a long time now. He has been what kept me going all these years ago. You may believe his love is fake, but I know it isn’t.”

Ambrosius looked down at the man in his arms, gently caressing his face. He bit his lip as tears threatened to spill.

“Now here you are, hurting the man I love most in the whole world.”

He looked up at the crowd with a different expression on, anger.

“You hurt him. You all hurt him. I knew this was going to happen. This is why I didn’t tell anyone about our relationships, because I knew he would get hurt. I knew none of you would be able to just leave it be and go ‘well at least Ambrosius is happy’. No. It has to be a whole controversy over Ballister’s class, doesn’t it?” He looked away, “Everyone always thinks they know best for me and then they try to talk over me whenever I correct them. Well I’m sick of it. You do not get a say in my love life.”

He looked around at the crowd again and found that many of the people were looking at them with sympathetic expressions. He went back to looking at Ballister.

“He isn’t using me, he’s not trying to worm his way into my good graces to take advantage of my status, and he is not a liar. He’s my Ballister. We’ve been best friends since I was a kid and we’ve been together since I was a teen. There is nobody else I’d rather have at my side. There is nobody else I would experience life with.”

He leaned down and pressed his forehead against Ballister’s, a sob finally breaking loose.

“Ballister is my everything. I adore him.”

He didn’t say another word, instead he stood with Ballister in his arms and moved toward one part of the crowd. They all parted for him to make his way through, giving him plenty of space. A few of the people shuffled and fidgeted nervously.

“Hey! Get back here!” Ambrosius cringed at the sound of Todd’s voice behind him. He must have woken up, “I’m not finished with that sewer rat yet!”

Ambrosius turned around and fixed Todd with an even angry glare.

It didn’t stop him. He aimed a punch at Ballister’s form curled up in his arms.

Ambrosius responded by bringing his leg up and delivering a hard kick to Todd’s stomach. He was lucky Ambrosius didn’t aim further down.

He fell to the ground and stayed there. He was not knocked out, but reluctant to get back up. He glared at Ambrosius as he watched him walk away.

----

Ambrosius was quiet the whole walk back to the Institute, lost in his thoughts, not really caring who saw him carrying Ballister in his arms. If they were smart, they’d stay quiet on the subject. Ambrosius’ heart was still racing and he was likely to snap at anyone that said anything.

Ballister was out cold until Ambrosius finally laid him down on the bed in his own room. Ballister shared a room with one of his classmates, so taking him there was not an option. One of the perks of being Gloreth’s descendant was that he got his own room in the academy instead of having to share it with Knights.

Once Ambrosius laid Ballister on the bed, he was finally able to get a good look at the damage. He didn’t like what he saw. Bruises, a swollen eye, a split lip that tinted parts of his mustache red.

His eyes fluttered open as Ambrosius was looking him over and as those brown eyes met his own, he felt his heart swell with emotion.

How could this happen? How could he let Ballister get so hurt? He wanted to protect him from harm, always, but he was too late this time.

“Ugh… feels like I got hit by a hoverbike…” Those were the first words Ballister said.

“Please… please don’t move.” Ambrosius’ voice betrayed how much emotion he was feeling, “Save your strength, I’ll call a doctor.”

As he moved to turn away, Ballister sat up and grabbed his wrist.

“Amb… what happened? When I try to remember, everything is a blur…”

Ambrosius stood like that for a few moments, facing away from Ballister.

“Nothing good…” Was what Ambrosius replied with.

“Must be… if I’m in this kind of shape…” Ballister let go of Ambrosius’ wrist, laying back on the bed. His breathing is labored, “I feel like I have a few broken ribs.”

“You probably do.” Ambrosius replied as he pulled out his phone.

Ambrosius spent the next few minutes explaining Ballister’s condition over the phone to someone from the local hospital and asking for a doctor to be dispatched for a house call.

When he got off the phone, he laid down next to Ballister, who had fallen unconscious again during the phone call. Absent-mindedly, he ran his hand through the others hair, watched as his chest rose and fell with his breathing, listened to every groan of pain. He was close to tears again as he thought back on everything that happened, how eager they were to hurt him, all because he was in a relationship with a descendant of Gloreth.

Ambrosius shuddered and the tears broke free. He buried his face into the closest of Ballister’s shoulders, dark thoughts drifting through his mind.

He came to the conclusion that Ballister would never have gotten hurt if they weren’t together. Sure he’d still get the same insults and other things thrown his way, but it wouldn’t be this bad.

Truly, being a descendant of Gloreth was a curse.

He made the decision then and there, and it was the hardest decision he’s ever made in his life.

Shakily, he got up from the bed, tears still falling down his cheeks. He bent over it and looked down at Ballister’s sleeping face.

One last kiss for the road.

“I’m sorry… Ballister,” Ambrosius leaned down and captured his lips in a deep kiss. Tears dripped down his cheeks and fell onto Ballister’s face as he held the kiss. Ambrosius figured this would be his last one, so he tried to savor it.

“I love you. Goodbye…” Ambrosius bit back a sob, standing up straight. He threw on a cloak and headed out the door.

He met with the Doctor out in the hall and stopped to address him.

“Please… take good care of him…”

And that was it.

He began his walk out of the Institute, hand clutching his chest, his entire form slumped over. He was the very picture of sorrow, but he kept going. Step by step by step.

It was raining outside.

Ambrosius planned to find somewhere to spend the night and then to figure out some way to go over the wall.

He barely paid attention as he walked, so lost he was in thought. Images of the time they had spent together flashed in Ambrosius’ mind. He felt like he was throwing it all away.

The further he walked from Ballister, the worse the feeling got. He realized as he was making his way through the Danks that the feeling was heartbreak.

He stumbled, bracing his arm against a wall as he clutched his chest, trying to remember how to breathe. He tried to shake it off, now was not the time to panic.

He tried to continue onward, but tripped, falling to the ground, being showered in rainwater as a hover car drove by.

A cry left Ambrosius’ throat as he hit the ground with a fist. He couldn’t even leave properly.

This was the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He made a frustrated noise, getting back to his feet, and then broke out into a sprint. He needed to get out of the city. He needed to go somewhere Ballister couldn’t find him. He was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

There was no slowing down until Ambrosius cleared the treeline. When he did, he leaned heavily on one of the trees, catching his breath, and then looked back at where he had come from, at the city he’d spent his entire life in.

His eyes narrowed as he spotted the Gloreth statue at the center of the city.

He wasn’t like her after all, more like his father who abandoned his duties and left them on the shoulders of a young Ambrosius.

Biting back another sob, Ambrosius just scoffed and turned his back away from the city, heading deeper into the woods. He walked at an even pace this time, the water from the rain slowly seeping into his armor. He didn’t care.

It wasn’t the rain making him numb.

At one point, Ambrosius could swear he heard a voice on the wind, calling him. He chalked it up to his longing to be back by Ballister’s side. He was hearing things.

He didn’t even look back. He had resigned himself to his fate.

“Ambrosius!” The familiar voice cut through the rain, but still he ignored it.

It wasn’t until he felt a warm hand on his that he stopped and turned.

Ballister was there panting heavily from an exhaustion that clearly showed how fast he had to run to catch up with Ambrosius. He was bandaged but still heavily bruised, his expression full of fear.

The wind kicked up around them, but it didn’t matter, Ambrosius was lost in those big brown eyes full of hurt and betrayal.

“I… I can’t believe you were just going to leave…” Ballister sounded close to tears as he spoke, “After everything we’ve been through.”

He let go of Ambrosius’ hand and wrapped his own around himself.

“Bal, It’s not like that… they hurt you because of me. I’m dangerous. I-”

Ballister looked away and took a deep shaky breath, “It’s okay. Truth be told, the crowd ambushed me on my way out. I was going to leave you too. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I thought it’d be the best decision…”

“Wha- Bal. You know you’re the only thing keeping me at the Institute.” Ambrosius grabbed Ballister by his shoulders, looking him in the eye, “You know how much you mean to me. For you to leave without a note or anything… it would break my heart…” Ambrosius paused, “Oh…”

“Now you know how I felt, the sheer panic I felt when I woke up. I know you and I know that you wouldn’t leave my side for even a second if I was this injured.”

Ambrosius could swear he felt his broken heart healing itself.

“I love you so much, Ballister. When I made the decision to leave, it was so hard…”

“I love you too,” Ballister replied.

Things were quiet for a moment before Ambrosius spoke, “Bal, I had to listen to the Director tell me why we weren’t supposed to be together. I had to sit there and listen to her call you a filthy commoner. You don’t know how much I wanted to hit her…” He looked away, “The thing she was most worried about was that we couldn’t have children… Gloreth’s legacy can’t continue.”

Ballister sighed, “I’m tired of the Institute telling us what to do, telling you what to do with your body, Ambrosius. You know what I say about people who don’t like our relationship? Fuck em. Fuck the Institute.”

It was rare for Ballister to use such language, even though the knew it since he was young from growing up in the Danks. It had always been in an attempt to be polite and maintain his carefully curated appearance of a man worthy of becoming a knight. So to see him curse now was surprising. When he cursed around Ambrosius it often meant that he was serious about what he said.

Ambrosius wrapped Ballister in a hug and slumped forward, resting his head on Ballister’s shoulder, showing just how tired he was. He can’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt weariness in his bones, he always assumed it came with being Gloreth’s descendant.

“Yean… but I’m tired Bal… I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to risk that happening again.” Ambrosius mumbled, enjoying the feeling of Ballister running his hand through his hair.

“Then we won’t.”

Ambrosius pulled back and looked Ballister in the eyes.

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“Over the wall, where they can’t get us. The Institute can spin whatever rumors they want, but in the end, maybe we can find a place where we can be happy…”

“But there are monsters past the wall.”

“Says the Institute. Let's go and see for ourselves. Whatever happens, we’ll be together.”

Ambrosius thought about it for a few moments and then nodded.

“Wherever you go, I’ll be right behind you. I don’t ever want to leave you again Bal. I just… I”

Words failed Ambrosius so he captured Ballister’s lips in a passionate kiss, pressing their bodies together with one hand while pushing on the back of his head with one hand to make it deeper.

They didn’t part until they realized they needed air. Then they kissed again and again, like lovers who hadn’t seen each other in months. It didn’t matter that it was raining. It didn’t matter that Ambrosius was soaked to the bone, it didn’t matter that Ballister was still covered in bruises. All that mattered was each other.

The two of them stayed in a run down castle structure in the forest that they stumbled upon that night, and soon the two of them executed their plan to go over the wall.

Gloreth’s line was officially ended by the disappearance of Ambrosius. Knights searched the kingdom high and low, but there was no sign of them. Many people expressed their condolences, but few acknowledged the real reason why Ambrosius disappeared, citing it as just anything between ‘Ballister kidnapped him’ and ‘he just got lost, he’ll turn up.’

When Ballister and Ambrosius went over the wall, the truth dawned on them. There were no monsters, just miles and miles of untouched wilderness.

It was hard for the first month or so, but soon they had put together a home and were living off the land, happier than they had ever been under the thumb of the Institute.

They didn’t have to worry about anyone disapproving of their relationship, Ballister didn’t have to worry about his reputation or whether or not people liked him, and Ambrosius didn’t have to worry about his Gloreth duties anymore.

For them, It was truly a happy ending.

#whumptober2023 #no.9 #“You're a liar.”#Nimona2023 #fic #abuse tw #derogatory language tw #ambrosius goldenloin #ballister boldheart #goldenheart

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errrr-vent-blog · 3 months ago

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bro about pelles wife account or whatever that could seriously be mental illness coming from a mentally ill person on the schizospectrum. like them believving pelle is in love with them is a sign of erotomania, a delusional belief in which someone is in love with them. but the best thing to do isnt to bully tgem and say "touch grass" but for them to genuinely get some help because it could be a psychotic breakdown/them experiencing delusions. im not 100% sure, but it does look alot like erotomania in my eyes (im not here to diagnose people, just saying the situation looks pretty similar to erotomania)

but also please stop replying to them with ableist comments. ive seen many people in their reblogs say stuff like "any sane person would know youre not dating him" or "youre delusional and insane" or "stay in lala land" which by the way id NEVER fair on a psychotic person's behalf, its still ableism and sanism and even if they say the rudest things to you it does not give you the right to be sanist. psychotic and schizospecs deserve to be treated like actual beings instead of monsters. alot of these people arent treating the situation well, and its obviously making it worse. if youwant to talk to them, dont bully them because that wont do anything. dont reality check without consent, that'll only worsen the situation. maybe ask them about pelle, listen to them, but dont reality check or feed into delusions. anyways the point is, this person isnt great but neither is your sanism.

#sanism #tw sanism #sanism tw #tw ableism #ableism tw #ableism #schizospec #schizo spectrum #erotomania #no id #stop harrassing this person with your derogatory language your sanism isnt cute

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sstargirln · 5 months ago

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❞ ᝰ .ᐟ variety

art donaldson x fem!reader

TW: smut MDNI - p in v, oral m receiving - infidelity, art is a little bit of a perv, derogatory language

word count: 2047

¡! ❞ a/n: bold = art's thoughts!

art knew it was wrong. he knew it was wrong when his eyes tracked your body with every stretch, every jump, when his dick began to rise as he watched you play, when he caught himself thinking of you while fucking his wife.

he knew it was all so, so, so wrong.

but yet, when you came up to him, after winning his match at the tournament the two of you were playing at, asking if he coached (he didn't), he found himself blurting out a desperate and high-pitched "yes!"

you raised your eyebrows slightly at his tone, but smiled brightly nonetheless. "great!" you responded, looking up at him through your lashes. "i'm gonna try out for the olympics, sooo. i need a really good coach."

i'm not a coach. tashi's a great coach, art thought. my wife, she's a great coach.

"well, i'm a great coach!" art assured you. why did i say that? "at least, that's what, um, they tell me." who's they? shit, just shut up. he clamped his mouth shut.

"good," you nodded. "here's my number. just text me your availability." you fumbled with your purse, producing a wrinkled piece of paper with your phone number scrawled on it.

"will do," art answered, curt, dry, and professional so he wouldn't say anything too stupid like i'm super infatuated with you and i was staring at your tits the whole time you were talking and i want to bend you over and fuck your brains out every single time you make eye contact with me. or something along those lines.

you smiled again, flashing your perfect teeth before turning around on your heels and flouncing out of the court, leaving art standing there, jaw slightly agape as he watched your hips sway. he felt a tent begin to form in his pants and he cursed under his breath.

✮✮✮

"i'm so fucked." art downed another shot of vodka, slamming the glass down on the chipped wood veneer of the bar. "she's got, like, fucking pornstar tits, pat! it's so crazy."

patrick sat on the barstool next to him, cigarette dangling from his lips and fingers tapping a rhythm onto the bar. "and you're not gonna do anything about it?"

art looked at him with a look of disbelief, brows furrowed and lip captured by his front teeth. "obviously not! i have a wife."

"well, that's clearly not stopping you from thinking about her pornstar tits."

art sighed loudly, leg bouncing on the stool. "nothing wrong with having a little crush." he definitely wasn't thinking about how you'd look under him, pinned against the mattress of his fancy hotel room, eyes crossed, mouth agape, yelling his name. definitely not.

" 's long as you don't fuck her at your little private sesh," patrick sang, taking a long drag of the cigarette. art shot him a glare. "i'm not even discouraging it, bud. i think it'd be good for you."

"cheating on my wife would be good for me?"

"variety feels good," patrick said, passing him the cigarette. art took it gratefully, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling deeply. the two boys sat in silence for a few seconds, art surveying the dingy bar and patrick surveying the group of girls in the corner.

"i think i should tell her i don't coach."

"i think you should have sex with her."

✮✮✮

the day of your first private practice, art was wracked with emotion — mostly lust.

the night before, he called your number, almost creaming right then and there when your voice rang out, soft and sweet, exclaiming his name. he was perched on the bathtub of him and tashi's hotel room, afraid that simply talking to you was infidelious, and that any moment, tashi would burst in and just divorce him on the spot. but the conversation went smoothly, and the next morning, art was stumbling out to a private court, racket and a bucket of tennis balls in hand.

you were already there when he arrived at the court, dressed in a white tennis skirt and black tank, stretching your legs. you smiled when you saw art and bounced up to your feet. "you're late," you quipped.

"a little," art responded, already flustered. "sorry." he gave you a crooked smile.

you smiled back and beckoned him over to where you had been stretching. a notebook sat flipped open on the ground, and you bent over to pick it up, skirt hitching up high enough that art could see the beginnings of blue lace panties.

fuck.

"i watched over the recording of my match yesterday," you explained, handing him the notebook, which was filled with pretty handwriting and tennis diagrams. "my boyfriend and i just kind of wrote down everything we thought i needed to work on."

art didn't hear anything else you said after boyfriend. 'course she has a boyfriend. why wouldn't she? he nodded anyway, distracted by the light brush of your arm against his hand as you pointed out different things on the page. he can smell your shampoo. the scent of your perfume invades his senses, making him feel a little dizzy.

you looked up at him as you finished explaining, grin widening at the expression on his face. he was staring straight at you, eyes slightly glossy and breathing slow. you had him right where you wanted him.

"art?"

"yeah, sounds great!" art's voice was strained, and he blinked quickly to focus back in on your voice, which was now detailing how much time the two of you had to work.

two hours. that's all. c'mon, you can get through that without a boner.

✮✮✮

no he could not. the way you moved on the court, combined with your little squeals every time you hit the ball, combined with your tiny little skirt, combined with the grin you were flashing him, combined with you just being you, made his dick strain against his pants as he watched you from the bleachers, hitting balls into the wall.

"try to, um, keep your knees bent a little more." he was trying to coach, imitating the way tashi would talk to him when they were on the court. he barked commands that didn't really mean much and drew diagrams on the book that looked less like people and more like limp noodles.

you didn't really need the coaching — you were a beautiful player, fast and relentless with perfect technique. but you wanted art there, wanted to feel his gaze burning into your ass, or your tits, or the curve of your spine while you hit the tennis balls with amazing accuracy. he hadn't seemed to notice that you didn't need his help, because he continued to order you around in a tone that made your thighs clench and your panties soak.

after an hour, art joined you on the court, expression neutral but eyes still trained on your chest as you played a couple of sets. you kept making low eye contact with him, and it was driving him crazy.

fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

your skirt flipped up as you jumped to the side for the ball, flashing him a gorgeous view of your underwear. it flew up again, and you seemingly didn't notice as you bent over to grab another ball. art noticed. he also noticed the prominent wet patch that was forming around your entrance, making his breath hitch in his throat yet again.

she's wet. for me?

you continued to play, but art was distracted, faulting again and again. "are you okay, art?" you called from across the court, noticing his troubled expression.

art nodded and replied with a pained smile, holding up a thumb.

"your serve."

✮✮✮

after your practice, you made your way back to the locker rooms. you were chattering about technique, taking great pleasure in the way art was looking at you, pupils blown and eyes low.

you split at the entrance, art making his way to the men's showers and you to the women's. "shit," you muttered, looking up at the big CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE sign.

art was just standing under the water, letting the cold hit his skin as if to rid him of the thoughts he was having and the absolute raging desire that coursed through him. he jumped when he heard the creak of another shower knob turn behind him.

you were already undressed, and the sight of the perfect tits art had been dreaming about bare made him dizzy. you gave him a crooked little frown. "women's showers are closed. hope you don't mind."

art shook his head slowly, eyes locked on your figure. "not at all."

fuck this.

he couldn't contain himself any longer. he sprung at you, grabbing you by the hips and latching his lips onto yours as water continued to cascade over the two of you. you reciprocated the kiss sloppily, hands roaming over his toned skin as your tongues tangled.

you didn't really care, but you felt like you had to say something to protest, make up some type of excuse that made you seem like a little less of a bad person. "we really shouldn't," you panted, pulling away. "you have a wife."

"you have a boyfriend," art spat, hands still freely exploring your chest. "an' that didn't stop you from being a little slut back at the court." art's words were stinging, because this was all your fault. how was he supposed to focus on his wife when you were here, so beautiful and willing?

that was all you needed to kiss him again, nodding and swirling your tongue against his. art continued to grope at your tits, pinching and pulling at your nipples. you glanced down at his dick, which was brick-hard and glistening under the water. dropping to your knees, you tease his tip with soft, sloppy kisses, making him buck his hips against your mouth.

slowly, you took his dick down your mouth, sucking at the tip hard enough to elicit a low groan from the man. up and down up and down up and down on his dick went your mouth, your pace quickening as his hands reached down to grip onto your hair. "shit, love," he grunted, snapping his hips so he was fucking your throat, causing tears to spring into your eyes. you had never looked more beautiful in art's eyes, sopping wet, mascara smudged and hair sticking to your face in little ringlets. he continued to shove his cock down your throat despite the little gagging sounds you were making. with each thrust, his moans grew louder, his fingers tangling in your hair. finally, he pulled out of your mouth with a pop!, spurting cum all over your face and some into your open mouth.

"turn around."

you turned your body so you were flush against the wall, ass sticking up and chest pressed up against the cold tile. art surveying your folds, unable to tell if the sopping entrance was covered in just water or arousal too. either way, it served as the perfect lubricant, allowing his cock to slip right into you, making you arch your back against him. the moans slipping past your lips were practically pornographic as he rammed into you hard enough that you could feel the bulge in your belly. art grunted with each snapping movement of his hips. "fuck," he hissed lowly, the feeling of your beautiful, tight little pussy around his cock so good he heard himself whimper.

your whole body moved as he pounded into you feverishly, hands slipping against the wall as you tried to stabilize yourself. your pussy clenched around him, legs shuddering as your release rushed through your body like an avalanche of pleasure. you glanced back at him, taking in the way his eyes fluttered and his mouth shook. "does tashi feel as good as i do?"

and that was it. 8 words that threw him right over the edge, spurting into you with fervor. infidelity shouldn't turn him on this much, shouldn't feel so fucking good. but it did.

and when he stumbled back to the hotel room, pecking tashi lightly on the lips, cock still throbbing, he thought to himself — patrick was right, variety felt amazing.

¡! ❞ © niya-writesshit 2024

#art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers 2024 #¡! ❞ nina's writing

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yandere-daydreams · 3 months ago

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tw - nsfw, physical/psychological abuse, wildly unhealthy relationship dynamics, and derogatory language.

Most days, Bailey struggles to decide whether you're an idiot or a masochist.

He’s leaning towards the former, but it wouldn’t take much to sway him towards the latter. That doesn’t make you special on its own, though – no, most of the stupid brats in his orphanage have shit for brains and the survival instincts of pre-splattered roadkill, but you manage to make your peers look like shining pillars of intelligence and caution and all the good, important, necessary traits that you were tragic enough to be born without. If he didn’t know better, he might think that you’re doing it on purpose, that your behavior is just the product of some misplaced cry for attention. You should count yourself lucky that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.

He should’ve gotten rid of you the first time you failed to pay your rent. He should’ve, and he tried to – selling you off to the highest bidder, leaving you blindfolded in alleyways and restrained on the edge of town, but like a beaten dog too stupid to acknowledge that its master left it for dead, you always seem to drag yourself back, always bruised, most often bloody, and occasionally soaking wet. More than once, you haven’t made it all the way back, and he’s had to go out of his way to pick up ‘his precious ward’ from the intensive care unit at Harper’s request. He would leave you there, if he thought his reputation would survive giving that freak of a doctor a free lab rat.

You can’t hold down a job. That part, he can’t entirely blame on you. If going outside is risky, then trying to earn a living is all-but a death sentence in a town like this. He knows you have a few minor gigs, pick up odd jobs every now-and-then around the wealthier neighborhoods, but it’s never more than petty cash, and having to watch you drag yourself through the orphanage halls with torn clothes and that distant, glazed-over look in your eyes almost makes what little rent money you can scrap up not worth it. You’re wary enough to keep your head down in school, so you don’t have a lot of friends, either. Most of your time is spent at home; toiling in your weed-infested garden, trying to pretend you aren’t hiding in your room, and when he lets you, curling up in the smallest, darkest corner of his office – your legs pulled into your chair and your eyes fixed on the floor. He asked, once, why you thought you had to waste your time sulking in his peripheral like some poor, attention-starving kitten. Despite help from the better half of a bottle from his vintage stash, he can still remember your answer.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, with a smile so delicate, he was almost tempted to see how easily it shattered. “I guess I just feel safe around you.”

He stopped asking for rent, after that.

He tries not to think about you. It’s a constant effort, but he tries the hardest when he’s standing in your doorway hours after midnight, fucking his fist as you pretend to sleep less than a full ten feet away. He still hasn’t made up his mind about the masochist part, but you have to be an idiot. A pretty, empty-headed idiot.

His pretty, empty-headed idiot.

He decides, as he finishes to the sound of your muffled sobbing, that he’ll soak it in while he can. Even if he does his best, even if he keeps his distance, even if you never come to your senses and run far, faraway, he knows he won’t have long left to enjoy this.

He knows that, no matter how hard he tries to hold himself back, you’re not going to feel very safe around him for much longer.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity x reader #dol x reader #dol #degrees of lewdity bailey #dol bailey #bailey x reader

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mothcain · 1 year ago

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Nah but let’s talk abt how ppl use disability terms/harmful stereotypes/ derogatory words so casually this disabled pride month (tw ableism below)

The new terms are “sch*zoposting” and “delulu” but shit like this has been around for years and it’s so incredibly frustrating.

Another example is those TikTok POVS about “the weird kid in class” but they are all stereotypes of autistic ppl.

Or the misuse of the word triggered, the misuse of the word OCD, the misuse of gaslighting, of cr*pple, “are you deaf?” “Are you blind?” “Hellen Keller isn’t real.” I could go on and on but I will simply say this.

Disabled people are real people with feelings, emotions and lives. We deserve to use the terms that we need to COMFORTABLY. We deserve to exist without people taking the language used in the context of ourselves and putting it in a negative light.

We deserve to exist.

We deserve happiness.

Check in on your disabled friends.

Don’t assume things about people you don’t know.

#local bitch speaks #disability pride month #ableism tw #cripple punk #actuallyautistic #actually adhd #actually ptsd #actually disabled #actually chronically ill #unreality tw #1k #1.5k #2k #2.5k #3k #3.5k #4k

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tragcdysewn · 7 months ago

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@mcrcki asked:📱- abigail and marley lmao

your muse’s contact name in mine’s phone

annoyance 3

my muse’s contact photo for yours

how often our muses text each other

same as francesca, she only has marley's number to occasionally start problems

a text my muse never sent

nope, none

the last messages my muse did send

[text: annoyance 3] - gonna complain more about how i'm a cunt? would love to hear it :)

#( && abigail bishop's headcanons )#( && abigail bishop interacts )#( && marley bishop )#derogatory language tw

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itskybabes-blog · 4 months ago

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Duke Dennis Drabble

Duke Dennis x fem!reader (no face claim but poc!reader friendly)

Part two: The Confession

Disclaimer: this is written by a dyslexic person – please forgive any grammar and spelling errors

TW: swearing, drinking and using derogatory language

Plot: After your big night at an AMP pool part (that you probs won’t remember tomorrow), you finally let your lil’ secret slip.

Word count: 672

ICYMI: part one

“What the fuck am I doing?” You slurred back in confusion. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You rise up from the bed and try to point your finger at him, but stumble forward because you was unaware of your own strength. Duke has to catch you before your pearly whites were scattered all over his floor.

“See, man,” Duke whines with you in his arms, “this is what I’m talking about”.

You move out his arms and squint your eyes at him, trying to focus on all three of him at once.

“Y/N, you can’t stand up straight. You got yourself stupid drunk and started twerking on everyone. Your nipple was fucking hanging out like you’s some fucking whore or sum,” Duke rants.

“Whore?!” – you sober up real quick – “You’re calling me a whore?” you exclaim back, shoving finger quotation marks in his face.

“Meanwhile, you’re here, throwing this stupid party full of thirsty clout-chasing bimbos who only wanna suck your dick, get your Ps and cut! Fucking lodging your tongue down some random girl’s face – you’d be lucky to not have herpes, right now!” You lay into him, using whatever left over competence you have. Dutch courage is certainly real.

“Whore?” You said again, this time with a soft chuckle - which we all know is not good. Duke knows you found nothing funny but couldn’t care because “you’re a fucking embarrassment!”

“Oh my fucking gosh, more fucking names,” you said with a dramatic sigh. You begin to pace around: “What else am I? A slut? A bitch? What else am I, Duke? Tell me!”

You end up in a couple centimetres away from Duke with a face full of fire and push him weakly (pathetically) away from her. His look of disgust softens – maybe he was being a little harsh.

So, he takes the punk move: “You know what, I don’t care. This is not even worth it, man. Fucking drunk!”

That one snapped a heartstring. Duke’s back faces you as he had his hand on the knob.

“You don’t care? You never cared about me, did you?” You come back at him.

“What?” He looked back, utterly confused you’d ever say that.

“You never fucking cared. I’m meant to be someone special to you – your best friend – and you only ever want me around when you don’t have a fuck buddy around. When you need a girl to make you look good when your hotline hoe ain’t picking up,” you start to spew some of your deep feelings.

Duke lets go of the handle and leans against the door. “Y/N, I-“

“You don’t fucking care about me. I fucking hop on a 2-hour flight weekly to see your ass and look all pretty for your stream. Then, you kick me out to entertain a next bitch, passing me off to the rest of the bros like I’m some community hoe. You never fucking cared about me. You never fucking did. You-“

“Are you jealous?” Duke saunters back to you, grinning. His diamond grill playing tricks with your hooded eyes.

“Huh? Where you get that from?” You feel your cheeks burn, turning your head to the side.

“As a friend, you care too much about my roster,” Duke tries to explain. He drops his head to try and make you look him in the eye, but you keep avoiding his accusatory gaze.

“You talking like we fucking or sum,” Duke continues to press you.

“Why would I want you, like, what? Like, that’s- Ha! Ewwww,” you try to act repulsed but you never got an A in drama. Your acting skills are subpar.

“Oh, OK. Just know: I’d drop my roster just for you.”

Your head whips around and look Duke square in his face. A goofy and toothy smile plasters across his face.

“You fucking play too fucking much. You can’t be trying to tease me and shit. Why would I fucking want you? You never cared about me before, why the fuck no-“ Duke’s pillowy lips press intensely on yours.

“Girl, shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

A/N: here’s the second part! Now, I really hate writing smut so pls forgive me but I’m skipping over that. Pls enjoy this quick update :)

#duke dennis x poc!reader #duke dennis x reader #duke dennis #amp x reader #amp #kai cenat #fanum tax #black!reader #agent00 #chrisnextdoor #imdavisss #twitch streamer #twitch #streamer x reader

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artyandink · 1 month ago

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the art of heresy forged 1983

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, trauma, angst, smut, slight fluff, drinking, consumption of drugs, smoking, mentions of sex, blood, gore, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), derogatory remarks, gunfire, murder, killing, lots of it, it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, literal crack

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

NOW PLAYING: Dynasty by MIIA

COST A MILLION

The air in Nicaragua was thick with humidity and tension. You had gotten used to the way it clung to your skin, the oppressive heat wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket each time you stepped outside. But this mission felt different. The atmosphere was charged with something more than the stifling weather—an unspoken heaviness that pressed down on you as if the universe was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable storm to break.

Payback had been sent in for a routine covert operation—one of many you’d done over the years. The plan was simple: go in, make a scene, and get out before anyone could blink. Routine. Yet from the moment your boots hit the dirt in this godforsaken jungle, a strange tension simmered beneath the surface. You could sense it in the way your teammates interacted, in the fleeting glances exchanged when they thought no one was looking.

Something was off, and the unease gnawed at your stomach like a bad premonition.

Ben—Soldier Boy—was leading the charge, as always. Commanding, arrogant, larger than life, with that cocky grin plastered on his face that made him look every bit the hero the public believed him to be. It was part of what had drawn you to him, despite everything you knew about him—despite how much of a mess he could be. He was reckless, a human hurricane, always looking for a fight, but you had gravitated toward that storm.

Maybe because, in your own way, you were a storm too.

But today, even Ben seemed off. His usual bravado felt... strained, forced. You couldn’t place it exactly, but the way he kept glancing over his shoulder, like he was expecting something to happen, unsettled you. His jaw was tight, his movements sharp, as though he was anticipating an attack that hadn’t come yet.

And the others—the rest of Payback—were acting strange as well. Their easy banter had been replaced with silence, their body language stiff. There were too many sidelong glances exchanged when they thought no one was watching, too many moments where they huddled together in low whispers.

“Hey,” Ben had said to you earlier, his voice breaking through the noise of the camp you had set up for the night. “Stay close tonight, alright? I don’t like how things are looking.”

You had given him a wry smirk, trying to mask the unease that had been crawling its way up your spine all day. “What’s the matter, hero? You worried someone’s finally gonna knock your ass off that pedestal you love standing on?”

He had laughed, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through your bones in a way that always made you feel grounded. “Not a chance, sweetheart,” he’d said, that cocky grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Just stay close.”

You had nodded, but the brief moment of humor didn’t do much to shake the feeling that something was wrong. The unspoken worry lingered in the air between you like smoke from a smoldering fire, just waiting for the right gust of wind to fan it into flames.

As the night wore on, the feeling only grew worse. The jungle around you was alive with the usual cacophony of chirping insects and distant animal calls, but the camp felt unnaturally quiet. The others moved about like shadows, too stiff, too controlled. Even the way they carried their weapons seemed off, like they were holding them too tightly, waiting for something to snap.

You kept your distance, observing them, trying to piece together what was happening, but the answer eluded you. All you knew was that something was about to go very, very wrong.

You had been out scouting, trying to clear your head and focus on the mission, when everything fell apart.

When you returned to camp, the eerie silence hit you first, cutting through the thick air like a knife. The usual sounds of your team preparing for whatever came next were gone. No low murmurs of conversation, no clatter of weapons or boots on the jungle floor. Just... nothing.

Your heart rate picked up, a sharp spike of adrenaline surging through your veins. You moved cautiously, scanning the area as you stepped through the dense underbrush, your powers humming just beneath your skin, ready to be unleashed if necessary.

And then you saw him.

Ben.

Soldier Boy.

Your Ben.

He was lying on the ground, motionless.

“Ben?” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat as you rushed forward, your heart hammering in your chest. He was sprawled out in the dirt, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles, his face pale and still. His chest barely rose and fell with shallow breaths.

Your stomach dropped as you knelt beside him, your hands shaking as they hovered over his face. “Ben!” you called out, louder this time, but there was no response. His skin was cold, far too cold, and his eyes were closed, the usual spark of life that radiated from him completely gone.

Your hands moved frantically over his body, checking for injuries, for any sign of life, your mind racing as panic clawed its way up your throat.

“What the fuck happened?” you whispered, your voice thick with disbelief. This wasn’t possible. Soldier Boy didn’t just go down like this. He was invincible, indestructible. That was the whole point. That was why he led Payback. He wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable—not like this.

You felt a sudden chill creep up your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Something wasn’t right. The camp was too quiet, too still, like the calm before a storm.

You heard the soft rustling of leaves behind you, the crack of a twig snapping underfoot.

You spun around, your powers flaring instinctively as you rose to your feet, but it wasn’t fast enough.

Crimson Countess stood before you, her expression twisted with something you hadn’t seen before—cold, calculated hatred. Her red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, her posture relaxed but predatory.

Your pulse quickened, the blood roaring in your ears as your mind raced to make sense of what was happening.

“Countess?” you said, taking a cautious step back, your muscles tensing as you prepared for a fight. “What the hell is going on?”

She didn’t respond. She moved faster than you could track, her hand glowing with a deep crimson light as she lunged at you, her fingers crackling with energy. You barely had time to register the attack before she struck, her hand slamming into your abdomen with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

Pain exploded through your body, white-hot and blinding. You doubled over, gasping for air as the energy from her hand surged into you, searing through your skin and muscle. Her hand dug into your stomach, aiming with brutal precision.

Your vision blurred, the world spinning as you collapsed to your knees, clutching your stomach in agony. Panic surged through you, your mind racing not just with fear for yourself, but for the life inside you.

The baby.

The realization hit you again, sharper than before. You were pregnant. And she knew.

“No...” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper as you fought to stay conscious, to hold on to the thread of control that was slipping through your fingers. “Why?”

Crimson Countess knelt beside you, her expression cold and unfeeling as she watched you writhe in pain. “Because he’s a threat,” she said, her voice low and filled with venom. “And so are you.”

She pressed her hand against your abdomen again, harder this time, and you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat as fresh waves of pain wracked your body.

You tried to summon your powers, tried to push her away, but the agony was too intense, your focus shattered. All you could do was lie there, gasping for breath as the pain consumed you, as the reality of what was happening set in.

The baby was slipping away.

You could feel it, the fragile life inside you fading, slipping through your fingers like sand. And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Tears streamed down your face as you clutched your stomach, as the grief and fear overwhelmed you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to lose everything like this.

Crimson Countess stood, wiping her hands on her pants as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience she had dealt with. You watched her through blurry eyes, rage and helplessness surging through you, but your body was too weak, too broken to fight back.

She didn’t spare you another glance as she turned and walked away, leaving you there in the dirt, curled up in pain, alone.

Time passed in a blur. You weren’t sure how long you lay there, the pain ebbing and flowing in waves, each one leaving you more exhausted than the last.

The sounds of the jungle around you were distant, muffled, as if you were underwater. You could barely hear the rustling of the trees, the chirping of insects, the distant calls of animals. The world felt... distant, as if you were no longer part of it.

But you weren’t dead. Not yet.

Slowly, painfully, you forced yourself to move. Your body screamed in protest, every muscle aching, every breath a struggle, but you had to get up.

You didn’t. You slipped away, your eyes closing just as your feet were grabbed.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the light—blinding, sterile white light, so bright it seared into your brain like a physical force. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut against it, but the pain followed, sharp and pulsing, lodging itself deep inside your skull. Your thoughts were sluggish, slipping through your fingers like sand, and each time you tried to catch hold of them, your head screamed in protest.

Where am I?

You forced your eyes open again, wincing against the brightness, and blinked until the room came into focus. The ceiling was plain white, featureless except for the overhead lights, which buzzed faintly in the otherwise silent room. It wasn’t just the ceiling—everything around you was white. Sterile. Empty.

A hospital? No. This was different, too cold, too controlled. A clinic? No… a cell.

You were lying on a bed—if it could be called that. The mattress was thin, barely a few inches thick, and wrapped in some kind of synthetic material. The walls around you were padded, stark white and seamless, stretching from the floor to the ceiling with no windows, no doors in sight. It wasn’t the comforting sterility of a hospital. It was the suffocating sterility of a prison.

You tried to sit up, but the moment you moved, a wave of nausea slammed into you, hard and fast. Your stomach churned violently, and you had to grip the edges of the bed to keep yourself from collapsing back into the thin mattress.

What the hell is happening?

Your thoughts were scattered, fragments of memories slipping in and out of your consciousness like shards of broken glass. You could almost grasp them—flashes of images, sounds, feelings—but they were distant, blurred. You struggled to hold onto them, but they kept slipping away, leaving only a pounding ache behind.

Then, like lightning, something cut through the haze.

Nicaragua.

You gasped, the memory of it sharp and vivid, forcing its way into your mind all at once. The jungle, the heat, the tension in the air that had clung to you like a second skin. The mission. Ben’s voice, low and warning, telling you to stay close.

You tried to focus on that—on him—but your mind was pulling you in too many directions at once. The camp. The silence. Ben lying on the ground, cold and unmoving.

No. No, no, no. That wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right.

Your breathing quickened, your pulse hammering in your chest as you struggled to piece together what had happened. You could see his face, pale and still, and the way your heart had stopped when you saw him. You’d tried to wake him up. Tried to shake him out of whatever trance he was in. Then…

Crimson Countess.

Her hand had felt like fire when it slammed into your abdomen. The pain had been so intense, so immediate, it had stolen the breath from your lungs. She had attacked you—attacked your baby.

Your baby.

You felt a surge of panic as your hands flew to your stomach, only to find that the familiar curve was gone. Flat. Empty. The sickening realization hit you like a sledgehammer, and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through you, but this time it wasn’t from whatever drugs they’d pumped into your system.

The baby. My baby.

The horror of it clawed at you, rising up from your chest and threatening to choke you. You could still feel the heat from her hand, the burning pain as she ripped your world apart.

A sharp prickling sensation crawled along the back of your neck, and you suddenly became aware of the tightness in your arms and legs. You looked down, blinking rapidly to clear your vision, and saw thick, padded restraints binding you to the bed. They were strapped across your wrists and ankles, holding you in place.

A burst of anger flared inside you, burning through the haze clouding your thoughts. You tugged at the restraints, pulling against them, but they didn’t budge. It was useless, and it only made the pounding in your head worse, but you kept trying anyway, refusing to give in to the panic threatening to drown you.

Footsteps.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the sterile room. Two figures appeared, barely visible through the thick fog of your vision. Their white coats blended into the walls, making them seem like ghosts as they moved toward you. You blinked again, hard, trying to clear the haze from your eyes, but it only made your head throb harder.

They weren’t ghosts. They were doctors.

Or something close to that.

“Her vitals are spiking again,” one of them said, his voice low and clinical. “Heart rate’s all over the place.”

“She’s still fighting the sedatives,” the second one replied, his tone exasperated. “We’ve already upped her dose twice. What the hell is she running on?”

They stood at the foot of your bed, their faces obscured by surgical masks, their eyes cold and detached as they studied you like you were some kind of science experiment.

“She’s a supe. That’s what she’s running on,” the first doctor said, stepping closer to your side. He looked down at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned in to inspect something on the monitor beside your bed. “Her system’s rejecting the sedatives faster than we can administer them.”

“Then up the dosage,” the second doctor snapped. “We need her under control.”

You tried to focus on them, tried to make sense of their words, but it was like your brain was wrapped in cotton, everything muffled and distant. They were talking about you like you weren’t even there, as if you were some malfunctioning machine they had to fix. You struggled against the restraints again, pulling harder this time, but it only made the doctors glance at each other in silent disapproval.

“We’ll have to restrain her further if she keeps fighting it,” the first one said, his voice clinical and detached. “She’s not responding to the current protocol. We might need to explore alternatives.”

“Alternatives?” the second doctor echoed, his tone sharp. “You mean the psychotropics?”

The first doctor hesitated, glancing down at you before giving a curt nod. “It’s either that or we keep increasing the dosage and risk damaging her brain function.”

“Fine,” the second doctor said, waving his hand dismissively. “But we need to keep her compliant until then. Get the others on standby.”

The others.

A new surge of panic gripped you, your heart pounding painfully in your chest as you pulled harder at the restraints. You weren’t sure what they meant by “the others,” but you knew it couldn’t be good. You had to get out of here. You had to—

The first doctor’s hand moved toward your arm, and before you could process what was happening, you felt the sharp sting of a needle piercing your skin. You gasped, jerking instinctively away from the contact, but the restraints held you down, and there was nowhere to go.

“No,” you whispered, your voice weak and hoarse. You tried to summon your powers, tried to push them back with the force of your mind, but the drugs were already working their way into your bloodstream, dulling your senses, making it harder to focus.

“She’s still resisting,” the second doctor muttered, stepping back to observe you as you fought to keep your eyes open. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The room began to spin, the walls and ceiling blending together in a dizzying swirl of white. Your thoughts scattered again, slipping through your fingers, and the more you tried to grasp them, the harder it became. You could feel yourself being pulled under, dragged down into the blackness, but you fought against it with everything you had.

You couldn’t lose control. You couldn’t let them win.

But your body was betraying you. The drugs were too strong, your mind too clouded, and no matter how hard you fought, the darkness was closing in.

Your last thought before everything went black was of Ben.

You didn’t know how long you had been out when you woke up again. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time felt slippery, impossible to hold onto, and your brain was slow to catch up with your surroundings.

The light was still painfully bright when you opened your eyes, but this time it didn’t feel as sharp, as if your senses were dulled by a thick fog. The pounding in your head had lessened, but the ache was still there, a constant pressure behind your eyes.

You blinked, your vision slowly clearing, and realized you were still in the same room. Still strapped to the same bed. Still alone.

The doctors were gone, but their words lingered in your mind, echoing in the empty space like a distant memory.

“She’s still fighting the sedatives.”

“Get the others on standby.”

You tried to move, but the restraints held you firmly in place, the padded straps digging into your wrists and ankles. Your muscles felt weak, heavy, as if they had been drained of all their strength. The drugs were still in your system, slowing everything down, making it hard to think clearly.

But you had to think. You had to find a way out of this.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, and tried to focus. Tried to push through the fog clouding your mind. You had been trained for this—trained to keep control, to maintain focus even in the worst situations. But this was different. The drugs were messing with your powers, keeping them just out of reach, like they were buried beneath layers of cotton and static.

You couldn’t even feel them anymore.

You had been in this cell for what felt like an eternity. Time moved in strange ways here, dragging out into long, oppressive stretches of monotony. The walls were still white, still padded, and still held the same sterile stench of disinfectant and despair. You weren’t sure if you were truly awake anymore or trapped in a constant cycle of drugged sleep. The doctors came and went, administering their injections, monitoring your vitals, and talking about you like you were an object, an experiment they were struggling to understand. You couldn’t fight it like you used to. The drugs coursing through your veins made sure of that.

But today was different. You could feel it, the tension in the air, like something was about to snap.

They hadn’t come for your usual dose. No doctors, no needles. That was the first thing that tipped you off. You had counted the minutes after your last injection as best you could—always trying to keep some semblance of control in this place. It helped to have something to focus on, something to keep you tethered to reality. So when they didn’t show up, that creeping sense of dread started to gnaw at the back of your mind.

And then you heard it. The sound of footsteps outside your cell door. Not the soft, professional shoes of the doctors or the heavy boots of security personnel. No, these were heavier, clumsier. You knew that walk.

A door you hadn't noticed before creaked open, the sound grating against the silence like nails on a chalkboard. The room, already claustrophobic, seemed to constrict even more as you turned your head toward the source. And there he was.

Edward.

Your father.

He stood in the doorway, his face half-shadowed by the dim light spilling in from the hall behind him. His eyes, bloodshot and sunken, darted around the room before they finally settled on you. There was a flash of something in his expression—regret? Guilt? No. It was something more pathetic than that. A weak, watery fear. He looked smaller than you remembered. Older. And even now, standing there like some shameful ghost from the past, he reeked of whiskey and failure.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest as memories flooded back unbidden, painful and relentless.

Edward, your father.

He had always been a drunk. Your earliest memories of him were of his staggering frame, his rough voice slurring insults and apologies in equal measure. The smell of alcohol clung to him like a second skin, as did the stench of wasted potential. He had once been a man of promise—at least that’s what people used to say—but that had been long before you were born. By the time you came into the world, he was already spiraling, his life unraveling thread by thread, dragging you down with him.

The debts he owed to Vought had crushed whatever was left of his dignity. And when they came calling, demanding payment, it wasn’t him they came for. It was you. He had offered you up like you were some kind of pawn, a sacrifice to save his own skin. You had been young, desperate, and stupid. So you went along with it. First as a call girl for their executives, working the seedier underbelly of Vought’s influence, and later… well, later as something else entirely. They had seen potential in you, something they could use, mold, and control. And so they did.

But that didn’t erase the truth.

You became a supe because of him. Because of his debts. Because he sold you to them like you were nothing more than a bargaining chip to save his own worthless life.

And now, he had the nerve to show up here.

“What… the fuck are you doing here?” you rasped, your voice hoarse and raw from disuse. Your throat felt tight, constricted, but the words still came out thick with fury.

Edward shuffled forward a step, his eyes still darting around the room as if he couldn’t bear to look at you directly. “I… I came to see you,” he mumbled, his voice slurred and weak. “They told me where you were… I thought—”

“You thought what?” You cut him off, your voice rising in volume and intensity as anger surged through you. It was the first real emotion you’d felt in what seemed like forever, burning hot and fierce, cutting through the haze that had dulled your mind for so long. “You thought you could just waltz in here like nothing happened? After everything you did?”

He flinched at the venom in your voice, but he didn’t back away. “I didn’t know… I didn’t mean for things to get this bad. I just—”

“You didn’t know?” You barked out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and grating in the small, sterile room. “You didn’t know that selling me to Vought would ruin my fucking life? You didn’t mean for things to get this bad? You sold your own daughter, Edward. For what? So you could keep drinking? So you could gamble away whatever little money we had left?”

Edward’s face twisted in a mixture of shame and defiance, but he still couldn’t meet your eyes. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t have a choice…”

“You always had a choice!” you snapped, pulling against the restraints that held you to the bed. The fury building inside you was almost too much to contain, your vision blurring as the blood rushed to your head. The drugs were still in your system, but the anger was cutting through them, sharpening your senses in a way you hadn’t felt in months. “You always fucking had a choice, but you chose yourself. Every goddamn time.”

He looked at you then, his watery, bloodshot eyes finally meeting yours. There was something there—something that might have been remorse, but it was too little, too late. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words falling out of his mouth like they meant nothing.

“Sorry?” You spat the word back at him. “Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it, you piece of shit.”

You could feel your powers stirring beneath the surface, sluggish and dulled by the drugs but still there, simmering just below your skin. It had been so long since you’d felt that familiar hum, the power thrumming through your veins like a second heartbeat. You wanted to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he had caused you.

“I never wanted this,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this…”

You cut him off with a scream, pulling against the restraints with all the strength you had left. The padded straps bit into your skin, but you didn’t care. You wanted to tear him apart, to make him bleed for what he had done.

“Shut the fuck up!” you screamed, your voice breaking as you thrashed against the bed. “You ruined my life! You did this to me! You!”

Edward took a step back, his face pale and frightened as he watched you struggle. “I—I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice shaking.

The fury inside you exploded, and you lashed out with your mind, your powers surging forward in a wave of raw energy. The restraints on your wrists and ankles snapped open, and you shot up from the bed, your body trembling with rage as you advanced on him.

He stumbled backward, his eyes wide with fear. “Wait—”

But you didn’t wait. You lunged at him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the wall with a force that rattled the room. His head cracked against the padding, and he let out a choked gasp, his hands fumbling at yours as he tried to push you away.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking done to me?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to…” he wheezed, his hands weakly trying to pry your fingers from his shirt.

“You’re pathetic,” you snarled, tightening your grip and lifting him off the ground. “You sold me to them like I was nothing. And now you come here, acting like you care? Like you’re sorry? You don’t get to be sorry.”

You slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, and he let out a strangled cry. “Please,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Please… I didn’t know they would… I didn’t know…”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You didn’t know? You didn’t care. You never cared.”

He was sobbing now, his body shaking as he clung to your arms, his face twisted in a grotesque display of fear and regret. It was pathetic, watching him like this, begging for forgiveness that you would never give him.

And yet, even as you held him there, your powers flaring and your anger burning white-hot, there was a part of you—a small, quiet part—that hesitated.

He was your father.

No. He was never your father. Not in any way that mattered.

You released him suddenly, letting him fall to the floor in a heap, his sobs echoing in the small room. He curled into himself, clutching his head as if he could block out the pain, as if he could hide from the consequences of his actions.

You stood over him, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back the rage that still simmered inside you. You could kill him right now. It would be easy. A flick

of your wrist, a surge of power, and he would be gone. Out of your life forever.

But somehow, that felt like too easy of an end for him.

“Get out,” you said, your voice cold and flat. “Get the fuck out.”

Edward didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking as he stumbled toward the door. He didn’t look back as he fled, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, hollow thud.

You stood there for a long time after he left, your body trembling with the aftershocks of rage and adrenaline. The room was silent again, but the echoes of his voice, his pathetic apologies, still rang in your ears.

You sank to the floor, your back against the wall, and buried your face in your hands.

The room was silent. Not the kind of peaceful silence that could lull you into some semblance of comfort, but the oppressive, suffocating quiet that seemed to cling to everything, pressing down like a weight on your chest. The padded walls and the sterile, artificial light made it worse. It was as if the air itself had been drained of all life, leaving you alone in a vacuum with nothing but your thoughts.

And those thoughts were darker than anything else in this room.

You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the cold wall. You could still feel the residual anger in your bones from your father’s visit—the way your hands had shook with the need to break something, anything, just to release the tension that had built up inside you. But it had passed now, leaving only the hollow echo of rage in its place. That empty feeling, the one that had become so familiar to you over the years, was all you had left.

And then, there was her.

Your mother.

Bethany.

The name felt like a lifeline and a wound at the same time. You hadn’t spoken it out loud in so long. It was too painful, too raw. But now, as you sat here in this sterile, lifeless room, it was the only thing that kept you grounded. She was the only thing that had ever made sense in your world, the one person who had never let you down. And now, she was the one you couldn’t reach. Not physically, not mentally, not in any way that mattered.

You had heard that she was sick. The whispers had reached you even in this place, carried by the few scraps of information you were able to glean from the doctors who passed through the halls. They didn’t tell you much, didn’t need to. You could feel it in your bones, that deep, gnawing fear that had been eating away at you for months.

She was dying, and you weren’t there.

She was slipping away from you, and you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

You opened your eyes, staring at the ceiling as you tried to organize your thoughts, tried to find a way to say what you had been avoiding for so long. You couldn’t speak it, not out loud. Not here. But maybe… maybe you could think it. Maybe you could put it into words in your mind, like a letter she’d never read but somehow, in some way, maybe she would know.

So you started, your thoughts coalescing into something that resembled a letter, though the words were rough and jagged, just like the emotions behind them.

Mom,

Where do I even begin?

I’ve thought about writing this letter a thousand times. I’ve thought about how I’d start it, how I’d try to explain what’s happened to me, why I’m not there with you right now. And every time, I’ve stopped myself because the truth is… I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to explain what’s going on in my head, how to make sense of the mess that my life has become. But now, I can’t avoid it anymore. I can’t keep pretending that everything’s fine, that I’ll figure it out eventually.

Because I don’t have time. You don’t have time.

I know you’re sick, Mom. I know that the cancer is eating away at you, bit by bit, and that there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I know that you’re suffering, and that you’re probably lying in a hospital bed somewhere right now, wishing I was there, wondering why I haven’t called or visited. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I haven’t been there for you. You deserve so much more than what I’ve given you. You’ve always deserved more.

But I’m trapped here, in this place. This prison. Not just this cell, but in my mind. I don’t know how to escape it. I don’t know how to be the person you need me to be. I’ve made so many mistakes, and I’ve hurt so many people. I’ve hurt you, even though that was the last thing I ever wanted to do.

God, Mom, I don’t even know how to tell you what happened. I don’t know how to explain why I let myself get wrapped up in Vought, why I let them turn me into… into this. Into something that barely resembles the girl you raised. I was so desperate. So fucking desperate to prove that I wasn’t like Dad, that I could be better than him, that I could fix everything he broke.

But in the end, I just ended up breaking myself.

I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to know that your daughter was caught up in their world, that I was doing things you’d never approve of. I didn’t want you to see what I’d become. I wanted to protect you from it, to shield you from the truth, because I knew that if you found out… you’d be disappointed. And that’s the one thing I couldn’t stand.

I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me with that same look you gave Dad when he was too drunk to stand, when he was screaming at you and throwing things. That look of tired, quiet disappointment that broke my heart every time I saw it. I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t want you to look at me like that.

But now, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because I’ve already failed. I’m already like him. I’ve hurt people. I’ve let Vought use me, manipulate me, turn me into their puppet. I let them get inside my head, and now I don’t know how to get them out.

I know you always believed in me. You always told me I could be more, that I could be better. And I wanted to be. For you. But I don’t think I can anymore. I don’t know who I am, Mom. I don’t know if I ever did.

I’m scared. I’m scared that when I get out of here—if I get out of here—it’ll be too late. That you’ll be gone, and I won’t have had the chance to say goodbye. That I won’t get to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I love you. Because I do, Mom. I love you more than anything in this world, and the thought of losing you… it’s killing me. It’s tearing me apart.

But I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix myself.

I wish I could talk to you. Really talk to you. I wish I could sit down with you and tell you everything—about Vought, about what they’ve done to me, about what I’ve done. But I can’t. I’m too scared. Too ashamed. I’m afraid that if I tell you the truth, you’ll hate me. And I can’t take that. Not from you.

You were the only one who ever believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. You were the only one who saw something good in me, something worth saving. And now… I’m not sure that’s true anymore. I’m not sure there’s anything left in me worth saving.

I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you. I’m sorry that I’ve let you down. I’m sorry that I’m not the daughter you deserve.

But I love you. I love you so much, and I hope that, wherever you are, you know that. I hope that you can feel it, even if I can’t be there to tell you in person. Because I can’t lose you. Not yet.

Not before I’ve had the chance to make things right.

I’m going to try, Mom. I’m going to try to get out of here, to fix the mess I’ve made of my life. For you. Because you deserve better than this. You deserve better than me.

But I’ll try. I promise I’ll try.

I love you. I’ll always love you.

Your daughter.

You stopped, your thoughts trailing off into silence as you sat there, your heart pounding in your chest. The tears that had been building behind your eyes finally spilled over, hot and heavy as they slid down your cheeks. You hadn’t cried in so long. Not since you were a kid, hiding in your room while your father’s drunken rages echoed through the house. But now, you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that came crashing down on you, wave after wave of grief, guilt, and helplessness.

You curled into yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees as you sobbed, the sound echoing off the padded walls. It felt like you were drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of despair that had been growing inside you for so long. And there was no one there to pull you out. No one there to save you.

You thought of your mother again, her warm smile, her gentle hands, the way she used to sing to you when you were little, soothing you to sleep with soft lullabies. She had always been your anchor, your safe harbor in the storm that was your life. And now she was slipping away, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

The thought of her lying in a hospital bed, weak and frail, fighting a battle she couldn’t win… it broke something inside you. The woman who had always been so strong, so resilient, was now vulnerable, fragile. And you weren’t there. You couldn’t hold her hand, couldn’t tell her that everything was going to be okay. Because it wasn’t. Nothing was okay.

And it was your fault.

You stayed like that for a long time, your body shaking with sobs, your heart

aching with the weight of everything you had lost. There was no one to hear you, no one to comfort you. You were alone in this place, just like you had always been.

But as the tears finally slowed, and the silence settled over you once again, you made a decision. You didn’t know how, and you didn’t know when, but you were going to get out of here. You were going to find a way to make things right. For her.

Because your mother deserved better. She had always deserved better.

And you were going to give her that, even if it was the last thing you ever did.

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

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des-no9 · 11 months ago

Text

Des’ Gith Dictionary

All of these words are created by me (Des) and are derived from existing phrases, words, roots or just pulled from the vibe of the language.

Most revolve around the githyanki’s meaning of relationships, sex, and love, following my fics centreing around the relationships of Voss and Orpheus. (TW here for mentions of canon githyanki behaviour surrounding pain, raiding, sex and non-con).

NOTE: many of these words are also written with my HC of there being quite a big linguistic drift in their language, beginning when Vlaakith I took power. Many of these words are old and might not be used in modern gith now, but some are. You can read more about my HC about this here - Des' Githyanki language HCs.

You are free to use any of these words any way you like, but if you use them in anything published like a fanfic or meta, please credit me:

twitter: @grabthemhorns tumblr: @des-no9

Sources used linked at the end.

Here is a link to it in a g-doc if you'd prefer and ease of access - Des' Gith Dictionary

Listed Alphabetically (will be updated as I create more)

**Adilshar - first among many

The meaning of this word ‘first among many’ has different connotations depending on context, and for some githyanki, depending on creche, and even city in the Astral. It can elude to a title, a formality, something a little more casual. I’ve seen githyanki use it to refer to their favourite lover or companion.

However, primarily, thousands of years ago it was used largely by those in a position of power to those below them as a title of honour and singling them out to a special, almost near equal respect. In a way, it was levelling someone to your worth. One of the highest honours of githyanki. The first among many. I see you. I respect you.

**NOTE: Adilshar is a canon gith word, but I have expanded/adjusted its meaning. I’ve only included it here because it has had such a personal impactful meaning to me, my githyanki worldbuilding and vocabulary.

Bhav - speak; talk; sometimes used when addressing someone

Cha/Ch - bearer/owner/only

(depends on context and the following word)

Example: Var’cha - star bearer

Da - laugh, laughter

Gi - student of

Hsha - lie

Hshazi - liar

Htaz’i vo z’varc - literally, death by blood wild

Even for githyanki, this is one of their more unsavoury words. It means, in common vulgar slang, ‘fucked to death’ or ‘fuck and kill’. This is a term githyanki use primarily for their treatment of istiks during raiding, or istik slaves that they keep and then get bored of and dispose. It’s a very derogatory term, but also very common and has lasted from the very early years of the gith, to now. And is even a word that’s heard, and known, from plane, to plane, to plane. Having heard it myself during one of their notorious raids in its exact context from their raiders, it is as haunting and terrifying to hear as you might think.

Ir’gi (ihr - ghi) student of my pain

An often intimate word used primarily between new lovers. Can also be used derogatorily or affectionately, or playfully, if two people have known each other for a long time. Nowadays, ir’gi is kept private if saying to one above your rank, and only often heard publicly from the person who holds higher rank in whatever kind of relationship they are in. Good luck to you if you wish to say ir’gi to your superior in public is all I’ll say.

Ir’mir’r’tal - the comfort/safety of my pain

A lost word that some say is used still by the githzerai. A version that was taken and adapted to their current language I have heard to me Ir'm'tal which now simply means 'my safety'. My source? My lips and quill are sealed.

Ir’zai (ihr - zoi) - the honour of my pain

A deeply intimate expression used between lovers/mates to express the meaning they hold to one another. Common translation could be ‘I love you’ but a githyanki would say that cheapens it, the expression so lost in soft istik translation. This is an expression heard still in current githyanki language.

Kalisk - small one; compact

Kalisk’nal - little creature; little beast

Often kalisk is used colloquially or affectionately, so used with ‘nal’ which can mean creature or beast, turns the phrase into something even endearing. Not something one would usually associate with the githyanki. One might think this could be heard in their creches to their younglings, or in my travels I did once have the pleasure firsthand to see a githyanki meet a cat for the first time and exclaim rather joyfully ‘kalisk’nal!’.

Mar - all; everything

Nal - spawn/creature; strange one

Pa - no/don't/not

Quith’na - literally weak creature

This word is a slang that roughly translates into, in common, as ‘pussy’. The githyanki have varying and sometimes different genitals to those who speak common so it doesn’t translate directly into what those who speak common recognise it as. And although the githyanki use terms of genitals for insults or colloquial speech, do not recognise calling someone by one of their terms as a description of weakness.

Rrav’kil -

A term of endearment for someone below you in rank. What affection that is, is between the speaker, and the receiver it seemed. This is an old word, and is barely, if at all, used in current gith. It seems to have shifted into ra’stil instead which means ‘ally’ in common. Another language of affection and endearment lost to the githyanki from long ago.

Note: derived from ra’stil - ally (to other gith)

Sh’k’nal - hellspawn

Sh’k - hell

To/T’ - Has several meanings, depending on context and which word precedes, follows.

Mostly it means: only/one/this/to/of.

T’lak’var - literally, severance.

A very old word from when they freed themselves from the illithid, severing their control. A lot of it comes poignantly from Mother Gith and her power of severing the Elder Brain’s control which therefore, eventually, granted their freedom. It translates to freedom in common, and for githyanki then, and now, it simply invokes freedom.

Note: taken from T'lak'ma Ghir - Sister in freedom (t’lak meaning freedom, here, where ghir means sister, vhir brother, and stil friend in this context. (Although interesting how stil is in jhe’stil which means ‘superior one’).

I also HC that the githyanki have several different words that translate to freedom, as it is such an important and integral meaning to their people.

T’rac'nal - literal, insane creature/spawn/strange thing

The common translation of this word is wild or mad beast.

T’var - literal; only star; one star

An old word that uses var when referring to someone, instead of vah’k. Found in some ancient, forbidden texts that translates, it seems in common, to ‘my one’ or ‘only you’. What we can gather from the context of its use, a declaration of affection, a promise, a title, a threat even, depending on who spoke it, who heard it. Some may say it means I love you. Some may say it’s the githyanki word of marriage. Some say it’s the promise of death. Some may say it’s a feeling, a promise, a bond that anyone other than githyanki will never understand.

Tuj’da - a loud, happy laugh

Tuj - loud, boisterous, joyful.

Sometimes this word means free, wild. In the meaning of ‘wild animal’; ‘no boundaries’.

Va (voh) - go/yes/acknowledgement

Vah’k (vahk) - body/person/referring to oneself;

This word comes from a very ancient gith language where the word var means ‘star’ from their first settling on the Astral Plane, and being new beings on the Sea. Vah’k can also mean ‘star’ in today’s gith, depending on context. You will find both vah’k and var in ancient texts, to now. It seems vah’k was brought into use around the time of the settlement of Tu’narath, but how widespread its use then, and also if they used var prior to vah’k is unknown.

Vah’k gi (vah - ghi) - lover; literally, student of my body/self

There isn’t really a direct word for ‘lover’ in githyanki society as we’d know in common, but this is as close to our understanding of it. Student of my body. It’s used in many ways, for one night trysts, casual partners, to longer term partners within the githyanki. Although some prefer not to use it if they decide to share their bond longer term.

For those that develop a more long term and serious bond, the word ir’zai, which means ‘honour of my pain’ is often used more.

Note: ir’zai is derived from sha va zai which I HC is a very old and early gith language, mostly now lost or changed over time, that simply means ‘I love you’.

Vak (vohk) - cut; harm

Note: The closeness in the words of vah’k and vak in their language is notable, as for githyanki so often their expressions of self, identity and love are built upon pain.

Vak’nir (vohk - nir)- literally, cut by silver.

Githyanki are an intense people, and their expressions are no different. ‘Cut by silver’ when translated to common, we would understand it to be ‘you’re beautiful’. But it is most likely closer to ‘you’re exquisite’, or even, to our god fearing races, ‘you are cut by the divine’.

Vak zharni (vohk - zohr - knee) - changed by time

literally, harmed by memories

A descriptive, and surprisingly, an affectionate word used by the githyanki to describe the change of time, or an event, has had on someone. Be that physical, or emotional.

Sometimes it’s used casually or teasing, when a githyanki returns from the material after a long period back to the Astral, and has therefore aged, and changed, compared to those back on the Astral who have not.

Author note: I made this one especially thinking about Orpheus and Voss and Orpheus seeing Voss for the first time and how this could be a phrase the githyanki have used/maybe still use to describe how much someone’s physically and also emotionally changed after they haven’t seen them for a long time, or from a past event.

Var’cha - literal, star bearer;

Another very ancient gith word used to describe the skies of the Astral Sea - ‘skies that bear stars’. Sometimes it’s still used to simply describe something that is aesthetically appealing, sentiment in your beauty (invoking a certain emotion and attachment from beauty, however there’s a different word for that, that was used more), or that something simply looks like the Astral Skies.

Vhayeri - the future/a point in time that hasn't yet happened

Can be used in a poignant and significant way. As in “we will meet vhayeri”.

Vo - of/by/my (context heavy, and a more modern and colloquial version of to/t’)

Vo mir’tal - (vo - meer - tohl) - literally, my safety

A lost word in most of githyanki society, however there are some communities that have kept it alive, the meaning often reverting to its literal nowadays. Whereas its original meaning seemed to hold the weight of ‘my lover’ or simply ‘mine’. It was said Gith had favoured this term for her lovers, one especially, whoever that had been.

z’var - blood

Z’var’zai - (z - vohr - zoy) - literally, blood honour

This can be used in different meanings such as the literal, to give a blood honour, to pay a price in blood for Vlaakith, your jhe’stil. Or to describe a wound or injury because of an honourable thing a githyanki did for someone (however this seems rare, and used more in the older days of the gith).

Often it’s translated and used as ‘worth of blood’ or ‘blood beauty’ to describe someone’s war or battle wounds as something another githyanki appreciates in that person, admires, or desires them because of it.

Z’vart’rac (z - vohr - t - rak) - literally, blood insane

This term is more for battle bloodlust, but sometimes spills over to other feelings between gith, gith and istik or other scenarios.

Z’varc (z - vohrk) - a derivation of the above ‘z’vart’rac’, blood insane.

Blood insane to blood lust, but carnal. If you ask a githyanki what it means in common, they’ll probably say something itense like ‘blood wild’ or ‘bleed me dry, fuck me wet’. Mates and lovers started shortening the original version to this one, and it’s lived on to now heavily through their raiding culture. This is one of the words of the githyanki that is more understood in the feeling, tone, that simple meaning. Trust me on this.

Zhak - bruises

Zharni - memory

Sources used:

Githyanki Vocabulary used in BG3 Gith dictionary of the Forgotten Realms Tir words of Planescape Mordenkainen’s Tome Of Foes Archive of Vocabulary and Grammar of Tir by bluebeholder on AO3

#githyanki #githzerai #gith #bg3 #bg3 githyanki #des' HCs #githyanki worldbuilding #tir'su #next step is to write them all out in tir'su oh boy lmao #kith'rak voss #orpheus bg3 #des writes #my writing #dungeons and dragons #githyanki language #enjoy!!!! i hope #let me know if you like them i always love to know people's thoughts

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daybringersol · 2 months ago

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Guys. Guys we can make Prime make sense. I swear. Guys.

If this can help any Prime Defenders authors out there, here's how I'm working out the problems with Prime being a different planet than Earth while still being so similar (including having french & italian-american people). Feel free to use if it's of any help and/or twist it around for your purposes; if I can save someone a headache, I'll be happy, I sure got a bunch trying to make any sense out of this.

// tw slavery mention, colonisation mention

Earth is a late-stage capitalism hellscape, and tries to colonize Prime to get away from their crumbling planet. Prime stops them, since with their superpowers, they are infinitely more powerful than humans. Earth panics and sends them workers (taken from colonized communities) as peace offerings (2073). Prime is shocked at being sent what are essentially slaves, just frees them and cuts contact with Earth. So now in every major city, there are diasporas of different human communities, who have, over multiple generations, proliferated, kept & adapted their traditions, and started getting powers. Actual artifacts from Earth are extremely rare and often passed down generations.

If we really want to work in the idea that France is its own planet, as mentioned by Bizly in one of the Rolleds (though I'm pretty sure it is a joke), we could say that french people managed to escape Earth and its climate crisis by finding an habitable planet big enough for a (relatively) small country like France, while too small for the rest of Earth.

The reason that primeans are so similar to humans is because the conditions in which the population lived to grow to this degree were similar to Earth, and thus they've evolved similarly. The reason some things have different names on Prime than on Earth, while some words stay the same (for exemple, brands) is because humans brought their knowledge of technology here, tried to remake what they remembered from Earth to make themselves at home, and some of those became popular even with primeans.

Gender as an idea is most prevalent in human communities, as most primeval languages are gender-neutral. Some primeans have decided to play with gender themselves, though they don’t always seem to really understand its rules. Story is written in english, which is one of Mark's native languages (in my fic, his dad is italian-american & his mom is quebecoise) and thus gendered language is used through the eye of Mark (works for my fic, I don't know about yours), who was raised with gender being associated to a person's perceived sex. How Mark interprets people's gender might not have anything to do with their actual genitalia or other hidden sex characteristics.

Lexicon :

Of Prime: Primeval (Adjective.)

Original prime resident (According to humans.): Prim (Noun. Plural: prims. Familiar, somewhat derogatory.)

Original prime resident (According to themselves.): Primean (Noun & adjective. Plural: primeans. Neutral. Means resident of Prime, which would include current human residents, but not used as such. Can also be used as an adjective for things related to Prime.)

Human: Human (Noun & adjective. Plural: humans. Neutral, though sometimes used derogatorily.)

#jrwi podcast #jrwiblr #jrwi #jrwi prime defenders #jrwi fic #jrwi headcanon #jrwi fanfiction #tw colonisation mention #tw colonization mention #tw slavery mention

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mcrcki · 1 year ago

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"yeah, it's strange to almost miss the simplicity of a war. i fucking hate war and yet, it's easier than this. at least we weren't dealing with memories getting all fucked up." honestly, all she wanted was to go home, even if it meant dealing with hybern, as long as she and her family could all return home and things could be normal, she'd take it. "everyone remembers. we were just waiting for you." she nodded. "well, considering he thinks feyre is 'tamlin's human whore', and branwen is a spy for amarantha, i'm worried it'll take a little more than just talking to him to get him to believe us... i don't suppose you could knock some sense into him?" not that she would ever tell rhys, or anyone beyond cassian, and azriel himself, that she was considering torturing their high lord, but if it would help.. rhys would forgive them, wouldn't he? "never thought it would be so fucking hard keeping you lot from dying, and yet here we are." she laughed a little, nodding. "good okay.. i still work for him, so i can keep an eye on him at work but... before you hear it from anywhere else, and so we can tell feyre and cass gently, rhysand and nesta are engaged."

"we at least somewhat know what to expect with hybern. it's a fight, fairly straight and simple. here? it's weird and nothing makes sense at all." azriel admitted with a small shake of his head. he could handle a fight, but when there were stranger dangers lurking around every corner and he had absolute no idea what to expect? it was hard to stay prepared and keep his people safe. he could only do so much, especially since he only just now remembered his life. "yeah? everyone else remembers? then that should be easy. there's no way that we can't all convince him that we know each other if we work together." he nodded his head once, letting out a sigh, actually feeling hopeful that they could do it. "we'll make sure that we don't die." a small smile appeared on his face as he looked at his friend. "i can make sure i've got a couple of my shadows watching him, making sure that he's okay and not getting into any trouble."

#lavendaers #mo. interactions #morrigan || azriel #guilt mention tw #death mention tw #torture mention tw #derogatory language tw

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depravitycentral · 1 year ago

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Yandere! Shouta Aizawa General Profile

Yandere! Shouta Aizawa x fem! reader Tw: yandere, kidnapping, stalking, voyeurism, mentions of assault, breaking and entering, mentions of neglect, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of dub-con, sexual toys, masturbation, derogatory language (not said by our wonderful feminist Shouta), fem! reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE:

Calm

Despite having tight friends who are much, much more energetic and easily excitable than himself, there’s a certain allure to steadiness and calmness that really calls to Aizawa.

Maybe it has to do with his tendency to be a bit low on sleep, or maybe it has to do with his own disposition - he isn’t sure, but he can’t deny the fact that a darling who isn’t constantly bursting with energy is something he would adore.

In order to catch his attention, his darling must be someone he is already comfortable with, and it’s much easier for Aizawa to let someone in if they’re more agreeable, less tiring, more his speed.

Of course, a healthy dose of excitement is something he would crave every once in a while from his partner, but to him the moments of blissful serenity, calm mornings spent in each other’s arms, peaceful nights spent sleeping or catching up on a good show or book mean more than daring, crazy adventures.

He wants to know that his darling will be rational, someone he can have a real conversation with, someone he can respect and trust.

A darling who is more calm and collected is much preferred for Aizawa, and with every situation that they handle efficiently without panicking, it only solidifies his view that his darling is utterly, completely perfect for him.

Smart

Aizawa himself is quite good at understanding and interpreting people, situations, and risks; he’s intelligent, and as a result he’s drawn to others that are similar in that way.

His darling doesn’t need to be a genius, or even someone familiar with the hero world - in fact, someone not associated with the messy, violent life of heroes would be preferred.

He just likes the idea of his darling being smart in their particular interests, of being curious and intelligent and always trying to improve their hobbies or areas of interest.

It once again stems from his want for a partner he can trust, can have logical, clean conversations with, and to say that knowing his darling can make their own informed choices (although Aizawa is quite reluctant to let them decide anything, if only because he knows that he has a better understanding of the world and his darling’s weaknesses) is a relief would be a massive understatement.

He doesn’t like to waste time on those who aren’t able to intellectually keep up with him, and while he’s never fault someone for being slower, he cannot handle ignorance.

His darling needs to be able to understand him, at least as much as they possibly can, and with every situation in which they show off this side of them, Aizawa honestly feels his heart fluttering in his chest.

His darling is just so wonderful, so perfect and amazing, that he literally wants to own them, to have his name claimed onto something so precious and rare.

Realistic

While Aizawa is, admittedly, a bit of a pessimist, he views himself more as someone who expects what’s most likely to happen.

He knows there are terrible people in the world, that things don’t always go the way they’re supposed to, that most of the time there are countless boundaries up against goals and dreams, and he’s simply preparing himself for the inevitable, so that if he turns out to be wrong he’s pleasantly surprised.

Pure optimism is something that Aizawa will never understand, and because of this he tends to prefer people who have more of an approach from the middle ground.

Of course, optimism isn’t a complete turn off for him, but he wants someone who approaches situations without those rose tinted glasses, who’s aware of how the world works and acts accordingly.

He’ll admit that he’s negative (Hizashi has told him as such, more times than he can count), but a darling that walks the fine line between too little confidence in the world and too much is immensely attractive to the underground hero.

He loves that his darling has such a clear, honest view of the world, and as a result he tends to favor his darling’s opinion over his, even if he believes his own is much more likely, much more truthful.

He’s entranced by his darling’s ability to remain honest about things, and he loves knowing they aren’t chasing far fetched ideals.

Aizawa believes his darling is the perfect mix of himself and other traits he wishes he possessed more of, and when his darling is so honest and realistic about the world around them, this only solidifies his view that his darling is so fucking perfect.

Nurturing

Although he acts as if he detests his students at times, Aizawa does genuinely want his kids to succeed, to become pros and tap into their full potential.

He wouldn’t have become a teacher if he didn’t enjoy watching others grow, and he looks for this in a partner as well.

While he isn’t necessarily intent on having any children of his own (although he can’t deny the rush of possessiveness and pleasure that courses through him at the idea of knocking up his beloved), a darling who possesses the ability to care for, nurture and love others is something he deems as a necessity.

He has a quiet kind of support for others; unwavering honesty in their abilities and themselves, and while he views his own methods of nurturing others as productive and useful, a darling who has more of a mainstream approach pulls at his heartstrings.

Aizawa, despite his more rugged and apathetic appearance, has a massive soft spot for people who are just genuinely nice - when he sees the way his darling so easily comforts and helps others feel relevant, at ease, it only furthers his protective instincts, pushes him to believe that his darling needs to be cared for and protected at all times.

And really, who else can do such an important and time consuming task besides himself?

Only he is capable of being the hero his darling needs.

He can be everything they need after all, if they just give him the chance.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Lucid

First and foremost, Aizawa is completely aware that the feelings brewing in his chest for you are far from normal.

He, despite having limited experience in romance and relationships, is completely positive that the degree to which he loves you, that the pure need and desperation that you inspire within him is very much not the standard, that there’s very much something wrong with him.

He’s sure that wanting to keep you trapped in his basement, keeping you completely alone and dependent on him so that the only person who will ever get to see you is him, is wrong.

He’s sure that the devotion and intense obsession he’s harboring for you makes him nothing sort of a creepy stalker, a freak that doesn’t deserve to have something as wonderful as a relationship with you.

Aizawa hates the fact that you make him this way, and while he tries to resist the descent of his feelings at first, he eventually just gives up. It hurts to not see you, to be away from you for long periods of time, so much so that he feels actual physical pain when he hasn’t laid eyes on you in the last twelve hours.

It makes his head spin to repress thoughts of you, feeling like he’s about to burst with every thought he shoves to the side, trying instead to focus on the book in his hands or the papers he’s grading.

He grows physical symptoms of heartbreak with every attempt to discard his feelings for you, and eventually he’ll stop trying.

There’s just something about you that he can’t let go of, no matter how badly he wants to be sane again, normal again - of course, he doesn’t blame you in the slightest; it’s not your fault that you render him a completely lovesick fool, that you inspire such intense need within his chest.

It’s not your fault he’s following you home every night, waiting and watching through your window as you wash your hair, cook yourself dinner, as you snuggle up in your warm bed that he’d give anything to be in with you.

It’s not your fault that he’s spending his every waking moment on either hero work or you, not willing to dismiss his hero duties but spending every waking moment he has free focused on you you you.

Aizawa has come to terms with the fact that his feelings for you likely make him a monster, that he’s no better than some petty criminal for stalking you, for obtaining every scrap of information he can get on you from public and not so public resources.

He’s disgusted with himself, if he’s being completely honest - it’s so fucking wrong for him to be so invested in you when it’s obvious you aren’t returning the weight of his feelings, though there’s a part of him desperately clutching onto the idea that you harbor some kind of romantic feelings for him, that you find him attractive or caring or strong.

(The thought of you complimenting him makes him uncomfortably mushy inside - it gets his cheeks reddening and his throat feeling scratchy, his palms growing wet and his weight shifting from one leg to another, your voice ringing in his head telling him he’s so handsome and strong, that he’s your dream man, that you’ve been dreaming of kissing you for so long, would you please?)

It’s so unfair that someone as kind, normal, innocent as you has to deal with someone waiting outside their window every night, hiding in the shadows and barely able to refrain from reaching a palm down to work at his trousers as he watches you writhe around on your bed, eyes squeezed closed while your thighs twitch as the vibrator between your fingers works its wonders.

It’s cruel irony that you have to worry about protecting yourself from him, the man who’s sworn to keep you safe for the rest of his life.

You make him a villain, really - and as much as it makes him hate himself even more, Aizawa knows that even as wrong as it is, he’ll never be able to stop.

Protective

Although he seems apathetic and uncaring towards others and their well beings at first glance, Aizawa became a pro hero for a reason - not the fame or gold or glory, but rather because he genuinely wants to help others, to keep them safe.

And where you’re concerned, this natural drive is only increased astronomically, to the point where Aizawa is prioritizing your health and safety over everything else, everyone else, including himself.

He’d never be able to forgive himself if something were to happen to you, if he were to allow you to be injured, kidnapped, raped, or, heaven forbid, killed, and as a result he feels that he needs to keep an eye on you constantly, just in case some piece of shit decides to come along and test him.

He’s literally had nightmares about you being harmed by a villain; the image of you bloodied and battered, your lovely hair that has the most heavenly smell all roughed up, your eyes red, ugly bruises blooming across your delicate skin.

He always wakes those nights with a small scream, his heart pounding and tears running down his cheeks, if only because it feels so real, as if you were really in front of him crying and begging for him to save me, please please please Aizawa don’t let me die!

(He really can’t stop himself from heading to your home as quickly as possible those nights, his breathing rugged and uneven until he sees you sleeping peacefully through your window, safe and sound in your bed. He lets out a deep breath and lets a rare, oddly sincere smile creep across his lips, his thumb coming up to press against the window glass, slowly rubbing it along the material as if it were your cheek.)

Being so obsessed with your health is unhealthy and he knows it, but he really can’t stop himself - he’s making sure his patrol lines up perfectly with the times he knows you frequent the outside world, making sure the zones he’s supposed to be mostly in charge of always include your home, your workplace, anywhere you could be when he can’t keep an eye on you.

He can’t slack off on hero work even with his obsession growing stronger by the day, and so he enlists every possible resource to keep you safe and under constant surveillance.

He was nervous to do it at first, worried his longtime friend would call him out for his morally askew behavior, but Hizashi was more than happy to drop by your apartment every once in a while when long shifts or extensive teaching days keep Aizawa away from you.

(The blond was, of course, a bit shocked to hear that his best friend had found someone that got his heart racing, someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with - Aizawa’s words - but was more than eager to help out, willing to do pretty much anything to keep that smile on the man’s face.)

Aizawa, despite his conscious initially telling him not to, even ventures inside your home in the name of upkeep your safety, making sure to change your sheets or keep your refrigerator stocked with healthy, good foods.

(He’s especially concerned about your diet - he knows you eat like shit, and he absolutely cannot have you sustain a poor diet; you need to be eating a good balance of vegetables, protein and whole grains, and if you’re missing something? Well, having two jobs certainly comes in handy when he’s buying carts full of food at the grocery store for you, spending his hard earned money to make sure that you’re taken care of.)

He’s even going so far as to make sure that your feminine products you throw away in the small trash can in your bathroom are the right color, the right consistency, the right everything - your vaginal health is important, and he absolutely will bring your discarded tampon up to his nose, take a few deep whiffs, just to make sure everything is as it should be.

In all honesty, Aizawa is your guardian angel - you mean everything to him, and he genuinely believes that in return for being such an obsessed creep towards you, the least he can do is devote his time and energy into making sure that you’re as safe as can be.

So yes, he’s your guardian angel, but just remember - guardian angels see every little thing you do.

Stalker

Aizawa swears it’s not out of any ill harm; he isn’t following you around town because he’s waiting to pounce, to hold a knife to your throat or to pin you against a dirty, damp alleyway wall and have his way with you.

He’s not laying in wait to catch you vulnerable or alone, holding ill intent and wanting to use you for some sick fantasy of his.

(At least, not the kind that most men who follow women have - there’s much less screaming in his fantasies, or at least screaming from terror and pain.)

He’d never hurt you like that - you’re too precious to him, too literally the purpose of his entire existence for him to ever consider doing something to you out of ill intent.

He’s only stalking you because he needs to make sure you’re safe, because he knows that without him being constantly vigilant when it comes to your safety and presence, you’d likely be dead.

There’s all kinds of despicable people in this world, people that would take one look at you and decide you’re their next victim, the next pretty little thing that needs to be tainted, destroyed and used in order to prove a point.

And really, that’s Aizawa’s nightmare - so when he’s trailing behind you on the busy streets of Musutafu, the night air nipping at his lungs while he shoves his face further into his scarf, his hands clenched in fists in his pant pockets, just know that no, the man following your every step won’t so much as lay a finger on you.

It’s likely that you’ll never even notice him, that you won’t ever be aware that a grown man has been stalking you for months - he’s just too good at staying in the shadows, at making sure that his presence goes unnoticed by you.

He’s light on his feet, silent and quick, able to keep those dark eyes fixed on your figure but staying perfectly out of sight, almost as if he was simply made to watch you, as if it’s his sole purpose to look out for you without you ever knowing.

And frankly, Aizawa is beyond grateful that you’ve never noticed him; he doesn’t know how he’d ever be able to man up to the fact that yes, he knows exactly how you look when you’re peacefully sleeping without a care in the world, that he knows the way you talk to yourself more when you think you’re alone, that he knows what you look like as you cry out incoherently, eyebrows drawn taught as your body convulses from the pleasure you’re giving yourself.

He won’t ever deny it, as lying about it would be another level of wrong that Aizawa, even as morally compromised as you make him, will never be, but he won’t openly admit it either.

It would be too embarrassing, too mortifying and heartbreaking to see the way your eyes would get all glassy and big, fear setting into your expression as you back away from him, on the verge of tears as you tell him to get away from me, please!

He doesn’t think he could take it; your blatant rejection of him, of everything he does for you - it would destroy him, send him even further into his shell, even more withdrawn.

So really, as you live ignorant of the fact that a pair of warm, chocolate orbs are staring at you from the corner of your window as you work on yet another dull project your boss is forcing you into, just know that Aizawa isn’t especially proud.

He’s not proud of the way his heart nearly beats out of his chest when you look out the window, when the fear that you’ve finally caught him rolls through him.

He’s not proud of the way his breath hitches when he sees you humming and gliding across your kitchen, hands flying as you make yourself dinner, his imagination all too easily conjuring up the image of you in a little apron, making two portions, setting the table and calling out to him that dinner’s ready, Aizawa!

He isn’t proud that it helps him sleep to watch you fall asleep, your cute little face nearly obscured by all those sheets and blankets you pull up in the winter, the way your expression melts into pure relaxation and calmness as you drift into slumber making him relax too, making him imagine the way it would feel for you to fall asleep in his arms.

He’s not proud of the way his eyes grow wide, a violent flush spreading across his cheeks as he watches the way you grind your hips against the toy, your lip caught between your teeth as you shake and tremble and spasm, his own cock straining desperately against his pants.

He’s not proud of any of it, but he’ll endure it. Really, he’ll endure fucking anything for you, just to see that perfect smile of yours, the one that makes him think that maybe, just maybe, becoming the lovesick, disgusting monster he is now was all worth it.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

In all honesty, jealousy isn’t something that Aizawa has to deal with that much; of course, he doesn’t like when guys come up to you, when they talk to you and put their filthy hands on your shoulders, over your own hand, or even on your waist if they’re feeling brave enough, but generally he won’t directly intervene.

He knows you don’t belong to him, that he has no real say in what you can or can’t do at this point, but he can’t deny the way utter and complete terror courses through him at the prospect that the man smiling at you so incessantly could be a villain, a thug just waiting to get you vulnerable and ready to be taken advantage of.

His protectiveness over you is quite honestly overwhelming – he’s so concerned for your safety, hyper fixating on your wellbeing so much that it forces him to neglect his own self-care even more, until every ounce of energy outside of patrol times is spent completely on you.

Every free moment is spent watching your every move, keeping an eye on you from the shadows with the excuse that he’s just preemptively keeping you safe.

Every moment is spent caring for you so that nothing can possibly hurt you, his mind constantly whirring so that nothing could lay a single finger on you with ill intent.

It’s like an itch that he can’t scratch - there’s this feeling of bubbling rage below the surface, eating away at him as he watches with narrowed dark eyes at the way you awkwardly laugh while the man who bumped into you in the coffee shop apologizes, making some lame pick up line that has Aizawa’s fist clenching in anger.

How fucking dare that man try and touch you?

Like you’re some common, average person, like you aren’t the literal light of Aizawa’s life?

He’s pissed, and while jealousy isn’t the primary feeling rushing through his veins (that spot is taken by anger, followed very closely by fear for your well being), he can’t just let the man get away with something so blatantly wrong, something that really should require the Erasure hero’s attention - so, while he isn’t proud, Aizawa does what he has to do in order to make sure you’re completely out of harm’s way.

He’s always hated it when you walked while looking at your phone – too many opportunities for you to get hurt, to stumble and fall, to run into something, to just be generally unaware of your surroundings.

It makes him yearn to yank the stupid little screen out of your hands, to tuck you under his arm and escort you wherever you need to go – you should be headed to the supermarket, according to the schedule he’s memorized.

He’ll watch you buy a few vegetables, followed by much too many sweets, carbs, things he knows you know better than to eat, and yet you still do. He’s watching from the alleyway, the dark shadows letting him hide as his eyes stay fixed on your figure, unwilling to let you out of his sight for even a second.

His work as an underground hero has never come more in handy than when he’s following you, keeping a safe distance to make sure that you don’t notice him, but his cover is threatened to blow up the second he notices that man eyeing you up, the smirk crossing onto his features making Aizawa’s blood boil.

He’s on the other side of the street, this man, dressed head to toe in an outfit that immediately screams danger to Aizawa; a pressed dress shirt with a rather boring red tie, black slacks and scuffed up dress shoes, with way too much gel in his hair.

The briefcase in his hand bobs a bit as he adjusts his grip, gaze visibly traveling up and down your form as you cross the crosswalk.

Aizawa’s gripping at his scarf tightly, knuckles turning white from the force, the sense of impending doom slowly eating away at him.

And yet, he knows he can’t do anything until the man does something - until eh approaches you, until he touches you or insults you or hurts you -

The hero’s teeth are clenched, eyes narrowed, and he watches with baited breath as the man crosses the street (jaywalking, a crime that Aizawa could, technically, bust him for, but that would cause issues with local police and not be worth the hassle, even if it would get the man away from you), practically swaggering up to you with a smarmy smirk spread across his thin lips.

You still haven’t noticed him yet, eyes still glued to your phone, and for a moment the man seems discouraged that you haven’t noticed the way he’s fallen in step with you, roughly two feet away from your form.

He clears his throat and you peek at him from the side of your eyes, face visibly confused at why this stranger is looking at you.

He opens his mouth, some variation of hey cutie falling past his lips, and Aizawa sucks in a breath in both anger and worry. Would you like this man? Would you like his smooth confidence, the fact that he looks like he works in a bank, that he’s wearing enough cologne for Aizawa to smell ten feet away?

It’s insecurity and he knows it, a stupid voice in the back of his head, and yet he can’t help himself - which is why he suddenly feels like he can breath when you grimace and look back at your phone, walking a bit faster to get away from the man.

You don’t want him. Good.

Aizawa takes a moment to mentally praise you, happy that you’re standing up for yourself, before following even closer, watching to see what this creep will do next.

The man doesn’t take your obvious dismissal kindly, his face contorting into something ugly, and he angrily adjusts his tie.

Hey bitch, he growls, getting even closer to you, aren’t you a little too ugly to be so damn uptight?

And suddenly Aizawa’s seeing red, swooping in before he can even think.

His hands are on the man’s shoulder in seconds, pushing him to the side and staring with dark, enraged eyes that get the stranger staggering back, a small prick of fear dancing in his posture. Harassing women is a crime, you know.

Aizawa starts, and at this point you’ve turned around, watching with wide eyes as your friend (a loose term, but one you like to employ for your relationship with the dark haired hero) stares down the creep.

For a moment you’re confused, distantly wondering how and why Aizawa is here, but as the man scoffs and spits at the ground, muttering a damn heroes under his breath, the thought dies quickly.

Aizawa watches as the man turns around and stomps off, the weight of his gaze causing the man to quicken his pace, and after he’s a good thirty feet away, he merely sighs, his scarf coming back down around his shoulders as he turns to you.

He asks if you’re okay, and you blink but nod, smiling a bit at him and pocketing your phone.

Yeah, I’m good… thanks, Shouta.

He stiffens a bit at his name, swallowing harshly before nodding. He’s about to leave (retreating to the shadows, like always), but your voice stops him.

Since you’re my knight in shining armor, can I repay you with some tea or coffee?

A small dusting of pink settles across the bridge of his nose at your words, and before he can even think he’s muttering an agreement, letting you lead him to some coffee shop nearby that he knows you frequent.

He knows your order, even mouthing the words to himself as you tell the cashier, but when you sit down and tell him about your day in the cozy, dimly lit shop, Aizawa finds himself sighing, deciding that maybe he doesn’t need to chase down and intimidate that creep after all .

Or, at least, it can wait until you finish telling him about work yesterday.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because of Aizawa’s lucidity in terms of his feelings for you, kidnapping you is something that is absolutely the very last resort for him, only something he would do if there was absolutely no other possible option, no other choice that wouldn’t result in your death or severe injury.

The idea of doing something without your consent like that - forcing you to essentially end the life you’re currently living in favor of being trapped in his home - is something that doesn’t settle quite right in his stomach.

He would never be able to forgive himself if he were to take you away, and he could never even try to pretend that what he’s done is right, moral, heroic.

That said, Aizawa lets his paranoia regarding you get the better of him all to often, and so under the right circumstances, Aizawa could feel backed into a corner, where the only possible option is to indeed steal you away.

He’ll be desperately searching for any other option, hating himself as the idea stands alone as the only choice, but when the villain in front of him has you gagged and trapped in his arms with a gun pointed out towards the ebony haired man, he’ll start panicking.

And when the scum holding you says how he managed to find out that you were the famous Eraserhead’s weakness, his blood goes cold.

His fingers itch to move when the man says that he’d seen him spend all those hours stalking you, watching you endlessly, that he’d told his subordinates, that even if Aizawa kills him now, they’ll keep coming until they kill you.

There’s nothing more I can do, he’ll tell himself as he disarms the villain and knocks him unconscious, watching as you look at him in fear and try to run away after the news of him stalking you comes to light.

And really, it kills Aizawa to see you looking so terrified, flinching and screaming as he wraps you in his scarf and carries you bridal style through the dark, cold city streets, but he’s resigned to the fact that while you may hate your new life and him, you’ll be better off under his care rather than still out in the real world, where villains would keep coming and never stopping until you’re splattered brains on a sidewalk.

Aizawa is arguably the best captor to have in the entirety of the My Hero Academia universe - he’s so painfully aware of how wrong it is to have you locked in his apartment, how evil it is to make you stay so completely dependent on him, and as a result he tries his absolute best to respect you as much as he can.

He’s given you an entire room to yourself, setting you up with as many things as he can recover from your old room, the things he’s seen you use most.

Your same bed will be there, along with the sheets, pillows and blankets intact and neatly arranged for your comfort.

All of the clothes he could fit in the closet are also present, along with a chest of drawers for your more… intimate items.

He’s got your favorite foods (his own healthier options are there, too - because even though the guilt he feels is overwhelming now, he still won’t have your health deteriorate), and while it absolutely kills him to give you the ability to access things like knives, razors, sharp and dangerous tools, he’s begrudgingly letting you.

(At least, until the first time you hurt yourself, in which case he will revoke that privilege in a heartbeat.)

It’s all in an effort to get you hating him less, to make you as happy as you possibly can be, because at the end of the day Aizawa truly, truly loves you.

You’re wonderful to him, a motivation to keep risking his life and teaching younger generations, a motivation to keep living, now that he has someone to live for.

He’s generally pretty respectful of your rights and desires (aside from the fact that you can’t walk out the front door, of course), but the kind, lenient captor you get when you first wake up in his modest, fairly clean apartment is not who you’ll continue to see if you begin being ungrateful, begin throwing tantrums and acting out as a means to anger him or rile him up.

Of course, he doesn’t blame you for being scared the first few weeks, for having a few breakdowns here and there because for fuck’s sake he kidnapped you – he’d be more worried if you didn’t freak out, but at a certain point the hero will begin to grow tired of your outbursts, disappointed in your childish behavior for something that he’s said time and time again won’t be changing.

Years of teaching has molded Aizawa into someone who is ruthlessly able to correct poor behavior, to instill a sense of fear that forces others to stop making stupid decisions.

And where you’re concerned, these natural traits shine brightly - the minute you start swinging at him, hissing and calling him such terrible names, his mouth is pressing into a thin line, his brows drawn taught as he stares at you, waiting for you to apologize and stop acting like such a brat.

He’s a forgiving captor, as long as you don’t cause any trouble - he only took you to keep you safe, and he won’t have you undermining his efforts by being reckless and childish once you’re trapped with him.

He feels guilty, but only to a certain extent - you’re a grown woman, and while Aizawa often treats you as if you were no more than a toddler, he expects you to act your age.

And, quite honestly, as selfish as it is, there’s a part of Aizawa that is devastated beyond words when you repeatedly refuse him, when you reject his kind words and gifts, when you tell him he’s a monster, a disgusting excuse for a hero, because hasn’t he spent the last few weeks giving you space, cooking you your favorite meals, having the patience of a goddamn saint?

Why are you being so ungrateful?

Does he not do enough for you?

Maybe he’ll have to start spoiling you more, making you happier, getting you more of those stupid plushies or your favorite movies - anything to get you to look at him and smile.

Anything to get you looking at him with love, with joy or longing because god does he love your smile and god is he desperate to see you laugh and tell him you love him and please please please he needs you to love him so fucking bad please -

So really, just be his good girl, because that’s all Aizawa wants.

PUNISHMENTS:

In all honesty, punishing you is something Aizawa fucking hates.

He derives no pleasure out of mocking you, out of making you purposefully miserable and seeing your teary, pained face – if anything, it’s something he actively tries to avoid, his poor heart clenching so harshly in his chest at the sight that he physically winces and grasps at the area.

He doesn’t like making you upset or any other negative emotion, but while this desire to keep you safe and happy and smiling is strong, it’s outweighed by the desire to keep you in line every single time.

It’s natural, in a way, for him to be discipling you – it’s his job, and while he very much doesn’t think of you like his students, some of the habits he’s acquired over the years die hard.

(Aizawa wants to throw up at the mere mention of doing the things he wants to do to you with anyone else – he most certainly does not want to pin anyone but you down and fuck them until they’re crying or eat them out until they’re a squirting, incoherent mess, or stuffing them to the brim with his cum, so much so that they’re leaking it out and making a sticky mess between their thighs. No one but you.)

And so, while he does genuinely wish for you to grow to love him, he knows that he needs to present himself as the dominant one in the relationship, the one whose word is law – and if doing so means making you cry or be even more afraid of him, he’ll begrudgingly do so.

He hates every moment of it, but he knows it’ll be worth it once you finally decide to stop ramming yourself at the front door in efforts of bringing it down, that you’ll finally stop digging around for the bottles of sleeping pills you know Aizawa keeps hidden around for nights when the guilt and stress of kidnapping you and being a hero eat him alive.

He just wants you to behave, and in all honesty it isn’t even you behaving for him – it’s for you, so that you stay safe and healthy and pristine, the exact reasoning behind why he stole you away in the first place.

He’s conditioning you to stay unharmed, and while you may not see it that way now (the crying and screaming about how he’s a sick monster, a fucking perverted freak who belongs rotting behind bars tell him everything he needs to know about your feelings on the matter), Aizawa is sure that with time you’ll eventually mellow out, that one day you might even come to understand why he’s so fiercely protective over you and so quick to punish you where you’re wrong – it’s out of love.

Even if it’s twisted, obsessive, wrong, it’s still love, something Aizawa never wants to let go of.

With that being said, Aizawa still absolutely refuses to physically harm you.

His whole reasoning for stealing you away, for plucking you up and out of your old life to stay with him irrevocably was all based upon the premise of keeping you safe, of making sure that you never lay victim to an accident, a villain, or even your own stupid decisions.

Aizawa wants you to be completely protected, and even the thought of raising a hand to you makes him wince, the idea bringing a sharp pain in his chest.

And so, he resorts to other methods to make sure that you understand what the exact behavior he’s trying to correct is – that is, relying on methods that are a bit more psychological.

He doesn’t manipulate you, as lying to you and twisting around your understanding of the world seems downright cruel to the underground hero.

The last thing he wants is for you to lose any sense of trust in him you may still be clinging to, and for the most part he wants you to remain yourself, unchanged and perfect and so very wonderful.

He fell in love with you, after all, and he has no sick fantasies of changing you, or molding you into another version of yourself. But when you’re crying and punching your already bruised and bloodied knuckles against the non-shattering, one way glass of the window in your bedroom, Aizawa knows that he needs to take action.

And so, the tray of food he’d brought for you (a can of warm soup, a glass of water and some crackers, as he knew your throat was still a bit sore from all the crying you’d done the day earlier) gets set down on your dresser, the dark haired man sighing with a small, genuine frown as he carefully walks behind you, wrapping his arms around you and demobilizing you while you thrash and kick around, yelling and cursing at him to let me go, fucking let me leave you sick fuck!

The words sting, his normally dry eyes feeling a bit damp at the way your insults seem to stab and poke at his heart, but it doesn’t stop him from carrying you down to the basement, the dark and cold area having quickly become one of your least favorite, most nightmarish locations.

Immediately you’re freezing up, realizing what’s about to happen, and though the compliments and sugar coated lies of how you’re so sorry, I don’t know what got into me, I promise I didn’t mean it! are nice to hear (and, if he tries hard enough, he can almost believe them), he can’t let himself falter now, lest you figure out his weakness when it comes to you and exploit it.

No, instead he’s setting his jaw, dark hair falling forward to hide his face as he carefully sets you onto the ground, watching as you reach out and clutch onto his pant leg, fingers trembling while you sob about how you don’t want to be left down here again, in the dark and cold and dirt, but Aizawa is merely staring down at you, before crouching down and running a thumb along your cheekbone.

You have to understand that your actions have consequences, (f/n). I’m not doing this for fun, I’m doing this so that you realize that you’re only hurting yourself when you act out like a child. I’ll be back soon, just wait patiently. Maybe next time you won’t be so quick to be such a brat.

And with that, he’s up and shutting the door behind him, the resounding click of the lock filling the empty space as the darkness hangs over you, the cold seeping into every inch of your body.

It’s a long two days – a small glass of water and a single apple slice is sent to you daily, no light or contact with anyone at all, not even Aizawa himself.

It’s just you and the grimy, slightly moist ground of the basement, time seeming to last forever as you wait and wait for him to eventually return.

And when he does, immediately you’re upon him, apologizing and crying and promising that you’ll never do anything bad again, just please please please never put me back down here, I’ll do anything, anything at all!

And while it’s a bit pathetic to see you groveling and crying so shamelessly, Aizawa only pulls you into his chest, soothing you and running his hand along the back of your head in comforting motions.

You’ll be treated like a princess for the rest of the day – the warmth, food and attention that your captor gives you suddenly feels like the most heavenly thing, as if you’d never been happier, as if Aizawa was the only one who could give you this intense of a relief and relaxation.

He isn’t especially proud of his methods, but as you start calming down, acting out less and less, he can’t pretend to not be pleased with the results – after all, he just wants to get to the point of you being somewhat happy, of you not wanting to kill yourself and him every moment of every day.

Progress is slow, but for you, Aizawa is nothing if not patient.

OVERALL DANGER:

5/10

In all honesty, Aizawa is a pretty mild yandere – he has no intentions of hurting you or imprisoning you unless necessary, and he has no delusions about the moral misguidance of his feelings for you.

He knows the way he loves you is fucked up, that how he expresses his emotions for you is questionable at best, and while he hates himself for it he just can’t stop. You’re too important to him, you mean too much.

You make him too happy, make him feel warm and fuzzy, this swollen feeling in his chest that makes his muscles relax, his eyelids get heavy, his arms feeling empty without you in them.

Because of you, he suddenly doesn’t feel so detached and bitter - like a whole new man, he could even say.

It’s pathetic and he feels like some creepy, villainous freak because of it, but he can’t help himself from watching you, from looking out for you at every turn.

Your biggest obstacle with Aizawa will be his overprotectiveness – his sole purpose in life becomes keeping you safe, dedicating as much of his time as he can to making sure not a single scratch befalls your pretty, perfect body, that not a single hair on your head is so much as touched by someone with any hint of an ill intent.

He’s maniacal in his dedication to your safety and health, and while stealing you away isn’t something he particularly wants to do, at least under his care you won’t be physically harmed.

You’ll be given space for the most part, and a general sense of peace because god, Aizawa would do anything and everything in order to keep you smiling, to keep you happy and healthy and so very radiant.

He loves you, and while he hates himself for it, he knows that he’ll never stop loving you.

#yandere bnha #yandere mha #_lee's profiles #_bnha #_shouta aizawa #yandere aizawa #yandere shouta aizawa

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