#twisted pride header

[hiloedits]

— remo + nevio falcone headers

like or reblog if you use/save.

© hiloedits on twitter.

[barbieaemond]

And I dream of a grave

Header by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs 💕💕

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: angst (!), smut, too many references to graves/burying, mentions of Blood & Cheese, miscommunication, Aemond's coping mechanism is violence and sex, in this order (good for him)

Word count: 3.8k

Author's note: the gif is self explanatory. This is a prequel to A Curse for a Curse, but can be read as a standalone. Big thank you to @irenadel for giving me the idea and being one of the most supportive souls <3

Taglist: @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @multyfangirl

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language

This is more than tempting the Gods. This is forsaking and impudently turning their backs on them.

As she sits down at the banquet, her mother’s words echo through her mind like the vexing sound of the wind on a storm’s night. It sets an unpleasant weight on her lungs, the close and yet shapeless feel of something dreadful. She’s almost grateful, looking around, to ascertain she’s not the only fool dreading this whole act.

The Dowager Queen sits at the table, barely able to contain a grimace. Queen Helaena, she is certain, has never looked so pale, her eyes so vacuous and yet so full of something unknown, elusive, smoke clouding and clearing her unnatural stare. The Hand has conveniently made himself absent. She can’t blame him. Actually, she envies him. If only she too could have been spared such a farce. But as the wife of the King’s brother, the very one they’re all supposed to celebrate tonight, she cannot do that, can she?

To cheers and the blaring of trumpets, the King enters shoulder to shoulder with his brother, tall and proud in his stride, wearing dark green velvet for such a special occasion, and such a special title.

“Do you know how they’re going to call you from now on?” the Queen Mother had asked when he came back from Storm’s end, dripping rain and mud and war.

“I do, Mother.” Aegon had answered, twisting a knife from his seat at the head of the table; she had never caught that glint of satisfaction in his eyes, not like that; it wasn’t dimmed by wine or flesh, but sharp as the blade in his hand. “A title he should be proud of.”

Pride was ever the easiest thing to wear for Aemond, the softest glove gliding on his skin, born out of a pit so deep and full of insecurities and negligence that that same endless depth had grown out of proportion in order to fill itself. To even try scratching his pride was like trying to climb the highest mountain with bare hands. She had cut her palms open to do so.

“What happened, Aemond?” she had asked once alone in their chambers.

“You know what happened.”

“What really happened?”

His good eye had pierced her as if she were made of crystal, but his jaw was too set, on the verge of breaking his own teeth if he carried on keeping the guilt, and truth, trapped inside.

“I didn’t want to.” He whispered, coming down from the peak, “I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted—”

“Revenge? Well, you had it. Did it make you feel good? Did you bring that boy peace at last?”

It took him a lifetime to say no; a whispered sound, choked even, as if he had bitten off his tongue to get it out of that pit where he had never looked again.

He was biting his tongue in the council, the faintest clench in his jaw but here, here in the council, here in the world, he had to keep that pit buried and stand straight on the highest peak, looking up and up, never down, never back. How could he, how could he admit he had lost control. It was easier, safer, to let them think of him a monster, rather than just human.

“I salute you, brother.” The King had said, raising his cup “True blood of the dragon! We shall have a feast in your honor!" Otto had merely lowered his head in defiance, going unnoticed in the eyes of his King and grandson, drunk with power and finally free of his mother's leash, unaware that a golden noose now held him in check.

He had summoned jesters, musicians, even some dancers to coddle his brother, and raise him higher and higher. She imagined she just had to wait for the fall. Or perhaps pray to the Seven to overlook the insult, to keep a mortal up there with them for a little more. But then again, they shouldn’t ask the Gods for mercy. Someone more unforgiving, more bloodthirsty. Someone who, just as her husband and his brother and each one of their cursed dynasty, did not listen to either Gods or men.

“A toast!” the King says at one point, turning to his left. “To my brother Aemond and a long overdue justice, is it not?”

Out of courtesy and duty, she grabs her cup and raises it, but as everyone at the table sips their wine, all she tastes is contempt, and the cup hits the surface untouched. But not unseen.

“Brother, wine may cloud my judgment, but it seems to me that your beloved wife does not share the sentiment of this fine evening. I wonder why.”

She holds the King’s demanding stare with a firm one, aware of Aemond looking at her even if his eye is fixed on the table. He has ignored her for the whole night, not sparing her a single glance. Because she owns the truth, doesn’t she, and it’s a knife pointed at his back.  

“May I speak my mind, your Grace?”

There’s the slightest shift in Alicent’s posture, as if she were desperately waiting for her, or anyone, to cease all of this, to say this isn’t right.

Aegon pulls a thin, lazy smile and tilts his silver head, swirling his cup. “Why, of course, Princess. My brother tells me you have a habit of doing so.”

“Did he, now?” she resists the urge to scoff; such a despicable habit for a woman in this world.

“Fret not, good sister, I’m certain he holds no grudges against you for your silver tongue.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain too, your Grace. I know for a fact that he likes it.”

A few lords can do very little to hold their snickering, Aegon himself does not hide his malicious smirk, petty at the edges. It must run in the blood.

“Careful though, you don’t want to spend too much time talking, lest you leave my poor brother without any heir! It’s been a while since you two lovebirds tied the knot, isn’t that right?”

She glances beside her, surely Aemond won’t let that slight insult pass, but he stays still and silent like a statue. She can’t quite believe what she’s witnessing. This is the same man who would call the crowned head at the table wastrel, depraved, disgrace.

So much for a disgrace, now that he fosters your pride and lies.

“I can assure you, good brother, that the talking is well outweighed by other activities that involve very few words.”

Aegon plasters a big grin on his face, yet she’s not finished. “But perhaps the Gods are sparing me the burden of bringing a child in such troubled times. A realm at war is not the best place to live in, is it not?”

“It depends on which side you’re on, Princess.”

There’s suspicion in his tone, but she just blinks at him. “My apologies, I was not aware that my loyalty to your House, and my husband’s, was to be questioned.”

“Come now. We are bound by what if not words?”

“I was under the impression that the Crown should fear his own kin more than a simple foreign girl from the West.”

At that, Helaena lets out a strange noise, something close to a wince, and silence falls all over. It is only now that Aemond undoes the stone he walled himself in and acts as he always does when he feels belittled, or worse, threatened. He shuts her out.

“I’m afraid my wife is growing tired, brother. ’Tis best for her to retire.”

She bites her tongue and turns her head. There’s no mistake in his tone, that is an order. She stares at him and he stares back, blankly, and then, just as it is expected of her, she obeys.

She goes without saying a word, aware of Aemond’s eye on her, of Aegon’s little victorious giggle. He snaps his fingers and two dancing girls flock to his brother. She knows this because she can’t resist but turning before disappearing. The girls are said to come from Lys, no less. But he’s not sparing them a single glance. His eye follows her out of the hall, and even after.

Candles almost extinguished, casting a soft glow in the bedchamber, dim but enough to make the shape of her body visible under the covers.

“I know you’re pretending to be asleep.” He says, placing his dagger and eyepatch on the nightstand.

She doesn’t bother to wait a single moment to fly her eyes open. “Was I not supposed to pretend I was tired?”

When she gets no answer, she turns to face him, finding him on his feet near the bed, undoing the buttons of his doublet. His eye is on her, though, wide, as someone ready to hunt but seeing traps everywhere.

“Did you enjoy your feast?” she asks with piqued interest. “Such a shame that I missed most of it. I was eager to watch the girls from Lys dance. How were they?”

“Enough. You should thank me for dismissing you. You were bordering on high treason.”

“Since when telling the truth is considered high treason?”

“Is that what you were going to say? The truth? To make me look like a fool in front of the whole court?”

“I was only going to say that the feast was an insult and a challenge to the Gods or any common sense. And I know that beneath all the pats on the shoulder and the endorsement on your brother’s part, you are of the same mind.” she hopes to see the barest glimpse of validation on his face, at least here, where he can leave behind his pride and admit he made a mistake. Is that what you call starting a war?

But his expression is as closed as ever, wary.

She wishes it would hurt less than it does. “Of all the people ready to betray you, how quick you are to assume I’d be the first.”

“We’re bound by words, are we not?”

“Take your brother off your mouth.” She says absentmindedly; she tries to not let it sting, but it does anyway. It is a low blow, and she knows he does not believe it. He has raised the walls, coiling like a snake, and there’s no point trying to climb and risk cracking her skull open on the ground. She will have to wait for him to come down. “Then perhaps I should consider my father’s proposal.”

She leaves the bed and grabs a letter lying open on the desk. “He wrote me this letter. That is why my mother came all the way here, apparently to see how her daughter was faring.”

Aemond eyes it with the barest twitch in his lips, then looks up into her eyes and, with a sigh, she clears her throat.

“My dearest daughter,

It is with great concern and sadness that I write you this letter.

Words have reached me about the recent events involving Storm’s End and young Prince Lucerys’ demise. My spirits are low when thinking of the fate you’re enduring. But I want you to think carefully of this: annulments are rare but possible. Even more so since you bore no heirs yet. You cannot remain married to a Kinslayer, it is the highest of sins. I only need a word from you, daughter, and I shall hastily consult with a High Septon.”

She can barely register his arm moving, only sees his hand snatching the letter out of her grip, crumpling the paper between his fingers. Nostrils flaring, eye widening, she reads insult all over his face. About time.

“Is that it, Aemond? Is that the reason you’d think I would betray you? Because I didn’t bleed on a birthing bed yet? Is that how you measure my loyalty? What of all the times I drew your bath, washed your hair, pulled the boots off your feet? What about that curtain—“ she adds, pointing to the windows “and the fact that I told the maid to keep that side always closed so the sun will not bother your eye? Do you think I did all of this because of some empty words?”

He looks as if she has just slapped him. Mistrust and bewilderment run together all over his sharp features, trying to win one another, and she waits and waits, and she begs as all the purest things must be pleaded, wordlessly.

Come down. Come down. Lay down with me. In our bed, a grave, it matters not. I'll take the shovel and do the burying.

But he stands still on his high and cursed perch, the grip on the letter loosens, his shoulders slump a little, because this, this comes so easily. Violence. It’s the other glove he wears like second skin.

“You will write to your father and tell him if I hear another word about annulments, I will have his head for treason. And as for you… you tell a living soul what you know, and you shall join the Silent Sisters. You won’t even have to vow your silence, for I shall take your sharp tongue first.”

She watches him go, standing in the middle of the room like a fool; her hands bleeding still and a plea, unheard, choking to death in her chest.

Her hands heal, stay whole for so long. She feels she cannot reach him this time, no matter how hard she tries to climb. She finds no footholds, no inlets, until she stops looking for any.

She finds she has no strength to do it anymore. They’re all dead anyway, each of them in their own way, their own burial.

The king drinks and rages and drinks and rages. Helaena rocks on herself all day long, chasing the highs and lows of her laments. Jaehaera stares at her mother with her small lips sewn, her eyes wide and the Queen Mother weeps and weeps, wondering if the little girl is watching her mother go mad with grief or yet again her twin brother’s head rolling on the ground like one of her toys.

And Aemond…she does not know where Aemond chose to bury himself. He spends the day out, trying to escape the smothering grip of the Stranger’s claws, his curse…or is it only retribution?

Sometimes he’s in the training yard, sometimes that same yard becomes theater for revenge. He kills whoever helped Blood and Cheese enter the Keep, man or woman, he doesn’t care. He tortures them, and she wants to beg him to stop, to tell him that torturing one, two, or one hundred men won’t stop guilt from torturing him.

So, he wanders restlessly, basks in small and big cruelties, until the sun sets and she’s aware, as the bed dips under his weight, that she is his own burial. He takes her at any time, in any place, be it the bed, the desk, or bent over the vanity, she cannot do anything to stop him. She doesn’t want to and yet she aches to do it. Because it’s always sudden, and harsh and hurtful when he pulls her hair, when he spares no time to stoke her desire, when he keeps her bent with her back turned and a firm hand on her neck like some kind of punishment.

It never used to be like this. It had been playful, teasing, painfully slow as if he were separating salt from water, and then fast, urgent, unraveling for two inexperienced newlyweds.

But it had never been like that. There was no joy in it. Only a duty to be fulfilled. Some twisted way to gain control, while anyone else kept slipping from his hands. Just as Vhagar slipped out of his control on that fateful night of storm.

He remembered that dark thrill pounding in his veins, the laughter gushing out of his throat like poison. He couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know whether Vhagar was fueling his fire or the other way around, perhaps both. Just a little more, he’d thought, as Arrax batted his wings frantically, desperate, mirroring his young rider, to escape the gaping jaws of the Queen of All Dragons.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted to relish in his nephew’s dread, he wanted to drink it. He wanted him alone, desperate, hopeless, just as he had been.

And then he felt it, the shift in the ancient fire pit he was riding, like a boat tipping over and there was no helm to grab onto and bring it back to land. He had sunk his own family into the bleak abyss of Daemon Targaryen’s soul.

He had come to collect, thoroughly. A son for a son, yes, but he had taken much more than Jaehaerys. He’d taken Helaena as well. Even Jaehaera.

Will she ever be able to speak again?

Will my Mother ever forgive me?

Words never spoken, stuck on his tongue and then gagged and swallowed. He cannot look down, cannot look back. He must look up and forward, like soldiers do. To the next battle, to war.

But there’s this woman. And the sight of her in his bed that makes his breath hitch and for two reasons entirely opposite to one another. The first is the most ancient one. But she’s also a thorn in his side, for she knows. She knows everything. She knows all his peaks and depths, every brick in his walls and how to dismantle them; she knows he’s strong and weak, that he’s scared and guilty and worthy of his mother’s contempt, but he cannot bear any of this in front of her.

He flees her presence during the day, only to impose himself on her for the whole night. She cannot refuse him. And he cannot have her prying and dismantling his well-crafted walls and lies, so he takes her and takes her and takes her until he works themselves up to exhaustion and she’s a rag doll in his hands. It serves the purpose, though. As long as she has his cock in her mouth, as long as he harshly pounds into her, cutting her breath from the inside, she cannot ask questions. As long as he keeps chasing his pleasure, and his rugged breaths muffle his own ears, he cannot think straight.  

He's close now and it’s the second time already. The sheets are damp beneath their bodies, his back glints with sweat, damps his forehead as he thrusts inside her one more time. They’re lying on their side, but he keeps her caged against him, his arm has slipped on the mattress and under her neck to keep her still, with her back to him. With his cheek glued to hers, he croons praises in her ear, falling mindlessly from his lips but like drops in the ocean. Once, she would redden, smile blissfully, or challenge him, to go deeper, or harder, or both, but she’s a limp thing now. A mere body panting upon being fucked by another, that’s all.

This is possession. Or a desperate attempt to. Each night, he holds her as if it’s the last time and she could slip away from him at any moment, turning her back on him. She can feel it now, in the way he’s gripping her shoulder, the way his nails dig in her skin, carving into her bones: stay with me. Please. Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave.

But it’s him keeping her away, turning her own back on him.

Don’t you know, she wishes to tell him, that I won’t, ever. I won’t. No matter how cursed you are. I won’t. I won’t.

He grabs her thigh, resting it on his hip, spreading his long fingers on her skin, spreading her legs so he can find the perfect angle and picks up the pace. She shudders with every thrust, gasping with her throat dry, feeling the long bridge of his nose sinking in her cheek, his grunts growing rougher and deeper; some strange choked sound at the back of his throat.

He comes quietly, panting shallowly against the damp fabric of her nightgown. And he stays there, claw gripping her shoulder, head sunk between her neck and collarbone, and deep to the hilt buried in her.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know where it comes from, who she is mourning, she can’t tell these days. Perhaps she’s mourning him, who he was, who he is now and who he is forcing himself to be. She doesn’t know where the deception lies anymore. She wishes she could push it back in, prays that it goes unnoticed, swallowed along with all the others, but she should know by now, the Gods are not in her favor anymore, if they ever had been.

“Why are you crying?”

She turns her head, and her breath hitches. The gemstone glints, yes, but she’s too struck by his eye to even notice the sapphire. There’s something raw there, bare, more than his very skin now. It’s the first time she sees that look on him, torn, heavy lidded and not by pleasure.

This is the burden of grief.

She wonders if that’s the reason he’s so keen on fucking her with her back turned, so she can’t see him. Perhaps she didn’t look hard enough. She thought he had risen too high, out of her reach, of anyone’s. She thought he would never fall, not in every sense of the word.

Hence, she’s at a loss for words, slightly pulling herself up, when he slowly comes down; he curls into himself, into her lap, resting his head there like a child. No Kinslayer, no Dragon Prince, no son, no brother. No husband. Just a human, bare in the skin and soul.

Aemond wraps his hand around her knee, gently, and then tighter and tighter, shutting his eye. He’s on land now, but the room is spinning, the whole world is spinning and he doesn’t know how to stop it. He feels he started it all, he threw a spinning top and got sucked into it. And she’s the only firm thing he can hold onto.

“Do you think I’m cursed?” he whispers, the barest flutter of his long eyelashes against his cheekbone.

But she has no answer. All she has are her hands, sliding on his naked skin, through his loose hair, gently, as if touching the thinnest glass, sealing the cracks. Her palms slice open again.  

“Aren’t we all?”

And I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more."

- The Castle, Franz Kafka.

[enluv]

in another life.

lee heeseung x f!reader x ??? (it'll make sense when you read I promise)

SYNOPSIS: in which losing you is the least of heeseung’s worries, until he’s forced to watch you slip through his fingers.

wc: 1.9k (almost 2k fr)!

genres: best friends to strangers, unrequited love (or is it), best friends to lovers

warning(s): heavy angst, toxic friendship/relationship, heeseung is mean, very very mean, manipulation (nothing too crazy), refusal to take blame, and heeseung needs to be humbled imo...ANYWAYS, small plot twist but not really! (a/n: header is ugly because I made it in like 2 minutes since it felt naked without one 🤣☝🏽)

Lee Heeseung knows about your feelings for him at  the mere age of eight, when you give him the other half of your popsicle stick that you’ve just bought with your very own allowance. His smile is so bright taking the food from your hand that it doesn't even matter if you've spent all five of your dollars on the popsicle because as long as your youthful heart can see Heeseung smile, that’s all that matters to you.

Heeseung also knows about your feelings for him when you're both sixteen and he proudly exclaims that he’s finally asked Jisun out after months of pining after her. A hurt look flashes across your face for one, two then three seconds, then as if it was never there, it’s gone. He thinks it might have been a bad idea to tell you but he doesn’t reciprocate the feelings you have for him and in his mind, he never will. 

“Come on Y/N, it’s one party, please come with me please, I don’t want to be alone all night,” he pouts tugging at the sleeve of your sweater. Heeseung knows it’s not right to do things like this, knows he shouldn’t force you to go with him everywhere but he likes that you can’t say no to him, it swells his heart with pride to have someone care for him as much as you do.

“I already told you I have to study for midterms, go alone or with Jay.” Your tone isn’t dead-set and Heeseung knows he’s cornered you. He smiles as an idea forms in his head, maybe he can persuade you with just enough charm, it’s worked in the past so why not now?

“I seriously can not believe Heeseung got you to come, I know he said he could do it but honestly Y/N, I thought you were stronger than that.” It’s always the same sentence or form of it. It tugs at your heart, just like in high school people in college are just as aware of how you feel for him, even he knows it himself. He plays a blind man to your feelings.

An ache begins to pump in your heart, whatever liquor Yeonjun had handed you when you stepped in seems to not be working and that night as you watch Heeseung dance with Mina, you vow to yourself silently that you'll start your process of healing from whatever feelings you have for Lee Heeseung.

A few days later Jay watches a frantic Heeseung search for his phone charger in amusement, “Missing an important call?” He quips playfully, the whole house knows why he’s so desperate to charge his dying phone. The past three days since he ditched you at TXT’s frat party you’ve been ignoring his texts, calls, and even him.

“Hyung, why are you so worried about Y/N calling? Didn't you ditch her? I wouldn’t call either if I was her,” the small comment earns Sunghoon a smack to the back of his head.

“It doesn’t matter, Y/N would never ignore me like this. All I have to do is apologize with breakfast and she’ll accept it every time, we’ve done this before and never gone a day without talking.”

The boys can’t fully grasp why Heeseung is acting the way he is, to them he sounds like a desperate boyfriend after a fight that’s resulted in the silent treatment but Heeseung has continuously said he does not feel the same towards his best friend so they write it off as some form of separation anxiety and leave his room.

“I’m surprised you’ve held out this long Y/N,” jokes a sheepish Jeongin as he takes a glance at your phone screen that’s currently being lit up by multiple unread messages from Heeseung.

“I told you I’m ready to move on, I’ll talk to him when I see fit, I just need a few more days to myself.”

He hums in response as he lifts himself off his chair reaching a hand out for you to follow, “I’m proud of you ‘s all, he’s an asshole for using your feelings against you and making you feel the way he did, you don’t deserve that at all. You deserve someone who'd never ditch you." 

Two weeks. It's been two weeks since you've spoken to Heeseung, his room is a mess with clothes and books scattered on the floor, usually you come by and help him organize things. He's had enough of this. Your contact suddenly flashes across his screen while he's out on a date, he doesn't hesitate to answer, bidding the girl he's dropping off a quick goodbye.

“Hello? Y/N? I’m really glad you called me, I have so much to ask you but guess what, I just had the most amazing date-” he’s cut off by your loud sigh and for a moment his heart drops, you've never stopped him from ranting about dates.

“Heeseung,” his name sounds foreign coming from your mouth, “we really need to talk, I have a lot to say to you so could we please meet tomorrow?” He isn't sure why but his stomach twists at your request.

The meeting between you two is quick and to Heeseung's surprise, brief. You explain to him that leaving you at a party he begged you to come to had upset you since it wasn’t his first time doing so, you also tell him that you needed the two weeks of space from not only him but everyone else to care for yourself, and you’d hoped he understood that. Of course he did, he felt shitty just thinking about the situation and promised to never do it again, to be a better "friend."

Things after your initial break from Heeseung fall back into place quickly and it's as if you never left his side, but he could tell you were different now, you refused to go with him to parties if he asked and any charming tricks he had up his sleeve fell flat when you'd respond with a hard “No.” Heeseung also noticed the interest you'd taken in Jeongin, and that made him feel things he'd never felt before. 

It’s difficult to watch you flirt with one of his best friends, on one hand he should feel happy watching your attention sway to someone else after having caught it for so many years but on the other he isn’t happy at all, to be completely honest he feels bitter at the thought of you two together. 

“You're an asshole Heeseung, like a really big one, do you know how long Y/N has been in love with you? Since we were like eight playing cops and robbers in the streets, and she loved you throughout the time that came after and every time we asked, you denied any feelings for her, but now all of a sudden you think you might love her back? Just when she's finally healing from the shit you put her through? That’s such an asshole move dude, super low of you,” and as Beomgyu’s rant subsides Heeseung stares at him puzzled, what did he ever do that was so bad to you?

“Don't give me that look, you've done so much shit to her, hell I don't know how she’s still your best friend, if I was her I’d have left you already.”

Heeseung continues to give Beomgyu the most confused look ever and with a small eye roll Beomgyu answers his question, “You use her to get what you want but never have you done anything to show her gratitude or any reciprocated feelings. All you ever do is give her hope, you act like you like her back when you need her but as soon as you get what you want, you leave her behind. It’s fucking sad dude. You're a horrible friend to her honestly.”

Heeseung’s heart burns, he’s known his whole life that he’d done this to you but to hear it laid out in front of him now, he can see how terrible it all actually is. How had you continued being his friend? If he was in your position he’d have left ages ago, but you didn’t, and that single thought is what gives Heeseung hope for you and him. He knows it’s dumb, he knows he doesn’t deserve you at all, but he wants you terribly and if he has to beg he will, if he has to lie he will, hell Heeseung would drop everyone for you. All that matters is that you stay with him, not with anyone else, and especially not with Jeongin.

Heeseung can spot you from a mile away. His smile grows wide before dropping instantly as he watches Jeongin hand you what looks to be a flower. The look on your face mirrors Jeongin’s, it’s happy and full. You've never smiled at him that way. Heeseung realizes that the only smiles you give him now are filled with sadness. His stomach knots, why does he feel so unsure of you right now. He’s never felt this much uncertainty from you ever. 

He blames it on the fact that you two haven’t been talking as much lately. He blames the short break you had because there’s no way you’d actually stop wanting to be his friend, no way he’d ever lose you. You’ve always been by his side, and it will continue to be that way, because you love him and he has you wrapped around his finger. But, Heeseung knows deep down this security can’t be fed any longer as he watches you walk past him, hand in hand with Jeongin, not a single look his way, he's lost you.

It’s proven to him in the months to come as you slowly slip out of his pinned messages, as you take him off your private stories, and he has to watch you live your life through others. Heeseung knows he’s lost you especially when all together you stop coming to his rescue, won’t pick up the phone to hear his ramblings about dates and girls. He knows he’s lost you when you tell him you’re busy and can’t do what he wants. When you send him an awkward smile and gesture to your hand entwined with Jeongin's, as if to say, "sorry I'm with him now, you're too late."

If anyone ever asks Lee Heeseung about his one true love, he’ll say your name. He’s never been sure of what love is, never found it for himself, but he knows deep down that if he’s ever loved anyone, it’s you. You were the person he called at 3am when he crashed his car into a pole, you were the same person whose dorm had housed him a multitude of times when he was too drunk to crawl back to his own, the same person who loved him for years, until you couldn’t any longer and stopped waiting on him to give you the same love back, thinking he could never give it to you.

Heeseung likes to think that in another life he wasn't a complete asshole, realized your worth sooner, and maybe even had the balls to ask you out. He pictures himself in Jeongin's place, dating through college, moving in together after, getting married, having kids, living domestically. All he can do now is dream, maybe that's why he likes to sleep so much, because in his sleep-ridden mind, you're with him.

coco’s love note: mwahahahaha did you guys like the plot twist? are we happy 😁 are we mad? should we fight heeseung?! tbh writing this fic has been a wild ride, originally i had mc & heeseung end up with one another but then I decided that no, i didn’t want that, I wanted to show the results of a toxic “relationship” running it’s course through and through, that’s why heeseung never quite admits he’s wrong/he still feels entitled to mc even till the end! I wanted to show that he’d never change, even if he did “love” mc. anyways…thoughts?! comments?! concerns?! make sure to leave a comment or rb this with anything you’d like me to know or tell me how you felt about this fic :) muah ily! ty @odxrilove for reading it for me and not letting me change it again 😁🙏

ENHYPEN TAGLIST! - yeoforce @bloom-bloom-pow @nikis-mum @yourlocalhotgf @kyublr @spoooooooooooon @enhacolor @yoongimooni @blaqpinksthectic @gyuuss @eternallyhyucks @dinosdance @simpforsung @misschubswrites @junityy @jjunry @jwonsgirl @fxckingshame @stealanity @haoreo @jxp1t-3r @chaerybae @bobariki @vatterie @tytrackfebreze @veryjeongintxtkid @w3bqrl @heefys @haechan-nahceah @telesvng @queen-klarissa @odxrilove @s00buwu @j-wyoung

[airbendertendou]

May I please get a scenario or hc (whatever is easier for you!) of Rindo’s s/o dying their hair to match his hair color? Like they do it while he’s at work and he has no idea until he comes home. Thank you! I hope you have a good day/night!

synopsis : reader changes their hair to match their boyfie <3 characters included : mikey, ran, draken, koko & bonten!rindou

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

— MANJIRO! ♥︎ you copy his classic, half-up hairstyle ♥︎ doesn't even notice you've changed your hair ♥︎ draken says something snarky abt it like "oh, you're matching, cute." ♥︎ nd mikey goes ??? w his cheeks puffed out from a taiyaki ♥︎ but when he turns to see you ♥︎ it's like the sun shines down onto you carefully ; like angels are singing ; like he's falling in love all over again ♥︎ his head flops onto your shoulder, arms shakily bringing you closer to his hold ♥︎ mumbles something about turning you into a sano /:

— DRAKEN! ♥︎ you go for jus a simple braid, a little piece of hair tugged out ♥︎ he snorts when he sees you, rolling his eyes nd everything ♥︎ but his ears are so so red ♥︎ and hes thought abt how to tell you how pretty you look ; how you need a dragon tattoo now, too ♥︎ shoves you under his arm when you tease him abt his blush, digging his chin into the top of your head annoyingly ♥︎ tugs on that little strand a lot!! jus to get your attention, he swears ♥︎ but has this sort of pride in his eyes when you show your hair off at the toman meeting

— RAN! ♥︎ your hair is styled into two braided pigtails ♥︎ oh hes so smug ♥︎ but also keeps an eye narrowed and focused on anyone mking inappropriate comments ♥︎ we live in a society where pigtails are sexualized ♥︎ twirls your braids the way he twirls his!! ♥︎ will also purposely mess his hair up so you have to fix it for him ): ♥︎ grins at any and all matching hair accessories he see ♥︎ talk him out of getting the giant, obvious bows please

— KOKONOI! ♥︎ can b his bonten hair or his current one! ♥︎ either way, you twist or braid a few pieces of hair to mimic his style ♥︎ hates it at first ♥︎ bc how dare you make his signature style look better than he does ):< ♥︎ ends up liking it bc now he has easy access to kiss your ear nd neck ♥︎ he goes through all the other styles you'd look nice in ; all the colors you could pull off ♥︎ something about your hair matching his... ♥︎ makes you feel more official, somehow

— RINDOU! ♥︎ bonten era ; you get the jellyfish cut! or maybe copy his colors- ♥︎ he knew abt your hair appointment but didnt think it was anything out of the ordinary ♥︎ little did he know.... ♥︎ he just stares ♥︎ like wide-eyed, heartstopping, can barely breathe stares ♥︎ stands to his full height and cups your chin, turning your head gently to get a full view ♥︎ grins w pink cheeks ): kisses the tip of your nose and just continues to stare ♥︎ "all mine......" its whispered before he takes your breath in a kiss ♥︎ He's Obsessed.

——♥︎—— im so sorry for the lack of content lately ); hope this was okay / the format was alright. if youd like to b tagged / untagged in any tokyo revengers content, let me know! ♥︎

🍓FOREVER TAGS : @star2fishmeg ♥︎

🍓 TOKYOREV TAGLIST : @thatpoindexterpixy @night-shadowblood-writes2 @muichirouswifeandhusband @chrofeisnightmaregf

airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

[venusphoriia]

header image by Yunii from Amino !!

୨୧ ; ❛ percy jackson ❜

⤷ Clarisse La Rue

— The Second Act , loving you is her greatest weakness, but also her greatest desire.

— Drunken Tears and Soft Confessions , you drink away the pain, hoping it will eventually fill the void. It never does.

— Lovesick Denial , jealousy and denial, not really a good combo, is it?

— Maybe in Another Life , she honestly would’ve loved you.

୨୧ ; ❛ obey me ❜

⤷ Lucifer, Sin of Pride

— His Morning Star , obey me! yandere scenarios.

⤷ Mammon, Sin of Greed

— 0:53 am , in which you are finally reunited with your long lost lover.

୨୧ ; ❛ twisted wonderland ❜

⤷ Leona Kingscholar

— 2:43 am , in which, leona grows infatuated with you after a one night stand.

part ii

୨୧ ; ❛ dc comics ❜

⤷ Diana Prince (Wonder Woman)

— The Pain of Loving You , in the grief of losing one, she also lost you.

[daryascurse]

𝙲𝙰𝚅𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙾𝚁

── Part IV: Cui Bono Fuerit

“So you knew I would come?” you panted as he stood firm between your bowed knees. “So you thought I would be – what – stupid?” “Services stopped.” Coriolanus’s breath was ragged as he snapped back to you. His thumb brushed your jawline, tilting your head up to meet his searing gaze. “No, I shouldn’t have said stupid. I knew you’d be reckless.”

chapter pov : 2nd person reader, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns ❀ tags: hate sεx, elevator sεx, biting ❀ word count: ~4.4k ❀ ao3 ❀playlist

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

See header "Caveat Emptor" link for table of contents/ chapter 1.

“The Hunger Games?”

You squinted at the painter’s tape plastered firmly over the screen, right below your name and beaming holographic portrait, covering the previous assignment. Hollisee Tympan shot a glance at you over the shoulder of his stiff plaid suit as he pressed the corner of the tape down and stepped back.

“Lucky,” hissed the mouth-breathing Elysia Byron. Her salivating was practically audible.

“I thought I would be starting off in the markets,” you said to no one in particular. “Down at the banks. In the financial district.”

Harrier Bulla was over your other shoulder. “You say you’d rather have the financial markets than the Hunger Games?”

You were still staring at the black ink saying the same three words that blubbered out of his mouth.

“It’s gotten huge the last few years,” Elysia Byron said. “Mr. Tympan, would the Games benefit from perhaps one more page from the station?”

“Or two?”

Mr. Tympan blinked wide, watery eyes at their slimy wheedling. “Mr. Bulla, CapiTV is lucky to have the presence of one page to represent the station. The administration is still wary of the security threats and this is the first year they’re even doing a trial run with outside network involvement. And we don’t get a stipend for it, either. If you had been listening during orientation, you might have heard that.”

“Aren’t you in fashion and style, anyway?” asked Harrier. “What could a style page do at the Games?”

Elysia made a huffing sound. “Actually, style would be very important to cover at the Games.”

“What exactly shall I be covering, anyway?” you asked Mr. Tympan cautiously.

Mr. Tympan shot another look at Harrier and Elysia behind you, all but sticking their tongues out childishly at each other. “Well, you’ll receive a formal memorandum shortly. But we’d like you to focus on backstage operations. We don’t have the equipment – or the manpower – ” which was said loudly to cut off Harrier’s mouth as it opened again “ – to even negotiate a CapiTV presence up front with the Flickerman production. And of course they’ll be doing the main interviews, telling the tribute story. But they’re outsourcing to CapiTV to create something for the slower moments when Lucky needs a break. You won’t be behind the camera, but you’ll be supplying our broadcasters with the inspiration and information to fill that time. And the audience will need some breaks from Lucky, too, while still remaining engaged in the Games.”

“Capitol Television. The Capitol’s vision, to you,” Harrier recited the station’s motto with a toadyish excitement. Elysia rolled her eyes and you prided yourself on the ability to resist the same.

“So it’s just glamorized B-roll,” Elysia said snottily.

Mr. Tympan only blinked at her before turning to walk away.

The other pages began to come up to the screens, and when Harrier and Elysia turned to whisper the new development to them, you began your hasty steps after.

“Mr. Tympan – sorry. One more question.”

“You’ll get the memorandum,” he said, looking down at the papers he thumbed through a binder.

“Well – I mean, I’m flattered,” you said, and caught yourself twisting your hands. “But I wanted to ask why I was the one transferred over. I don’t think I indicated any interest in working for the Games in my page application.”

“You didn’t, and that’s why,” Mr. Tympan said. “I trusted even with your lack of interest you paid more attention than Ms. Byron did to the security briefings in orientation. Even with the last bomb threat being two years ago, the Capitol’s priority is safety and discretion. Each year has to bring improvement in all areas. And you’ve proven yourself… capable of such discretion.”

Given his pause, you weren’t sure if it was something you’ve done in the last two weeks of orientation, or something further back that’d earned you such esteem. You narrowed your eyes and looked quickly away. Mr. Tympan wasn’t familiar from the days of moonlighting that had put you through school. You had secure faith in your memory. But the network had many officers…

“I can keep my mouth shut,” you said, but Mr. Tympan was already walking away again.

-

The Hunger Games.

It was an anxious thrill that sprang through you, and you raised a soothing hand to circle your belly automatically. But the Peacekeeper at the door turned his helmet towards you at the movement, so you slipped the identification badge between your fingers and raised the card instead.

“I’m from CapiTV,” you said.

He snapped it from your hand with a force that rubbed the lanyard cord hot and painful at the back of your neck. You forced yourself to remain stoic as he investigated the photograph, the same beaming face on the hologram taken as your thoughts were full of financial news dreams.

“How exciting for you,” he grunted.

“Very. Yes, exciting,” you breathed.

Elysia Byron, Harrier Bulla, and then a third page, Kit Crocum, all left calls attempting in some way to convince you to swap posts. “You wanted finance,” Kit had wailed, convinced somehow that being assigned the banks and markets meant that you had stolen the Games from him as the rightful owner.

“I just don’t think it’s up to me to trade,” was how you deflected them all.

When the Peacekeeper held the heavy steel door open with an instruction to go to the sixth floor, you walked past a portrait of Coriolanus Snow. You looked down at your badge again. Yes, you had wanted to work on financial news. You had also wanted to live on the moon as a child.

Moreover, a lot had happened in the time between filling out the interests sheet in the spring and this early summer morning.

You turned your head at the elevator, and it was like his stern blue eyes could follow you all the way down the corridor. You felt the stare prickle on your skin as the elevator rose. The doors opened and you were rubbing the back of your arm subconsciously.

An Avox led you down sea-green steps. They must have been made of some newly engineered glass that didn’t shatter under your sensible heels, but the material dazzled and shone across the floor like an old-fashioned soda bottle you remembered from history classes. Each step made the sound of a diamond falling, and as you approached the small crowd at the buffet table, hundreds of shuffling shoes made the sound echo again and again like an opulent hailstorm. A space opened as two women in high-buttoned suits swept away from the table, where rich brown drapery flowed under platters of canape and thick slices of meat.

Your mouth watered and you thought of the stale crackers in the CapiTV break room.

“Good afternoon. Good afternoon.”

The woman’s voice was icy and clear, cleaving through the dim chatter of colleagues. You snuck a glance towards the front of the room. Backs and elbows blocked your view, and so you discreetly slid a few biscuit cups filled with whipped egg and topped with some green and orange somethings onto a napkin.

“Welcome, media representatives, to the first stages of the Fourteenth Hunger Games,” the woman’s voice continued.

You could see her now, a woman whose golden hair spiraled silver at her temples and shone in two shades of metallic. Her nose was strong, and her gaze somehow pinched. She leaned into the tall iron microphone, her full lips caged behind the netting.

“I am sorry that Dr. Gaul couldn’t come for one last farewell,” she said without further introduction. And from looking at the knowing glances between the crowd, they recognized her without requiring one. You looked down at the eggs nestled in the napkin cupped in your palm.

Well, they each had to have worked their first Games at some point.

You popped one in your mouth and tasted onion and paprika sinking between your teeth.

“Unfortunately, she’s taken ill in the days following retirement, but we wish her the best and a speedy recovery. Fortunately, she completed transitioning our new Head Gamemaker fully into the position, and he’s been hard at work preparing our new Games to start come July. Everything is on schedule, and we’ll have a briefing sheet to bring back to your –” and she sniffed, before smiling tightly “ – little television studios. And he’s taken time out of his busy day to greet you himself.”

The thin crowd swelled around you a moment with a flurry of questions, and you saw the tips of ten perfectly manicured claws rise in the air.

“No, there will be no chances for an exclusive interview. Not today,” she said firmly. Not ever. “Everyone, Mr. Coriolanus Snow.”

You clenched your hand into a fist. The egg burst, creamy white and crumbled biscuit crumbs surging between your fingers, leaking through the thin veil of napkin.

“Thank you, Ms. Trinket.”

He melted out of the crowd, and you snapped your neck back wildly, as if you could recreate where he had come from. You blinked. Blinked again. The egg was tacky against the sweat beading in your palm. There was no reason to be surprised. His portrait had just been in the hall, after all. You should have known; you did know, from the moment you saw that strip of painter’s tape. But you’d never let yourself actually think it so plainly.

“Anastasia Trinket,” Coriolanus said into the microphone. His smile was dazzling, an errant curl artfully falling over his forehead as he turned that smile to her. He had his hands raised in applause. His fingernails were square and clean.

Everyone was applauding now, and you used the excuse of the mess in your hands to turn behind the crimson-suited man in front of you to drop it to the table. You grabbed a napkin and wiped between your fingers, nervously glancing between Coriolanus and the other members of the press.

He looked right at you and the corners of his lips curled.

“Thank you for coming.”

You found it in you at last to clap along, and you gave a few measured, off-beat smacks.

“Let me repeat Ms. Trinket and welcome you again. The Hunger Games this year promise to be our best yet, and we hope that the press will help bring this event to the eyes of all of Panem. Now, you’ll have to see most of it live as the rest of us, but we have prepared a confidential media briefing for your stations, so that you may begin necessary preparations and preview for the citizens of the Capitol what they may expect.”

Coriolanus reached inside his black silk jacket, and the press around you began to pull tablets or recording devices from their pockets and bags. You cleared your throat and unclipped the microphone card attached to your blouse.

“We are very excited to announce that this year, we have at last achieved the goal of hosting the Games in a new arena,” he said, beginning to glance up from a sheet of paper and innocently flitting his gaze to you, to someone on one side, back to you. Your hand was frozen on the blinking recording light. “While the Second Arena has served us will these past few years, the Fourteenth Hunger Games shall move to a new and improved location.”

“Excuse me, will they still be held in the Capitol?”

Ms. Trinket yanked the mic stand to her mouth. “There will be a short time for questions after the briefing,” she snapped.

“For security reasons,” Coriolanus said, in a manner smooth and cold, “we will not be revealing where the new arena is located. However, rest assured that for this same reason, this arena was not built in the Capitol. Nor will any other. For now that we know it is possible to design, engineer, build, and fully synchronize an arena with Capitol control within a year, each Hunger Game will be held in an entirely new and different arena.”

There was a snap of grumbling behind you. Coriolanus’ lips turned in a sneer once more, and you ground your heel into the glass floor.

“So, we have no direct media access to the Games? No cameras and reporters at the arena?” you called out before being able to stop yourself.

Ms. Trinket’s vein threatened to burst out of her forehead, and you almost believed Coriolanus’ face went a shade paler. You raised your eyebrows, waiting for a response, and licked your lip.

“The arena cameras have been enhanced and received a software update,” Coriolanus said almost too quickly. It made your heartbeat a little more even. “Every studio will receive the same feed as always. And the tributes will still train here, and speak to Mr. Flickerman here. That access is the same, which has always been the only real opportunity for first-hand reporting.”

You tapped your foot and said nothing more. And you heard nothing more, too, thankful for the recording card pinned to your shirt. The strength you had pulled out of yourself to move your tongue burned through to your brain, and you were slowly beginning to feel it turn to belligerent epiphany.

He did this. He did this because you had done it, two weeks ago. The longer you stayed silent, the more that steely shine returned to his eye with each haughty glance at you. Once more he was on stage and you captive in the audience; but this time, he was the tiger prowling beyond the bars and locked the human in.

You crossed your arms at the waist and pressed into yourself.

Could it be that he had pulled the strings, all the way to the news studio?

Of course he could.

Coriolanus rolled up the paper at last, and Ms. Trinket moved forward to announce that questions were now welcome. You fidgeted.

There was a flash of memory, of fidgeting and tightening your thigh muscles at the ministrations that silver tongue of his worked between your legs. You tensed again. It did not alleviate.

“Actually,” Coriolanus interjected, “I apologize, but Ms. Trinket will answer your questions. I unfortunately have last minute business to attend to, with the reaping at the week's end. We of course will send invitations to your stations to Lucky Flickerman’s commentary conference. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

He turned to give her another few claps of applause, and the crowd fell in line. Coriolanus smiled politely and moved into the crowd. A few offered their hands to receive a brief shake; a gentleman attempted to give him a hearty clap on the back, which earned a stiff half-smile in response. His eyes slid over you, triumphantly caged in by the swaying bars of applauding hands all around.

“Excuse me,” you said, nearly turning into the woman on your right as you turned to push to the back of the crowd yourself.

But Coriolanus had taken a different stream, and when you made it to where only Avoxes stood silent at the wall, he was at the foot of those shallow sea-glass stairs. You cast a glance back at the rest of the press and took hurried steps.

“Coryo – ”

It felt wrong to call for him, as soft as it was.

He barely craned his neck back as he pushed the elevator button.

“I’m sorry, perhaps you didn’t hear Anastasia earlier. There won’t be any exclusives through this media program.”

“And did you get me assigned to this program?”

The doors opened and warm orange light spilled out.

“We had to approve the names each studio submitted,” Coriolanus said measuredly. “For security. You understand.”

“I don’t.”

You stepped inside the elevator after him, and held a hand against the frame. Coriolanus looked over your shoulder to the gathering below.

“Though we didn’t review for competence,” he murmured. “You’re missing the questions and answers. It would be a shame for your station to be behind the curve so early in the Games.”

You tilted your head at him and tightened your eyes. “As if she’s going to give away any trade secrets.”

“Trade secrets,” Coriolanus sighed with exaggeration, “are certainly not on the table. Glad to see CapiTV sends their brightest. Well, good day. I really do have things to attend to.”

He moved to reach for the button to urge the doors closed, almost physically puffed up and preening with his own ego. Your fingers curled at the elevator doors and then stepped inside.

“Coriolanus, I don’t know – ”

The doors slid closed, and Coriolanus lunged forward.

“No, you don’t,” he said, seething, and one hand slammed past your head to the wall behind you. The other reached up to your blouse, and before your eyes, ripped the microphone cord clean off the card.

“You certainly don’t,” Coriolanus continued, and now, without any other eyes or ears he could not keep the curl of his lip off his shining teeth. His blue stare was wild. “Clearly you don’t if you’re so stupid to approach me like this today. Again.”

“You invited me here,” you spat.

“Please select a floor,” the elevator’s automatic voice sang.

Coriolanus punched something in the panel, flinging your microphone to the floor. The elevator began to rise.

“Going up.”

“Anyone could have looked up. Any one of those journalists or reporters could have looked back at the elevator just now.”

“I’ll leave,” you said. “Just bring it back down to the lobby.”

Coriolanus huffed. “You know I was trying to do something nice? I saw your plans in the graduation program, and I felt sorry for you. Clearly you aren’t making much of what your degree is worth, taking a job at CapiTV, of all places. Their reporter has been drunk on camera the last two Games, but I thought maybe I’d give you a shot to turn things around, for you, and your career. I thought I’d do you a favor. Maybe the Games would give you a chance to hone some of your, shall we say, more academic talents.”

Bullshit. “Bullshit,” you said, turning your chin up in his face. “It’s because you wanted me to feel how you felt at graduation. That’s why you organized this little briefing for everyone, isn’t it?”

“How I felt?”

“I’m sorry, Coriolanus, if I had the luxury of knowing that I’d be hearing your valedictorian speech. I’m sorry that you hadn’t bothered to recognize your own classmate outside of school. But I thought I apologized for anything I might have done that day.”

And I shouldn’t have.

“How could you know what I felt?” Coriolanus snarled. “You have no idea what I had planned for that day. I had everything planned, this whole summer, and one day – very important day – was enough to throw it all off track.”

“And that’s my fault?” You were almost shrieking with laughter at the absurdity. “I didn’t make you come to the club, and I didn’t make you lick my pussy.”

The words were delicious coming out of your mouth. You grinned, wild, practically spitting in the face of this ringmaster even as you remembered seeing that face so beautifully framed between your thighs.

“You wanted to.”

Coriolanus’s mouth crashed on yours at that, with the familiar taste of anger on his tongue. You could have bitten him. But you kissed him back and chased that taste; clawed at him instead, tugging his neat shirt from his pants to allow your fingernails up his bare back where your touch could rake at his skin. He hissed.

The elevator began to slow.

“Doors,” you gasped, and his arm muscle flexed out to hit another button.

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus almost slammed you into the wall. He had his fists on your skirt, your neat, smart little black pencil skirt, and he was scrunching it high on your hips. His body was hot against yours, and his wiry strength was a bruising grip on your thigh. Your hands were just as busy, frantically unbuckling his belt, trying to find the space to tug down his zipper.

“Coriolanus,” you gasped.

He was half-mad with rage, with something hungrier and full of desire. Your knee fell open as you were propped on the railing, and you lurched back and clutched wildly at the brass for balance. The careful slick of his hair was breaking free from the gel casing, and Coriolanus breathed heavily, a string of saliva snapping between his parted lips.

“There’s – the – cam-”

“No cameras,” he said in one breath. He leaned forward, and his lips ghosted on the shell of your ear, sending spikes across your skin and down your back. “I turned them off this morning.”

You moaned and felt the threatening rush tremble between your legs again. The pressure in your blood beat faster, harder, with excitement turned anew once more at the stimulus.

“So you knew I would come?” you panted as he stood firm between your bowed knees. “So you thought I would be – what – stupid?”

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus’s breath was ragged as he snapped back to you. His thumb brushed your jawline, tilting your head up to meet his searing gaze. “No, I shouldn’t have said stupid. I knew you’d be reckless.”

The words hit you sharply, as sharply as the edge of his teeth grazing your throat. You would have laughed if it was still the time for incredulity. And then he was in you, your breath hitching as the weight of his body into your stomach pushed you against the elevator wall with each thrust. You saw the cameras in the corner at last, little black caps carefully snapped over the lens.

The world could be watching, if it had the eyes to look.

“How did you do it?”

Any of it.

His thumb smeared down your cheek, pulling your mouth into the space for a lopsided breath as you gasped out the words.

“Does it matter? I’m Head Gamemaster, aren’t I?”

Coriolanus kissed you again. You let your teeth tug at his lips this time, and the groan from his lungs was intoxicating.

He was tense and throbbing in you, and you had to lean into him, had to use him as a plinth of support in this precarious balance. Your blouse was stuck to your back in an awkward rumple of sweat, and your nipples ached untouched under your bra. His hands had come both to your thighs to pin you there on the railing, keep your hips stilled as he moved in you harder, harder still.

Your ankles have locked together against his against his back. You realized it only when the elevator jolted suddenly, and you gasped sharply, a heel sliding off and slapping to the floor.

“Services stopped.”

It was just the shaking of your bodies, but for a moment, you feared that someone had called for the elevator.

“Oh,” you whispered. You were angry at the thought of someone interrupting, and your teeth chattered at the realization. Chattered more at the stillness of Coriolanus in you that was leaving you full, full, stretched so you could barely manage it. Your hips were just heavy lead under his touch.

Coriolanus sucked his breath in, and you had to meet his eyes that for once matched his in wild fervor. You whimpered a surrender.

“Don’t stop…”

He pushed again and he was fucking you as far as he could go at this curled angle. By now, his hands were all of what kept you to the railing. The desire to squirm away at the weight had left you squirming as best you could. Any last strength you had in your body, nor your brain, had melted away.

It was rough and quick. Your cunt was greedy and you choked on the wail as you felt the desperate convulsing of your inner walls. That was it. Coriolanus was coming too, with each spurt hot and somehow making your legs shake even harder at the delicate sense of it. The elevator creaked faintly.

He was in you still when he lifted his face, those loose blonde curls now plastered to his forehead. With a moan from him and a full shudder from you, he pulled his cock away. Cream spattered onto the carpet. He was still holding you to the railing. Your ankles were still hooked at his thighs. You stayed a few seconds more in this silence with your back pressed to the metal wall.

“Services stopped.”

Coriolanus looked down, and stepped back. His mouth was torn up with your lipstick. He wiped the back of his hand against his face as if he could feel it and looked at the remnants. You slid down and shimmied your skirt back in place.

He swiped at his face a few moments more before sighing loudly and tugging his shirt back into his pants. As you reached down for your abandoned heel, he pushed another button on the elevator panel.

“Going down.”

You saw your microphone, the net of the speaker dented under someone’s errant foot. Coriolanus’s foot, most likely. You clenched it in your palm as you straightened again.

“You didn’t do this to help me,” you said slowly. “You wanted me to come to you. To show me what you can control.”

Coriolanus turned away from you, combing his blonde hair back with his fingers. “I don’t need to control you,” he said.

“But you do, don’t you? You want what you paid for. But the transactions are done.”

He scoffed. A lesser-mannered man would have spit on the ground after that sound. “So you want more money.”

“No. No, I mean it. I don’t want your money, I don’t need it. I never had.”

“That’s a lie,” Coriolanus said haughtily. You ground your teeth.

He was, unfortunately right. You had been too wild in your speech to catch it.

“So tell me,” Coriolanus continued, turning back to you, “what’s going to happen now? Will you quit, now that you see which pockets your salary truly comes from?”

His hands came around your head and locked you where you stood. He pressed his forehead to yours. You could taste his breath on the air as his pupils narrowed.

“What’s more important to you, little CapiTV page? Your career, or keeping your hands clean of me?”

Your thighs shook. You stared at his lips. You remembered every touch of them vividly. As if Coriolanus could feel where your eyes burned, he slipped into a low grin. The canines showed.

Part V: TBC

[citrusai]

she could melt into my bones. we could be the same creature.

Summary: Multi-chapter Arlathan AU. As Mythal weaponizes wisdom and twists it into pride, Elgar'nan seeks to turn hope into despair. Two perfect weapons, crafted merely to serve their makers, constantly orbiting each other.

Chapter: Prologue, 1.6k words.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, angst heavy, implied self harm, canon typical violence, slow burn.

a/n: Honestly, no clue how long this is gonna be. I have my outline I just have a problem with length management. As always, crossposted to AO3! header image is lovers in the waves by edvard munch, title is taken from Dorothy Allison's poem "Demon Lover"

She learns that a body is a terrible thing.

It is a needy thing, it needs to be sustained and fed, it bleeds and it aches. It dulls the senses, the pathways of emotion become blurry and difficult to navigate. It is unforgiving.

The first time was all wonder and sensation, the whispers of endless possibility in the physical. Her knees buckled under her, unused to the weight of carrying oneself.

Her limbs feel foreign more often than not, phantoms that move on their own accord. Perhaps that is how she dissociates herself from her corruption. One cannot grieve being twisted from their purpose if they see themselves as merely a possessor of a foreign body.

When Elgar’nan came to her, he came with sweet words and speeches that people cannot live without hope. That her presence would squash everyone’s fears, she is a necessity to the new world. They couldn’t create anew without expectation, without hope.

Hope is a sweet thing, a kind thing. It was in her nature to trust him, to expect the best of his intentions.

Her body was crafted with utmost care and tenderness. Honey blonde curls of hair cascading down her back, her soft full lips and aquiline nose, her eyes the colour of the sun.

Elgar’nan does not mar her face with vallaslin.

His hands tenderly cupped her jaw as he spoke, “Hope should not be chained.”

But she does not need marks on her face as proof of her subjugation. Elgar’nan does not give her a wide breadth of freedom. At first, she is merely decoration. The image of her bathed in light, a proof that even the most sensitive of spirits have chosen to join the new world order.

And what could ever go wrong if hope is there?

So Elgar’nan flaunts her as a paragon of the ideal future. The people who bare his mark clutch her hands and speak in reverence. They speak of the inevitable domination of this earth in his name, they invoke her name when they stand in judgement in front of the Gods, when they venture forth in the name of their leaders, and do not return.

The corruption is gradual. It starts with a name.

“I don’t want a name, I already have a body.” She spoke, wringing her hands nervously.

Elgar’nan tutted in disappointment, “We all chose names. No second in command of mine will walk around nameless. The people need to know who they pray to.”

“I do not want them to pray to me.”

His hand petting her head, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair cascading down her face, “They will do so anyway, da’len.”

Gan’freya. It feels odd in her mouth when she introduces herself now. As if she speaks of someone else. Elgar’nan said it was a name fit for a warrior, and so with a name came a title, with a title came weapons. No general of mine shall be walking around unprepared. The words echo in her head anytime she wields the twin blades.

So badly she wanted to say but I am not a general, I am not a warrior. I am a spirit.

But Elgar’nan is ambitious, and he plots. And when Mythal brings wisdom to court as her advisor he will not be made a fool. He will not let his consort parade herself as above the rest of them, heeding the words of a dog instead of her peers.

He will not let his own creation be unseated by the wolf.

So he seeks to harden her, flowy gowns and gently clasped hands turn into leather armours, daggers strapped to her belt, hands crossed behind her back. The sun in her eyes sets. Hope turns to despair, and across from her wisdom turns into pride.

The people are not allowed to clutch her palms in prayer. They are not allowed to cast their gaze upon her if it is unearned.

The first spill of blood seals her corruption. A part of her thinks this did not mean to happen; I am not made for this. Another part of her feels a sense of freedom at the metallic smell in the air, if the rest of them can die, surely somebody would eventually put her out of her misery.

It had all happened so quickly, an elf proclaiming they will not bend, then a reach of their hand into their pocket and she had flung the dagger before anyone else could react. A gasp of air, then, a spurt of blood onto the beautiful marble floor. Her dagger buried to the hilt in their chest. When she approached the writhing man, their hands reached to grasp hers, muttering something as she stared in disdain.

Elgar’nan was biting back a smile, trying terribly to show indifference. But he was proud of her. Mythal had cast her eyes down, whether in horror or equal indifference as her beloved she would not show. And the wolf stared blankly at the blood pooling on the floor. Gan’freya rolled her shoulders and stepped back into her place next to her creator. She did not dignify anyone else in the room with a glance.

Later, in her chambers Elgar’nan visits her and sings her praises. He speaks of devotion and dedication, of strength. He promotes her, to a sworn protector now. But she must protect him and him alone.

Gan’freya’s actions bring Elgar’nan to an understanding with Mythal. The people need something to fear and somebody to guide them. Hope and wisdom shall nudge them into the arms of their Gods; no one wants to be left to rot after all.

Their presence brings a resolute knowing that the Evanuris will not be challenged.

They do not speak to each other. They do not spend enough time outside of their respective duties to ever have to. What they know of each other in this world, they only know from the lips of their creators. Elgar’nan despises him, and Mythal says she is an example of loyalty.

“Her devotion runs deeper than mere words of encouragement, she does not lecture him, she guides him. As you promised you would guide our people.” Speaks Mythal.

“He seeks to depose us both, he thinks I am a tyrant and you are the harbinger of doom. Even Mythal’s short leash cannot contain him forever. Be wary of him, da’len.” Speaks Elgar’nan.

Yet there is something in their words that is so carefully practiced, so beautifully crafted to poison their minds that it plants something else entirely. Hope and Wisdom did not cross paths often. One brought aspiration, the other knowledge. But they remember each other. Two guiding lights in the dark, for entirely different purposes.

Solas knows better. He knows her destruction is a by-product of her physical being. The same way pride twists and wraps itself around his every action, despair hangs in the air whenever her hand reaches for her blade.

They were not built for this. To pay the price that having a body entailed.

When he took the mark from Mythal, he had reasoned it was a show of loyalty, of devotion. He had carried it proudly, and had wondered how Gan’freya could forsake her maker by not carrying his vallaslin on her body.

Solas quickly realized being bound came in a myriad of forms.

The clothes she wears, tailored and chosen by Elgar’nan. Her hair always cascading down her back, she does not dare to put it up, because Elgar’nan does not like her hiding the gifts he has given her. He takes credit for her very existence, never mind that Hope has existed long before Tyranny. It does not matter to him. He seeks to control her in every way possible, and through her, he will control everyone else.

She is both his shield and his sword. When she strikes down the nonbelievers, she reaffirms his power. When his ambition is called into question her essence is what is used to defend him from his crimes. Would Hope stand beside Tyranny? Would Hope doom the world? No. But the light that hope carries is starting to dim. And the dark fog of despair rolls across the horizon like a grim premonition.

He’s too proud to admit it. Solas is no better.

He may not spill blood in Mythal’s name, not yet, anyway. But his very being feels like it is being burned alive. The subjugation of their kin, the war with the titans, and the endless travels to take siege over another plot of land. It eats at him. Solas may not raise his hand against the people, but his knowledge and the twist of his mouth brings just as much decimation. He tries not to think about it. The sun dimming in Gan’freya’s eyes, the way their sad gazes match each other.

Tries to pretend he doesn’t claw at his face, his forehead feeling like a throbbing scar even though the mark remains. The same way Gan’freya pretends she does not dig her fingers in her own wounds after hard fought battles won in the name of their Gods.

With court politics comes proximity, comes the unavoidable fact that the sword of tyranny and the guard dog of benevolence shall cross paths. They will break bread together, toast to each other’s success, all the while pretending their spirits aren’t screaming underneath all the flesh and bone.

They will not acknowledge each other’s pain, shall not speak of the kinship born of servitude, the guilt and horror clawing at their skin. They will grin and bear it, as the always have.

As they should have.

[blueberry-pride]

Let Your Curious Mind Wander~

Creating all kinds of wonder and content for Twisted Wonderland

Hello there! My name is Blueberry or Berry for short. Welcome to my page of aesthetic, writing, and ramblings. Hope you enjoy your stay here!

Ayyo, new design and format? hell yeaa! All the requests from the previous follower events will still push through, life just manages to keep me really busy and tired ;=; TWST scenarios and X Readers will now solely be for follower events or specials, so my inbox for that is closed for now so I could focus on my edits as well as original fanart JP TWST: BerryEli UJ9Cu4rX Discord: MeMesElise#7609 (Last Updated: April 25, 2023)

Let Me Tell You A Tale~

(Stories/Scenarios/Headcanons)

Let Me Show You My Magic~ (Original works/Fanarts/TWST OCs)

Let Me Twist The Tapestry~ (Fan Edits/Wallpapers/Desktop & Phones)

Dorm Leaders set-Desktop (Very first post!)

Dorm Leaders Valentines Playlist-Phone

Endless Halloween-Desktop

Shared Harveston Kelkkarotu/New Years-Desktop

Masterchef-Deuce & Jamil duo-Ruggie & Malleus duo-Desktop

Fairy Gala: What If-Desktop

NRC Headers

Dorm Minimalist- Ipad

Subtle TWST Minimalist- Ipad

Subtle TWST Minimalist-Desktop

Tsumsted Wonderland-Desktop

Portfest-Desktop

Shared Vargas Camp Part 2 & Masterchef Cater and Rook duo- Desktop

Glorious Masquerade Part 1-Desktop

Glorious Masquerade Part 2-Desktop

Glorious Masquerade Event-Desktop

Glorious Masquerade Event- Phone

Dorm Playlist- Phone

Birthday Set-Desktop

Dorm Pattern-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist-Phone

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Riddle Rosehearts

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Trey Clover

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Cater Diamond

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Deuce Spade

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Ace Trappola

Ace Appreciation-Desktop

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Birthday set-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist-Desktop

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Leona Kingscholar

Leona appreciation-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Ruggie Bucchi

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Jack Howl

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Birthday set-Desktop

Dorm Pattern-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist-Desktop

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Azul Ashengrotto

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Jade Leech

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Floyd Leech

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Dorm Pattern-Desktop

Shared Scarabia/Pomefiore Birthday set- Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist

Union Bday-Desktop

Header

Dorm Playlist

Kalim Al Asim

Dorm Pride- Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Jamil Viper

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Dorm Pattern-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Vil Schoenheit

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Rook Hunt

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Epel Felmier

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Dorm Pattern-Desktop

Shared Ignihyde/Diasomnia Birthday set-Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Idia Shroud

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Ortho Shroud

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Dorm Pattern -Desktop

Dorm Pride-Desktop

Valentines Special Playlist

Union Bday-Desktop

Headers

Dorm Playlist

Malleus Draconia

Dorm Pride-Phone

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Lilia Vanrouge

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Silver

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

Sebek Zigvolt

SR/SSR Card set as of 2021-Desktop

[editingwonderland]

. the basics

this is a general editing blog ! I always accept requests for things listed on my sources , but will also sometimes be opening my ask box to non-listed sources ! if these types of requests are currently being accepted, they will be noted somewhere in my description, so keep an eye out !

if you would like to denote your request as for a kin, fictive, d/a, etc, feel free to include in your ask for me to denote the dis-allowance of certain tags from anyone but the requester.

you can send as many requests as you like at once, but please send them one request per ask ! it makes it easier on me to stay organized and also for me to not have to finish multiple edits all at once, since i usually pick away at the ask box during my spare time !

you do not have to request something media related ! i will also always accept any types of edits themed around something like an aesthetic, a mood, a song, etc. with the only exception of icons.

credit is not necessary , but i DO necessitate reblogging any set you save/use please, and you are not allowed to claim any of my edits as your own !

I run a zero tolerance policy here in terms of bigotry. I do not have a specific DNI, but I'll block you if i see you engaging in that sort of behavior. be nice to each other. i would also rather discourse blogs not interact with me.

i retain the right to delete any request i am not comfortable completing for any reason. i do not have a formal blacklist, but please just use common decency in terms of what you request.

. sources i do

. Project Sekai , Vocaloid / Vocal Synths (General) , Twisted Wonderland , Sailor Moon , Ever After High , Worst Girl Games (We Know The Devil and Heaven Will Be Mine) , Undertale and Deltarune, Cookie Run (Ovenbreak & Kingdom), Love Live

I will do edits as normal for the follow sources below, however, additionally, I will allow characters from the following sources as THEMES for edits featuring characters from the above sources (Example; A Minori Hanasato wallpaper with Hello Kitty as a theme)

. Sanrio , Animal Crossing , Sonic The Hedgehog , My Little Pony (All Generations)

. what i do

Icons (Can be done in 100x100 or 300x300, please specify which. Additional details to include are colors, borders, and themes. I will also do pride icons.)

Reply Icons (Comes in one size. Can specify a theme, otherwise they will directly inspired by the character you request for them.)

Aesthetics / Moodboards (Aesthetics are done on a 4x2 grid, while moodboards are done on a 3x3 board. Details to include are colors and themes.)

Stimboards (Details to include are colors, themes, types of stims to include, and types of stims to avoid.)

Playlists (Includes a cover edit and 8 songs. Details to include are mood, genres to include, and genres to avoid.)

Layouts (Details to include are colors, themes, and styles. Please specify what site you would like them for.) > You may also request a set of headers individually, which follow the same detail outline.

Wallpapers (Details to include are colors, themes, and the dimensions for your device.)

Self Care Kit (Details to include are currency, price range, colors, themes, and any particular items you would like included.) > You may also request Stim Care Kits following these same detail outlines, but will be specifically centered on stim items.

Fashion Kit (Details to include are currency, price range, colors, style preferences, and any particular items you're looking for.)

Web Weavings (Please specify a character and any themes to center on.)

Blog Layout (Comes with 3 headers, 3 profile icons, 6 reply icons and a divider, as well as a few blog format ideas for inspiration. If you would like additional reply icons, you are free to send another request!)

Rentry Graphics (Please specify a character and/or a theme for me to base these on.)

If you'd like to read a little more about me, my about post can be found here !

[whinlatter]

19 & 29 for the writing ask!

19. Share a snippet from a wip without giving any context for it.

He doesn’t remember much of that first flat, though knows it was small: whenever the living room was full of people, as it so often was, he remembers it loud and fit to burst, the laughter of his aunties and uncles competing with the sound of the neighbours’ telly through the wall. Mostly he remembers lying on his tummy on that big swirly carpet with his felt-tip pens and some printer paper that his mum had nicked from work, tenderly drawing West Ham’s midfield. He'd glare at his Auntie Joanne when she'd try and distract him in the middle of serious business, trying to get the shape of the players' legs right as they nail a driving pass, the curve of a muscled neck lurching for a header, the fold of triumphant knees skidding across mudded grass in celebration. He’d show them to mum when she’d get in from her shift and paid the child-minder, and she’d spend ages admiring them, asking about them, while she held him around the middle, his head on her shoulder. ‘You’re so clever, Deano,’ she’d say, and give him a big kiss on the cheek. He’d always complain when she’d mix up the players’ names, forget who Frank McAvennie was for the hundredth time - real sacrilege, but he'd always forgive her, would forgive her anything, his mum. He'd bury his face in her neck, cling onto her, swing off her, cross his fingers she'd reward his efforts with a trip to Stratford Burger King. She’d plastered the flat with those pictures, stuck them up on the fridge and the cupboards and the wardrobe door in their bedroom. They’d shared a bed, him and mum, though he was already getting too tall for it, all long neck and limb. He'd never minded it: every morning he’d woken up to the sounds of the buses trudging down Green Street and a cuddle with his mum under the picture he’d drawn of the two of them, hand in hand at Upton Park, clad in blue and maroon, framed above the bed, pride of place.

29. What's the hardest thing about writing?

Definitely trying to set up plots, track and sustain them, thread them through a long piece of work, and properly land them, while still letting their twists and turns be interesting and surprising to a reader. I thought of myself as a vignette writer for a very long time because I thought I couldn't really do plot and would never be a proper plot writer. Lately I've been trying to challenge myself to develop that skill more, work it like a muscle, but it's been really hard work, ngl!

Thank you so much @merlins-sequined-hotpants (your username gets me everytime)

Yet another writing ask | ask me anything

[hiloedits]

— remofina headers

like or reblog if you use/save.

© hiloedits on twitter.

[electrasev5nwrites]

Happy pride month! If you'd be interested, I'd love to see a soulmates!AU fic for either Cass/Steph or Tim/Jason.

I love this ask, happy Pride month! Here's chapter 1 of 3 for the Tim/Jason ask. It's angsty, so if you wanna wait for the happy ending, you'll want to read when chapter 3 is up. The chapter is also below the cut, for anyone who prefers to stay on Tumbly.

TIM 1

Tim woke up in a cold sweat, panting and disoriented. He stared at the shadows moving on his wall for a moment to acclimate.

There had been nothing that night. No dreams. Tim had just laid down at night and woke up in the morning with a blank space stretching in between.

That was, he figured, a pretty good metaphor for his life in general.

That was the weirdest Sunday of his life. He wandered around his house in a daze. It felt like the color had been ironed out of his life. But at that point, he thought that something was wrong with him.

He didn't actually worry about his soulmate until the second night it had happened. His dreams were often hard to get a handle on. When he'd been little it had been hunger and pain and a demented carnival of ugly adult faces, dirty alleys and a brown sofa that meant safety. For a golden year, the dreams had been of free fall and neon lights, bleeding knuckles and French food and a library.

Tim splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His stomach twisted with a fear that he wouldn't think about. Dreams, he thought, were not the most practical soulmate connection. He wondered what he gave his soulmate back. He didn't think he was enough of an open book asking to be loved to be a name on a wrist, but he probably wasn't emotionally rich enough to be passing on dreams.

"Not that this life isn't worth seeing at night," Tim scoffed wryly. He slung his backpack over a shoulder and drank juice out of the container. He shoved a poptart in his pocket and stumbled out the door to catch his bus.

He ate the poptart on the bus, hunched over so that the driver wouldn't yell at him for leaving crumbs. They landed on his pants.

With a sigh he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The rocking of the bus lulled him back to sleep. Tim welcomed it. Maybe this would fix whatever had gone wrong in the connection, like turning a computer off and on again.

He woke up again without seeing anything.

By the time he got to school, he had worked himself into a panic. He chose to be late to first period in order to go to the library to find a reference about soulmate troubles. The teacher gave him a disapproving look when he slipped in, but let it pass without comment.

He was sneakily looking at the header "signs your unmet soulmate has died" when the morning loudspeaker announcement started.

"I have some sad news for you today," said the Principal.

Tim closed his book and looked up. The homeroom teacher was frowning slightly, looking around the classroom. He didn't seem to know where this was going.

"Over the weekend we've had a loss."

He felt his back tense.

"It is with the heaviest of regrets that I must inform you that 3rd year student Jason Todd-Wayne has passed away. The school counselors welcome anyone who would like to talk about this. I understand that…"

It became white noise to Tim. Students around him were reacting with gasps and whispers. He leaned forward and put his face into his hands, reeling.

This was a bad way to find out that Robin had been his soulmate. Too late to do anything about it, and with no way to prove it.

The next months were manic. Batman went off the rails. Tim did, too. He traveled to Bludhaven and begged the first Robin to come back. He stayed up for days on end and then he crashed and lost 20 hour stretches of time to the void of dreamless sleep. He was late to school and sleeping on the bus. He was confronting Batman and stealing a Robin costume and taking his soulmate's old role as the guiding light to Batman's self imposed darkness.

He didn't tell anyone about his connection to Jason. It felt like a lie even if it was true. It felt like something he would be saying to ingratiate himself and make them love the cuckoo in the nest.

Tim regretted that when the dreams came back 6 months later.

"Maybe they were in a coma?" Dick suggested, not without sympathy. He reached out to ruffle Tim's hair. Tim ducked unsuccessfully. "I would have thought they were dead, too, but the dead don't come back."

Tim fidgeted. There was a heaviness in Dick's voice that probably meant Jason.

That was awkward, since Tim had been sure that Jason had been his soulmate.

'I should have said that months ago.' Tim was kicking himself for that. 'It sounds so messed up now. I'll give Dick nightmares if I tell him I think Jason crawled out of his grave and then didn't even come here.'

Well. It was worth saying even if it wasn't about Jason.

"I hope this isn't too much information," Tim said, "but last week I dreamt about digging my way out of the ground. With a belt buckle."

Dick looked a little ill.

"That sounds like…" he trailed off, because it felt crazy to say. It sounded like his soulmate was a zombie? A zombie whose dreams had been of the suffocating dirt and bleeding fingers, and then beeping. Endless beeping and the harsh likes of fluorescent lights overhead.

It sounded like his soulmate was in the hospital, Tim had to admit. The grave thing was probably some kind of vivid nightmare.

"It sounds like a terrible dream," Dick sympathized. Tim let Dick pull him into a hug. "Have you tried reaching out? Maybe your mark on your soulmate is one of the more literal kinds."

"I can write on myself in marker and see what happens," Tim said. "But I don't think that's it."

Dick huffed against Tim's hair. "You're not that easily read, no," he agreed wryly. "And I guess it won't help you reach out if marks on you echo onto your soulmate."

Tim thought about it. "Not unless we can bruise me in a coherent message," he decided. "Technically it could work? Cutting a note would be easier but if it scarred that would be embarrassing. So, bruising. It would have to be something simple, though, and they might get mad about it-"

"We aren't bruising or cutting a message into you," Dick cut him off. He shook Tim lightly. "Precious baby bird. Delicate cargo."

"Bruises like banana," Tim offered practically. He was thirteen now, he was definitely old enough for the soulmate connection to go both ways.

Dick extended his arms to frown at Tim from a distance, tilted his head, and then picked Tim up to whole body toss him on the sofa and roll him into a protesting blanket burrito.

"Police brutality!" Tim hollered.

Someone opened a door. "Alfred, stop him!" Tim shouted. "Help." He wiggled and nearly fell off the couch. Dick caught him.

"Hey, Bruce," Dick said stiffly.

The door closed. Tim was a burrito until time for dinner.

Dick was gone on a doubtlessly tense patrol with Bruce and Tim was ready for bed by the time he realized he'd been deliberately distracted. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Maybe he's right. It's probably… It's not a dead boy that came back."

He tried to sleep. He really did. The sick thought that maybe he was hallucinating the dreams because he wanted Jason to be back wouldn't leave him alone.

"I wouldn't want that for him." Tim tossed and turned to mumble directly into his pillow. "That would be terrifying. Waking up in his grave, alone. I don't want that for him," he insisted.

He felt guilty and generally bad. He got up, left Drake manor, and went to the Batcave to wait.

He didn't end up sleeping, so he should have just gone on patrol anyway, Tim groused internally. Bruce and Dick didn't agree when they got back, but he thought they were secretly relieved he was there to yell at instead of working out their irritation with each other.

He moved like a zombie through his morning routine and dredged up the smallest amount of energy for his semester finals.

Life stretched out that way. Tim avoided sleep as much as he could. When he did sleep, he never liked the dreams. The hospital turned to a nightmarish litany of blood and death and crying in the dark.

He eventually gaslit himself into believing he'd imagined his soulmate dying. Tim felt vaguely ashamed when he thought about it. He was a creep. He'd fixated on Robin so hard that he'd convinced himself his soulmate was the dead Robin.

'I hope I never meet my soulmate,' Tim thought on his 14th birthday. 'They deserve someone better.'

The dreams turned to busy urban streets, ticking bombs, guns, and a green haze. Tim was optimistic that this was better than the crying, but he was still concerned. He'd do a welfare check if he knew who they were.

'Maybe that's why I'm Robin,' he thought wistfully. 'Maybe I need to save them.'

Eventually, there was a new criminal in town, and he had Bruce and Dick at odds. At first they fought viciously over whether or not Red Hood's methods were effective. Later they fought over the same thing they always did: who was in control.

"I'm not saying I'm fine with the murder!" Dick threw his hands up in disgust. "I'm just saying that crime rates are down, the city is safer right now."

"Crime rates are down, except for all the people who've been murdered." Bruce didn't even look at Dick. "Murder remains a crime."

Tim did his level best to become smaller. Maybe if he didn't move at all, they would forget he was there.

"You know what I meant," Dick shot back. "It's not that black and white, Bruce. He's trying to get the crime under control. I think we should seriously consider whether or not the situation is more stable with him in it or not."

"He's a mass murderer," Bruce said. "I want both of you to stay away from him." It was an order.

Dick made a sound of disgust and stomped up the stairs. "Why would I seek him out?" He shouted over his shoulder. "I don't live here. I'm going home."

Batman looked at Robin.

Tim put his hands up. "I'll leave him alone," he agreed. It was easy. He didn't want to get near the Red Hood. He thought both of them were right: the city was safer now, and the Red Hood was a mass murderer. That was out of Robin's league.

Bruce grunted and turned back to the computer, apparently satisfied that at least someone was listening to him.

JASON I

"Cover that shit up." Dad looked at him with disgust. "You're being dramatic."

"I'm not." Jason muttered it, but Dad still heard and gave him a dangerous look. He put his hands up.

"Don't show your mother." The door slammed.

Jason was left alone to poke at the bruise.

It looked bad. It spread all over his left knee and mottled down his shin. It should hurt. It didn't, because it wasn't his bruise.

He smoothed a hand over it.

"I wonder what kind of person you are."

It probably didn't mean anything healthy if you were the type who only left your hurts on your soulmate, Jason decided. Probably meant you couldn't communicate your needs. It seemed like a particularly plaintive soulmark. Like it was silently asking for help.

He stripped off his shorts and tossed them on the chair. He dragged out a pair of jeans and pulled them on even though it was hot as hell out. It was easier to pretend they were his bruises. He didn't want to share anything from his soulmate with his Dad.

Over the years, he didn't actually get that many secondhand bruises. The first time he saw the gaping impression of a cut without any blood around it he felt vaguely ill, but it was only a scrape.

"Maybe she's a skater," Jason thought aloud. "It's always knees and elbows."

He liked that thought. He liked the simple, innocent marks he got. He hoped that he didn't leave the same type of soulmark. If he did, he'd be passing on black eyes and hangnails and blisters that popped and got infected on his feet from shoes that didn't fit. It made him feel dirty, diseased, like he'd taint his soulmate.

When he looked at the needle marks on his Mom, he had to push down a thought that was much uglier than even the shame.

Years later, his soulmate may as well have been a ghost. Jason poked at his arm in class with a mechanical pencil as if that could prompt his soulmate to give a sign of life.

'Probably quit skating,' Jason thought. He flicked his pencil back and forth.

Of course he wanted to know who it was. But it would happen eventually, right? And now that he was Robin he had something else to live for. He stopped checking for bruises and scrapes.

One day after peeling off the costume, he was surprised that the dirt he tried to scrub away from his upper arm was actually a soulmate bruise.

He'd actually forgotten. Jason stopped for a moment. He'd forgotten about his soulmate. What kind of person did that make him? Something strange churned in his gut.

Bruce eyed him. "What happened there?" He pointed.

"Nothing." Jason said too quickly and covered the bruise with his hand. It was private.

Bruce looked massively unimpressed. "Show me, Jason," he sighed. He loomed closer like the great honking bat he was.

Jason scowled at him. "It's nothing," He complained.

"Then why are you trying to hide it?" Bruce grabbed his arm and lifted it, squinting at the bruise. He paused. His expression and tone went painfully neutral. "This looks like a hand."

Jason blinked. "Huh." He twisted to look at it. "It does," he agreed, honestly surprised. It took a moment for the penny to drop. "It looks like an adult's hand." He reeled at that. His soulmate couldn't be much older than him, right? Who was dragging them around hard enough to bruise?

They were silent for a moment. He knew Bruce was thinking back through recent patrols, trying to figure out when Jason could have been manhandled.

"It's not my bruise," Jason said suddenly. This was private, but- he wanted his adult to know this. He felt- he didn't know how he felt, but it was a lot.

Bruce paused. "Ah."

The air felt heavy.

"Do you get a lot of those?" He was still using that careful tone. Jason hated it. It was too cautious, it was like he thought Jason needed special handling.

"I haven't noticed bruises for years." Jason yanked his arm away and huffed. He straightened his back and reported like a Robin ought to. "I don't remember anything that raises red flags. Scrapes and bruises on elbows and knees. I assumed they skate or something."

Bruce made a sound of acknowledgement. He let Jason pull back. Slowly he raised a hand and ruffled Jason's sweaty hair.

"Gross." He complained without any heat in it.

He made a note of it. He harbored the quiet ambition that he wanted to save his soulmate. He was Robin for a brief shining moment, and then he was choking on hot blood while a clock ticked and a clown laughed and it hurt, it all hurt-

Fin.

He woke up in oppressive silence after the end. He screamed and banged until his fingers bruised to the bone. He begged with gods he didn't believe in. He tore his belt buckle off, broke through the coffin (oh god, he was in a coffin, oh god, why had they left him here?) and he used the buckle to dig through dirt and he was suffocating on it, it was in his lungs and it hurt so bad, he was sobbing and praying and he burst out into the rain slimy and newborn, filthy and alone. Alone.

He lost time. He lost a lot of time.

He woke up again. He was bigger now, and he fought for every inch of freedom under Talia's fist. His body was alien to him now. It was huge and muscular, powerfully framed in a way that a boy who grew up hungry shouldn't end up. He felt like a hulking monster. He'd died a boy of 15 and he woke up somehow 18. Frankenstein's monster was cheated out of childhood.

The shadow injuries did not help with the way he felt about his body. The paint job on his ribs and limbs changed daily with ugly bruises and scrapes and gashes that didn't hurt him at all.

He learned to ignore them. He didn't think about them. He was too feral to remember what they meant, and when he did remember, he was too wild to care. His soulmate was having a worse time than he remembered but it wasn't his concern now. He'd never find them. He'd died. Surely they'd given up. Surely they were meant for the boy who had died and not the thing that had crawled out of his grave. He didn't get a soulmate.

Jason didn't take that part too hard.

He didn't get a lot of things. He didn't get to graduate high school. He didn't get to grow up. He didn't get to be loved.

But Batman didn't get to replace him. He didn't get to put someone else in the costume Jason died in, like none of it really mattered, like he wasn't Bruce's son once.

He went back to Gotham, the shithole that birthed him and spat him into the jaws of a monster, and he became honest in his own monstrosity. He put heads in a bag and bullets in faces and an ultimatum to Bruce and eventually, he put old pass codes into Titan Tower.

[catre33]

My favourite books in my personal library: (in completely random order)

The Little Prince by Antione de Saint Exupery. 111pg

'The little prince lived alone on a tiny planet no larger than a house. He owned three volcanoes, two active and one extinct. He also owned a flower, unlike any flower in all the galaxy, of great beauty and of inordinate pride. It was this pride that ruined the serenity of the little prince's world and started him on the interplanetary travels that brought him to earth, where he learned, finally, from a fox, the secret of what is really important in life.'

OH, my heart-. This absolute journey of a story is impossibly dear to me. I always pull it out when I need a reminder to grow old, but never grow up; and how stupid grown-ups can be. I've read this at least 7 times and watched the corresponding movie at least 5 times. It puts such a thrilling perspective on things I have had to fight with myself whether it should go in the fantasy or philosophy section. Sometimes we all need to remember how simple the world really is.

High Maintenance by Jennifer Belle 351pg

'Liv Kellerman has just left her cheating husband and--more tragically--their fabulous duplex with its Empire State Building views. Now Liv--alone for the first time in her life with few marketable skills, and crammed into a crumbling "fixer-upper" in Greenwich Village--is contemplating her next move...'

This book is HILARIOUS. I read it during my first and only trip to The Big Apple and finished it in the hotel room on the 2nd day (if I remember correctly). High Maintenance made the trip so much more thoughtful, and the people-watching much more interesting. People-watching in New York is already AMAZING, but I was able to better imagine the story behind the dude doing pull-ups on the street lamp (no joke). And it honestly made me think more than it made me laugh.S

tonewords, A Ghost Story by Pam Conrad 130pg

'The first time Zoe met Zoe Louise, Zoe was four years old. Zoe Louise was more than one hundred. From that day on--living in the same house, separated by a staircase and a century--Zoe and Zoe Louise have been an important and permanent part of each other's lives. Now Zoe is older. And although Zoe Louise never grows up, she is changing in dreadful, frightening ways. Time is running out for Zoe's best friend--and Zoe is the only one who can help her. To do so, she must travel back one hundred years in time and somehow alter the past. But in changing the past, must she also change the present? If she saves her friend's life, will she lose Zoe Louise forever?'

Stonewords is an annual fixture in my life. Though it doesn't in my book classify as a thriller it's still a ghost story and my favorite thing to read late on Halloween night. It's also one of the only books that use theoretical time travel that I will tolerate (mainly because it doesn't try to explain it away but rolls with the ideas). The character development is refreshing, as it is not in the ways you would originally expect.

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown 489pg

'An ingenious code hidden in the works of Leonardo da Vinci. A desperate race through the cathedrals and castles of Europe. An astonishing truth concealed for centuries...unveiled at last.'

This book is an absolute constant stream of 'I should have seen that coming!!!' I mean, are you kidding me?! Twists and turns left and right, never quite knowing where you are for a couple of paragraphs, and riddles hidden in the page headers! And an absolute wonder as a mythology lover having grown up in a Mormon household. The recognition of pagan beliefs and traditions that have become such essential parts of Christian culture is incredible. The Da Vinci Code rivals Good Omens as my favourite book of all time.

Please Ignore Vera Dietz by A. S. King 323pg

'Is it okay to hate a dead kid? Even if I loved him once? Even if he was my best friend? Is it okay to hate him for being dead? Vera's spent her whole life secretly in love with her best friend, Charlie Kahn. And over the years she's kept a lot of his secrets. Even after he betrayed her. Even after he ruined everything. So when Charlie dies in dark circumstances, Vera knows a lot more than anyone--the kids at school, his family, even the police. But will she emerge to clear his name? Does she even want to?'

This was a surprisingly recent read; and though it took a little bit to get into it, I was entranced. It was really just an erratic puzzle coming together much slower than I would have liked it to, and it was terribly easy to relate to Vera's desire to please be ignored. I have to be honest; I grew as a person, reading this book. You get to know the dead kid more than you think you would. It is altogether nowhere near what I expected, and more than I thought I'd ever need.

Scarpetta by Patricia Cornwell 579pg

'Leaving behind her private forensic pathology practice in Charleston, South Carolina, Kay Scarpetta takes an assignment in New York City, where an injured patient in Bellevue Hospital's psychiatric prison ward has specifically asked for her. While Scarpetta examines him, she listens to one of the most bizarre stories she has ever heard. Oscar Bane says his injuries were sustained in the course of a murder...that he did not commit...' (the blurb is paraphrased as it is the longest blurb in history sorry)

Not only is this book written by one of my favourite milfs, but there is also a very homo romantic subplot that I could not get enough of!!! (pg354 AAAH!!!) Scarpetta and everyone around her had me hooked from the first words (which were 'Brain tissue'). There is nothing I could do while reading this but live the plot. The incredibly emotive writing dragged me along for a rough but worthwhile ride.

Frogkisser! by Garth Nix 372pg

'Poor Princess Anya. Forced to live with her evil stepmother's new husband, her evil stepstepfather. Plagued with an unfortunate ability to break curses with a magic-assisted kiss. And forced to go on the run when her stepstepfather decides to make the kingdom entirely his own. Aided by a loyal talking dog, a boy thief trapped in the body of a newt, and some extraordinarily mischievous wizards, Anya sets off on a Quest that, if she plays it right, will ultimately free her land--and teach her a thing or two about the use of power, the effectiveness of a well-placed pucker, and the finding of friends in places both high and low.'

I bought this book from an elementary school book fair when I was maybe 10 years old, and it must be one of my most 'loved' paperbacks with all it's been through. It has been in the hands of family and friends and calls me out in ways I will never admit. Frogkisser! is a beautiful story with the perfect doses of snarky and silly weaved throughout every character. I used to know the plot so well that I would open to a page at random and read it just to cheer myself up. Now it's a nostalgic symbol of my childhood; not just of the good parts, but a basis of the good parts.

Skellig by David Almond 182pg

'Michael was looking forward to moving into a new house. It was all going to be wonderful. But now his baby sister's ill, his parents are frantic, and Dr. Death has come to call. Michael feels helpless. Then one day he steps into the crumbling garage. What is this thing beneath the spiderwebs and dead flies? A human being, or a strange kind of beast never seen before? The only person Michael can confide in is his new friend Mina. Together they carry the creature out into the light, and Michael's world changes forever.'

This was also a very recent read and oh my goodness gracious aGnES NUTTER, WITCH! I didn't know what to do with myself after it. I... I can't even explain it. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience, to read this book for the first time. I was helpless in dreaming of angels and owls and clay and death and life and everything in between. I could never possibly do Skellig justice, so I'll leave it at this. Read it, and you'll know what I mean.

Notes: Good Omens is not listed here as it lives in my schoolbag, not my personal library. Coincidentally, all books listed were paperbacks LMAO

[008-edits]

"that makes them doubtlessly, clearly, absolutely, unequivocally, beyond any doubt, categorically, emphatically, GUILTY"

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

✰ lina ✰ any pronouns ✰ 22 y/o ✰ virgo ✰ intp

✧ hello there, my name is lina and this is my edits blog!

☆彡 what i can edit:

━━☆⌒*. icons

━━☆⌒*. headers

━━☆⌒*. wallpapers (both mobile and desktop)

━━☆⌒*. layouts (both tumblr and twitter)

━━☆⌒*. moodboards

━━☆⌒*. stimboards

ミ★ media i can edit from:

━━☆⌒*. twisted wonderland

━━☆⌒*. project sekai

━━☆⌒*. milgram

━━☆⌒*. genshin impact, honkai impact 3rd, honkai star rail and hoyoverse games in general

━━☆⌒*. vocaloid

━━☆⌒*. idol (music) games/anime/manga (love live, bandori, enstars, etc)

━━☆⌒*. bungou stray dogs

━━☆⌒*. kakegurui

━━☆⌒*. chainsaw man

━━☆⌒*. danganronpa

━━☆⌒*. persona 4 and 5

━━☆⌒*. other anime and manga

━━☆⌒*. other anime-like games

✸ rules ✸

━━☆⌒* please write the full name of both source material and the character(s) that you want me to edit!

━━☆⌒* for wallpapers, please specify if you want desktop or phone wallpapers. telling me the exact size you need would also help me a lot!

━━☆⌒* if you have something more specific in mind, please tell me the color(s)/aesthetic/theme you want your wallpaper/moodboard/layout to have (example: kanade yoisaki blue icons, trey clover cottagecore wallpaper). otherwise i'll just go with whatever i think is most fitting.

━━☆⌒* please tell me if you want a twitter header/layout because tumblr and twitter headers' sizes are a bit different. otherwise i'll just assume you mean the tumblr header.

━━☆⌒* for icons, tell me if you want them to have a specific shape (like a circle, a heart, etc)

━━☆⌒* you can also ask for ship edits! (including poly ships)

━━☆⌒* i can do pride edits too, but please tell me if you want a specific flag. sending a picture of it would be very helpful too! (especially if the flag you're talking about has multiple versions, i know that some flags are now considered controversial, so i don't want to accidentally offend anyone!)

━━☆⌒* my limit is one character per request unless you're asking for a ship edit.

━━☆⌒* if you use my edits, credit is not needed, but appreciated.

━━☆⌒* i won't edit anything with real people.

━━☆⌒* this blog is kin-friendly! please tell me if you want me to add "don't tag as kin/me/id" to your request.

━━☆⌒* if you ask for a stimboard, being more specific with your request would help a lot! like what colors you would like it to have, what kind of gifs, etc. otherwise i'll just go with what colors and things i personally associate with that character.

━━☆⌒* if there's anything you'd rather not see in a stimboard or a moodboard (something you find triggering, for example), please tell me!

━━☆⌒* my main blog: @linabirb

[dracota]

I wrote 3 pages or story yesterday. Outline-ish that mostly covers a lot of bitter dialogue and a section of not plot but lots of plot leaning. I need something more than government fucks around with something they shouldn’t. Angry customer service also doesn’t work even when the two are combined.

It’s slice of life heavy but there is no point in it. It does expand on point from other stories but it has nothing of its own

It also has a terrible working name.

And today? I’m poking at another story that plays with Pride & Prejudice. I’m calling a modern bullshit twist, but it’s been interesting to play with so far today.

In a surprise, turn of events I’m having a lot of fun with Mr. Collins character. Which gave me a good idea for Charlotte‘s character.

Unfortunately, because of just how badly I hate Miss Catherine Debeau or whatever the fuck her name is, I really really wanted something horrible to her character, but I wanna keep it relatively on par. And hello idea.

No problem now is that I originally wanted this to be like a one day type of story but now some of it needs a good chunk of set up. Or else I’ll have to do a whole shit ton of hand waving magic. And while that stuff is good for Hallmark movies not so much written stories… Or at least not my written stories. Maybe I’ll have to be a week long story? Hmm a month would be better.

Maybe a play on how a day can feel a month long? That would be cheesy but… Maybe.

Oh well. Maybe once I get this little idea written down I can get this attention focused on my little cryptic newsletter story thing going. I have most of the stuff done. I just have some story template ideas that I want to write down. I called them templates because I’m doing sort of a basic formatting thing so it’s going to be pretty repetitive Ish But there will be continuing storylines?? I really don’t know how else to explain it.

I am going to have so much original art going with the blots for the articles. I’m trying not to let myself get burned out that way… Because it’s so much. I’m trying to minimize it as much as possible and have just the header art. So hopefully once I really get going, I can slowly add more artwork into it. However, I’m using Blogger so it’s a bit of a bitch. 

Right! So I’m going to finish Mr. Collins idea/plot area and then I’m going to poke around the other thing. 

In a strange twist of events, I wrote 3 pages of stuff for different parts of the same story? Who knew.

[astalisedits]

remo falcone headers

like or reblog if you save 🤍

credits on twitter @tillienate