#verse;; reaching for the beautiful world

[emmetrain]

"I rarely have met one so eager to learn."

Praises when there was no need--Emmet was going to memorize this moment, down to the every single detail, sound and texture.

"I am Emmet. I have been taught all my life, but only in last decade, I got to seek the knowledge that would fuel my engine for the trip to the victory! I need to learn if I am to operate as a gear in this magnificent machine you have invented, sir. I cannot let anyone derail me from improving every single day, or others joining to our Cause would pass me right up!"

He reaches to the notepad he is carrying on his shirt pocket, and turns the pages till a happy hum signifies he has found it.

"So far, I have been challenging myself with the history of Kalos. I have to admit that history has been always my weak point, and I... I have nothing holding me back from learning more about Kalos now."

After all, his Price had been his "family", a brother who he had erased from his memory, and the parents he would never wish to be related to. With the Price paid, there was no past that could deter him from starting over again.

"I want to be able to hold conversations in your functions when the topics change and vary. I cannot count on you to cover for me every time, can I, sir? I want to be an asset, not a liability."

"After all, I like winning more than anything else. And I will win at being the best servant for the Cause! You will see! I will make it a reality!"

[dieverged]

nima who probably didn't plan to be visiting thedas again and ending up trapped there for 2+ years having to deal with the inquisitions politics. they are mad as FUUUUUUUUUCK

edit: thinking about them stuck in thedas for 10 years dude. in the event that it's relatively canon compliant & they don't get help from, like, anyone so ... kind of a worst case scenario for them basically? on a personal level. because them getting help would require plotting

edit 2: okay i'm mad as FUCK i forgot tumblr puts a bullshit limit on tags. i had an entire section dedicated to dorian & varric & the inquisition, how it all culminates into an eventual home for them & how they would go back n forth between tevinter & kirkwall with varric taking her under his wing (and the outlier in that nima would end up telling varric about their circumstances eventually if they were close enough but hey! varric dgaf about that, he sensed the bs, he knew they were hiding something, as long as it doesnt directly harm him/his people/the fucking world whatever man it doesn't change who nima is potentially) & also nima's complicated struggles & relationship WITH hiding this information because she isn't thedosian. she is a complete outsider, a mimic, an imposter wearing the skin of those around her. while she doesn't lie, she also doesn't speak the truth of it either. & as a traveler, you'd think oh why does this bother her so much? it bothers her bc she can typically escape in other circumstances but here, she can't, she is trapped for the forseeable future and/or permanently, she can't return home. & the FURTHER struggles of what that means for her identity & also of her relationship to people within the inquisition

I'M SO MAAAAAD I'M SO MAD THOSE WERE SUCH GOOD ANALYSIS' fuck off tumblr i can't believe i forgot. okay well reminder that i need to write some relationship metas. specifically with solas, varric, dorian & then the inquisition at large.

also the conversations between these four would be funny as fuck is all im saying. discussing theoretical magic & the fade & like varric is just There dude it's too early for this shit. he was dragged out

also augh cole was another element in this as well but cole is... difficult because nima just avoids him straight up a lot of the time, but i think she would really like his insights :') i really do. i think they would have such engaging conversations

but anyways yeah there was so much haha.... gripping my desk so hard it splinters & shatters can you tell im mad as fuck. im also tired, writing essays with no sleep lets gooooo

(though honestly, maybe their character arc is centered Around never actually finding out how to return in inquisition & making peace with that too; at least not until Trespasser. i.e, they are entirely vague about everything, researching all sorts of old forbidden magic & the history of it, & part of their character arc's resolution is that they aren't alone in this yknow? they aren't alone, they have to come to terms with their placement here, and hey people do give a shit or something to that effect anyways. because them going at it alone, e.g you didn't do their companion quest, is going to result in them just leaving once they have what they need information wise whereas doing their companion quest results in them staying & begins the gradual process of relying on the people around them, relinquishing that iron grip independence but also trying to learn not to have this... fixation on home and what that means for them. which is an objectively important concept throughout their entire narrative, it drives them, BUT yknow in this it's finding a way to be healthy--- they don't let go of it obviously, although that would be an element brought up (and also if that was a choice you picked, basically telling them to give up, it would result in them leaving too), but it's more so .... that they aren't losing parts of themselves by not finding the answers that they need like home isn't one place & it definitely isn't lost. basically just easing their grip on it, like they're not losing who they are. i had something more profound to say here but i forgot where i was going originally lol so this'll just have to do--- it's just coming to terms with a lot of things about themselves basically)

referring back though to the best case scenario, it would probably be like. plotting territory & the baseline is always going to be a mage, spirit, a... god? if they interact with one? or an ancient? basically someone with profound arcane knowledge. & the plotting would come from like, hey, can we actually find a way around this in all its forms (im talking fade travel, im talking dabbling with old, forbidden magics, going on long adventures, uncovering mysteries, hell. possession would be awesome dude, spirit or fragment, or literally whatever the hell else)

& the consequences of that bc fucking around with ancient magic that counteracts your own innate magic AND with nima already having a god's mark on her by virtue of being revived. all of that...... it would be very much hey, let's see where canon can take us, let's do the implausible, let's keep making ideas etc.

because while i do just default on, even in a plotted situation, nima being unable to find their way back home by virtue of not being able to use their specific abilities to unlock that access (which, haha, im just saying wouldn't it be awesome if someone helped nima only to use her powers for their own gain. like it would be awesome) it would be very fun and very tragic for them to finally find their way home. maybe them gaining access to their own powers again causes fucky shit to happen! maybe they are blocked from ever returning to thedas! many things can happen.

& also side plot but equally as important in this ^ is them being able to recover some or all of their memories via fade shenanigans which would be peak but made worse by A. what if by doing so, they've made it so their own spirit is bound to thedas & they can't leave so they have these memories but at what COST or B. idk maybe they just die dude straight up. maybe there's some crazy ass consequences that follow. there has to be some kind of tragedy i can't let nima be happy. ever. or even some crazy shit happening to Ur muse in all of this bc who doesnt like seeing their muse suffer (& which would hurt nima in the process yippie)

but yeah ultimately their worst case scenario is arguably the best case scenario and the definitive canon bc anything else, like actually helping nima, requires nima to A. tell you they aren't from this world (& by virtue of that their memory loss maybe bc hey all hands are on the table now, but tbh they would've probably mentioned the memory loss casually Anyways so its not a big deal) B. probably a fair bit of plotting but it'd be really fun devil emoji

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ let me love you darkly, slowly ” : 

﹙ top outlaw male x bttm male aristrocrat reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . verse 9819 alessio x male reader !! 🍒 : ﹙  outlaw  ˖ serial killer ˖ inhuman illusionist  ﹚

the infamous aristrocrat serial killer has your family on his hit list. but it would seem that you are different. will you take his hand and run with him? so that he may love you darkly, slowly.

﹙ cws ﹚: dark romance ˖ explicit content at end ˖ mentions of parental abuse ( towards reader ) ˖ violence ˖ death ˖ penetrative sex ˖ hand job ˖ rough sex ˖ multiple orgasms ˖ alessio uses clones of himself in sex | wc : 0.7k

﹙ receipts ﹚: a dark little piece for our favourite outlaw <3

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

Usually, the infamous ace of spades’ knives are always willing and ready to sink into the vulnerable flesh of his next political victims. You were no different, until you were. A precious dove to fly into his life, that he had thought a hawk at first sight, judging by the image of your family across the city.

The youngest son of a famous aristocrat. Whom Alessio had pursued with intent of seduction before death. Yet your heart was made of something more beautiful than gold. Nothing like your father’s. Each smile that graced your lips was a blessing to him, he’d been ashamed of targeting you.

One may wonder why he went for you first and not the man that brought you into this world. Well, the very reason for that is that your entire family were on his list of undertaking, and he decided to go one by one, random pick. And you so happened to be the one the wheel landed on.

Your name was quickly wiped from it, with the blood of your mother splattering the paper. The note he left on her desk wrote:

“Farewell, to the two-faced wench, who advocated hiking medicare prices.” The pencil scratched across her signature, then got stamped with the ace of spades in Alessio’s quick escape.

He’d taken you with him that night. Held your hand tight in his as you ran away from the burning estate. Perhaps it was the unhealthy amount of childhood discipline and reprimanding you had earned as you grew up. You did not really care for the deaths of your family. Your father beat you bloodied and bruised, and your mother tormented you at any possible moment she could.

Your siblings were none the better than them, growing into their toxic behaviour and mannerisms. You refused to let your soul sour the way theirs had. It wasn’t hard to tell right or wrong. It wasn’t hard to really understand what the man you were running away with was doing.

It was no secret, you should have been long gone by now. And you were announced so by the public after the burning of the cold place you called home. With no trace of the family found below the rubble.

Instead, you now occupied yourself with the people of the lower city, aiding the poor and funding your saviour’s organisation with all of the money you had inherited. How they got a hold of it, you weren’t so sure. You didn’t bother questioning.

You found yourself falling for the man that was your executioner turned saviour. A part of you questioned your own morality.

But what was morality when compared to his kisses? What was the meaning or black and white when his hands fixed to your waist and held you so tight against him? Right and wrong be damned. It felt all the same in his arms.

By night, you often found yourself in Alessio’s bed. The air getting knocked out of you when he fucked you from behind. His hand squeezing away at the base of your dick to pump ferally at it. His dick pounding your pretty ass open and eager for him.

“That’s it—” You gasp out in unison to the grunt in your ear, hole and walls fluttering around him. While his arms cage you against the dark bedsheets.

The sight of your bodies intermingled, dimly lit, with a sheen layer of sweat covering your skin, flutters your tumm, as a hand reaches down to direct your face upwards. Helping you watch what he’s doing to you.

“This pretty ass ‘s all mine— All fucking mine-” Rough hands split your legs apart and images of him begin to appear all around you, to touch you, praise you, kiss you.

His powers are incredible in bed. Your head gets loopy by the feel of one of his clones sucking down hard at your throbbing tip. You barely get to process that he yanks yet another orgasm out of you. Cum squirts out on his hand which he brings up to lick away at.

“My pretty little dove,” he groans from above you. Swarming your blissed out face with rough hands to cup your cheeks. His movements hardly halt. Long, hard strokes shake your trembling body.

This. This feels right. Him inside. Him on top of you. All over you. To hell with wrong. You’d take the grey if it meant his warm hands. His intoxicating lips.

“Please.” You quiver.

Alessio can all but grin. His pretty little aristocrat. Now all his.

“Say it again baby,” he hums. “Beg. It suits you far better.”

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[chrissturnsfav]

Following the anon i sent so I was thinking that singer!reader has always struggled with loving her like thighs and stomach or smt but hear me out if you’re comfortable with it maybe some mentions of self harm like

A scenario

So reader and Chris are laying in bed cuddling or some shit and he’s like tracing his fingers up and don on her thighs and he notices her scars orrr

They’re laying and he compliments her and she goes on a rampage of how she’s not and how ugly her stomach is or smt

⋆.˚✮ rapper!chris knows how to make singer!reader feel pretty

tw: mentions of body image issues

you're sat on the edge of the couch in chris' big living room, scrolling through photos on your phone. your gaze lingers a little too long on a paparazzi picture of yourself from last weekend, your legs prominently featured. a familiar wave of self-doubt washes over you, and before you can stop yourself, you mutter under your breath, "fuck, my thighs look huge."

chris, who’s been freestyling under his breath while jotting down lyrics in his notebook across the couch, freezes mid-bar. his head snaps up, and his eyes narrow, like he can’t believe what he just heard.

"hold up, what'd you say ma?"

you glance at him, trying to play it off. "nothing, forget it," you mumble wearily as you shake your head.

"nah, nah, we ain't doin' that." he gets up, his notebook abandoned on the coffee table, and strides over to you. "what’s this bullshit 'bout your thighs?”

you sigh, trying to avoid his gaze, but chris crouches down in front of you, his icy blue eyes locking onto yours.

"they’re just... big," you mumble. "like, bigger than they should be."

chris scoffs like you just insulted his entire existence. "bigger than they should be? mama, stop fuckin' wit me right now."

you try to laugh, but it’s weak. "i’m serious, chris. i see all these girls online with these slim legs, and then there’s me. i just feel...i dunno...out of place, i guess."

he sits beside you, shaking his head, still looking like he’s offended on your thighs’ behalf. "you’re trippin'. hard. have y'seen yourself? like, really looked at y'self? 'cause if y'did," he says, reaching out to lightly squeeze one of your thighs, "you’d know your thighs are perfect. thick, pretty, sexy as hell—are you serious?"

your cheeks heat up, and you roll your eyes, but he’s just getting started.

"y'know what your thighs say to me?” he continues and smirks a bit, leaning in. "they tell me you're perfect, tell me y'got the full package. tell me you’re built like a model, and that i’d be a dumbass not to appreciate you."

you can’t help but laugh at his over-the-top delivery, and he grins, knowing he’s getting through to you as he brushes his fingers lightly over the smooth skin on your thigh.

"listen baby," he starts, using his free hand to gently cup your jaw and turn your face to his, "i know the world tries to tell girls all this bullshit 'bout what they’re supposed to look like, but lemme tell you sum'n real: you are it for me. all o'you. those thighs you’re trippin' over? they’re one of my favorite things 'bout you."

he moves his hand down to your knee, his thumb drawing little circles. "so stop comparin' yourself to edited pictures on the internet, aight? you’re real, 'n you’re beautiful, 'n if anyone’s got a problem wit' that, they can see me 'bout it."

your chest feels lighter, the weight of insecurity lifting under his unwavering gaze and heartfelt words. you smile, finally meeting his eyes.

"okay," you whisper.

"okay?" he teases. "that’s it? after i jus' dropped the most fire compliments of all time?"

you laugh again, swatting his arm. "thank you, chris. really."

"'course," he says, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. "now stop geekin', i gotta go write a verse 'bout how my girl’s got the finest thighs in the game."

you roll your eyes, but your smile lingers long after he’s returned to his notebook on the other side of the couch.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: i'm not comfortable writing about self harm, so i hope this was good!

thank you for reading!! <3

tags: @sturnobsessedwh0re , @idrk2292 , @mattsbrat , @ribbonlovergirl , @swagalicious260 , @sturnhyyhblog , @matthewsroses , @mattsdemi , @emely9274 , @frankoceanfanpage , @ifwdominicfike , @marrykisskilled , @strnilolover , @cayleeuhithinknott

@chrissturnsfav ™

[ryescapades-archived]

hello rye! <3 congratulations on reaching 1k followers, you deserve all of them & so much more // i've read all your works, and i can't express in words how amazing of a writer you are ☘︎

for your milestone event can i request:

rin itoshi + sfw + "hey, look at me"

thank you & i wish you the best of lucks on midterms + finals :3c

→ EVENT OVERVIEW

prompt: 17 - “hey, look at me.” characters: itoshi rin (bllk) x f!reader contents: comfort/fluff, reader gets bothered by some sleazy guys erm wc ~ 1k

a/n: ruruuu my beloved i uhh dunno what to think of this personally but i hope it’s better for u than it is for me shsdfdfk and thankyou sm for participating and the kind words ilyy !! <3 (not proofread!)

your date has been going so well today.

you had planned this so long ago, wanting to go to the aquarium with rin. it’s been quite a while since you’ve had some alone time with him, considering how busy he is with soccer so it’s only right that he’d wanted to spend the whole day and more with the one he treasures the most.

the aquarium itself was a blast; you had fun learning about and looking at all the beautiful sea creatures, though rin would argue that there’s entirely something— or someone— else that was worthy of being labeled as the embodiment of beauty itself.

he would never say that out loud, of course.

the aquarium aside, the rest of the day went by pretty leisurely. after getting yourselves some matching trinkets (you think that the faint blush brushing his cheeks when he holds the dainty ornament in his hands is the loveliest, most incredible sight you’ve ever seen), the two of you decided to check out the new ramen place downtown, catch up a little bit over lunch (you did all the talking, unsurprisingly) before ending up taking a stroll in the park nearby.

everything’s turning out wonderful, until it was not.

while the two of you were preoccupied in your own little bubble, a few wandering tourists had interrupted you to ask for some help. the both of you knew that giving some mere instructions would be too vague, so you had convinced him that you didn’t mind waiting as he showed them the way instead as he was more versed in their language. rin wanted to dispute, not wanting to leave you alone even just for a second, let alone 3 minutes, though he begrudgingly obliged after one look of assurance from you.

the world would’ve been a better place if some people knew how to keep their hands to themselves and mind their own business, really.

all the while you’re waiting for rin to come back, you catch sight of a couple guys standing just a few feet away, their leering eyes hooked on you as their faces spell nothing but trouble. you try not to visibly grimace, turning away from them as you start chanting in your head for your boyfriend to return quickly and wish that by some miracle he could feel your (hopefully) telepathic distress.

you’d wanted to walk away but unfortunately for you, you don’t get far as a few seconds later, a bold finger taps on your shoulder to gain your attention. turning around, you feel your body tense at the men suddenly looming over you with a grin looking oh so sweetly on each of their faces.

“hey, you alone here, sweetheart?” you resist the urge to visibly roll your eyes at the petname. with a reluctant smile, you shake your head at them before starting to walk off. “i’m heading somewhere else, sorry.”

persistent like a parasite with the intent to make your life worse, they fall into steps behind you. you’re feeling the urge to curse at the inconvenience of the part of the city you’re currently at, reprimanding yourself for waiting at such an isolated place. “here with your friends? or family?” one of them presses, and your heartbeat rises as they begin to get closer.

“boyfriend, excuse you,” you huff quietly under your breath, wanting to lose yourself in the incoming crowd as you anxiously walk faster. you would’ve been fine with tolerating them until they’d eventually get bored of your lack of enthusiasm, if not for the slimy hand that suddenly extends out to harshly grasp yours from behind, triggering your fight or flight response as your heart goes plummeting down to your stomach in dread.

“oh, come on! we just wanted to–” the scream that has bubbled up in your throat doesn’t get to escape, however, when another figure comes barreling towards the man, a raged hand reaching up to fist at the latter’s collar. your wrist is then freed, and you gingerly rub at the skin as if to wipe away the foreign touch.

“she’s clearly not interested, you bastard.” your boyfriend’s gravely tone enters your ears, and you’d almost cried out in relief at his appearance. there was a dangerous and deathly lilt to his voice, and something about it makes you shiver for some unknown reason.

you initially don’t have any clue as to how badly affected rin is by the situation with how he has his back towards you but the way rin’s grip on the stranger’s shirt tightens, proven by the flexing and slight quivering of his arm. not to mention you can hear the man’s audible gulp, so you know it’s not a pretty sight.

“w-whoa, sorry, man. we were just…” the other guy trails off, and you had almost sympathized with how genuinely terrified they look but it’s really not worth the effort to cause such a commotion here so you try to get him to calm down. “rin,” you call out, tugging slightly at the hem of his shirt.

you can see him tensing at your voice for a few moments, then with as much reluctance as he can muster, the striker roughly shoves the man away before backing up slightly to hide you behind him, and they both immediately scurry off into the distance. rin doesn’t take his eyes away from the two, fists clenching and teal orbs sharpening like daggers as if to make sure those jerks are undoubtedly not coming back.

your heart squeezes at this whole ordeal. soothingly sliding your hand down the length of rin’s arm, you languidly take his hand to unfurl the whitening knuckles by weaving your fingers with his. “rin,” you press, reaching up to turn the side of his face towards you. “hey, look at me.”

your boyfriend snaps his head towards you then, tension leaving his body when his eyes land on you. he doesn’t protest when you pull him down by the back of his neck, bumping your forehead against his with a gentle thump, a silly method you’d picked up whenever there is a need to ‘knock’ some sense into him.

because the only way for itoshi rin to simmer down and regain his control is exactly that; having you close to him in whatever way possible.

“i’m here, baby. i’m okay,” you mumble against the shared space between your mouths, and rin doesn’t resist the magnetic pull as he pecks your lips once before planting another one on your forehead. “should’ve brought you along,” he mumbles, exhaling warmly against your skin.

you let out a chuckle, “hm, you’re right…” you feignedly ponder, pulling your intertwined hands together as the two of you start walking again, “though as much as i am thankful, you do look quite hot there getting all mad. and cute too, i guess. like an angry kitty, you know?” you quip, glancing at him with a small teasing smile.

a tinge of pink dusts the apple of his cheeks, his eyebrows furrowing in slight offense. “am not,” rin grumbles.

“are so,” you counter, lightly bumping your shoulder against his side.

“... am not,” he bumps back.

“angry rinnie.”

“shut up.”

taglist open !

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[cloverina]

POLAR OPPOSITES

warnings: a lot of smut, virginity taking, boob play, a little bit of spit play, piv, oral sex (m receiving), a little bit of aftercare!!

summery: sam’s been wishing to take your virginity ever since you guys started dating 6 months ago… so he convinces you to let him!

"You know, I've never really been into pink," he mused, his voice cutting through the soft music she had playing in the background. She looked up from her book, a hint of a smile playing on her lips as she met his gaze. The room was a stark contrast of their tastes: his dark posters and her pastel curtains, her cuddly teddy bears and his studded belts.

"But you love me anyway?" she asked, a playful edge to her voice. He smirked, the piercing in his lip glinting as he nodded. "Yeah, I love you even when you're blasting that… that… stuff," he said, gesturing towards her baby pink headphones. The gentle teasing was a dance they were well-versed in.

The conversation took a more serious turn as the music grew quieter. He leaned in closer, his dark eyes searching hers. "I want to take your virginity tonight," he said, his voice low and steady. She felt a flutter in her stomach, a mix of excitement and nerves. He noticed her hesitation, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek gently. "I know you're scared," he whispered, "but I promise it'll be okay. We'll go slow."

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she nodded. She trusted him implicitly. He was the one who had shown her the beauty of submitting, of letting go. He was her rock, her anchor in a world that often felt too overwhelming. They had talked about this moment before, but now that it was here, she couldn't help the butterflies that danced in her stomach.

He positioned her on the edge of the bed, her legs dangling over the side as he placed a pillow under her back. It was his way of ensuring she felt both comforted and exposed, a gentle reminder that he was in control. The softness of the pillow was a stark contrast to the hardness of the bed beneath her, a metaphor for the delicate balance of power and tenderness that existed between them.

He paused, his eyes locked onto hers as he asked the question that hung in the air, "Are you okay?" Her heart raced, the anticipation a crescendo in her chest, but she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm scared, but I'm okay." His hand squeezed hers reassuringly, a silent promise that he would be gentle, that he would guide her through this moment of vulnerability.

With a nod, he positioned himself between her legs, his gaze never leaving hers. She felt his warmth, the comforting weight of his body as he leaned in. His fingertips traced the soft skin of her inner thighs, a tender prelude to the intimate act they were about to share. He took his time, his movements deliberate and measured, as if he were composing a piece of music just for her.

"Ready?" he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room. She took a deep breath, the scent of him – musky and masculine – filling her senses. She felt the tip of him press against her, and she nodded, her eyes never leaving his. The pressure grew, a gentle but firm reminder that he was there, seeking entry into her most private space.

With a soft moan, she felt him breach her barrier, the sensation a mix of pain and pleasure that had her body tensing for a moment before she melted into the pillow. His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of distress. "You're doing so well, baby," he whispered, his voice soothing as he pushed in further. The music swelled around them, the sweetness of the strings mingling with the harshness of their shared breaths.

Her chest began to heave as he found a rhythm, one that grew steadier and more urgent with each passing moment. He was relentless, yet tender, his eyes never straying from hers as he claimed her in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. She felt her walls stretch to accommodate him, her body adapting to this new, foreign sensation.

Without breaking their intense gaze, he reached up and began to tug at the hem of her shirt, inching it down with a gentle persistence. The cool air hit her bare skin, sending goosebumps across her chest. She gasped, but it was not from fear; rather, it was the sudden realization that she had been holding her breath. She nodded her consent, and he continued, revealing her pink lacy bra that matched the rest of the room.

Her breasts, usually hidden beneath layers of clothing, were now exposed to his hungry gaze. He took a moment to appreciate them, his eyes tracing the curve of her neck down to the swell of her chest. He leaned in, his hot breath against her skin as he kissed the soft mound of her breast, avoiding her nipples for now. The anticipation was palpable, a silent symphony of desire that grew louder with each beat of her racing heart.

Without warning, he took her nipple into his mouth, suckling gently at first before increasing the pressure. She gasped, the sensation a new note in the crescendo of emotions playing within her. His tongue flicked over the sensitive peak, teasing and tormenting as his rhythm grew more insistent between her legs. The softness of his lips and the roughness of his tongue created a delicious friction that had her arching her back, offering herself up to him more fully.

Her hands found their way to his hair, her nails digging into his scalp as he continued to pleasure her. His teeth grazed her skin, sending shivers down her spine, and she couldn't help but moan louder. He chuckled against her skin, the vibrations sending a new wave of sensation through her. "You like that?" he murmured, his voice muffled against her breast. She could only nod, her eyes squeezed shut as she focused on the feeling of him.

He shifted his position, his muscular arms sliding under her thighs and pushing them apart wider. The change in angle made her gasp, and she could feel him fill her even more completely. He took her mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips. The room was a symphony of their panting breaths and the rustle of their clothing.

As their kiss broke, he leaned down, his eyes never leaving hers as his mouth descended to her breasts. He sucked harder, his teeth grazing her sensitive nipples as his pace increased. She squirmed beneath him, the sensation almost too much, but she didn't want him to stop. The intensity grew, and she could feel the beginnings of an orgasm building within her.

With a primal growl, he pulled away from her chest, his eyes blazing with passion. He positioned himself at her entrance again, his hand sliding up to cup her face. "I'm going to make you feel so good," he promised, and then he was plunging into her, his hips moving with a power that she hadn't felt before. She gripped the bed sheets, her knuckles turning white as she tried to anchor herself to reality.

The whimpers grew louder, escaping her throat as his thrusts grew deeper, more urgent. Her body responded to his dominance, her inner muscles tightening around him in a silent plea for more. His grip on her face tightened, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to fall from the corner of her eyes. "Look at me," he demanded, and she did, her gaze locked onto his.

"Open your mouth," he instructed, his voice firm but gentle. She complied, her eyes never leaving his, and felt a warm trickle of his saliva land on her tongue. The sensation was strange, but she knew better than to protest, to trust in the experience he was crafting for her. He praised her, his voice a gruff whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "Good girl," he said, the words a benediction that filled her with a newfound sense of confidence.

With renewed vigor, he began to thrust into her, his words a steady beat that matched the rhythm of their bodies. "Cum for me," he ordered, his eyes never leaving hers. "I want to feel you cum all over my cock." Her body responded to his command, the tightness coiling within her, a storm gathering on the horizon.

Her eyes widened as the pleasure grew, a silent plea for release. He knew she was close, his own need building with every moan that escaped her lips. "Do it," he urged, his voice a mix of demand and encouragement. "Let go for me, baby." And with that, she did. Her orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave, crashing into her senses and leaving her trembling in its wake. She screamed his name, her nails digging into his skin as her muscles clenched around him.

The sound of her climax sent him over the edge. He couldn't hold back any longer, and he didn't want to. With a guttural moan, he released himself into her, filling her tight, virgin pussy with his hot cum. His eyes squeezed shut as he lost himself in the intensity of the moment, his body shaking with the force of his orgasm.

His grip on the bedsheets tightened until his knuckles were white, the fabric straining under his powerful hands. He could feel her walls contract around him, milking him of every last drop, and it was the most beautiful sensation he had ever experienced. He threw his head back, his teeth clenched as he moaned out her name, the sound echoing through the room.

Slowly, he pulled out of her, his cock glistening with their combined juices. He collapsed onto her, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he fought to catch his breath. His heart hammered against her chest, a wild drumbeat that mirrored the rhythm of their love-making. They lay there for a moment, their hearts racing together, their bodies entwined in the aftermath of their passion.

Her voice was shy, almost a whisper, when she spoke. "Can I… can I try to give you a blowjob?" she asked, her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink that matched her room. He lifted his head to look at her, his eyes still glazed with desire. He nodded, a smile playing on his lips as he leaned back to give her space.

He watched as she sat up, her baby pink panties still around her ankles. She looked like an innocent angel, her eyes wide and eager to please. She leaned over him, her hair cascading around them like a curtain, and took his still-hard cock into her small, soft hands. He groaned as she tentatively touched her tongue to the tip, tasting him for the first time.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction and love for her willingness to explore. She glanced up, determination in her eyes. "I want to," she said firmly. "I want to make you feel good too."

With a gentle nod, he allowed her to take control of the moment. She leaned over him, her soft hair tickling his skin as she took him into her mouth. He watched her, his eyes filled with awe and adoration as she fumbled at first, her tongue tentatively exploring the sensitive tip of his cock. His hand found the back of her head, guiding her movements with a gentle pressure, showing her the rhythm he liked.

But she was new to this, and her inexperience showed. She gagged, her eyes watering as she took him in too deep. He pulled back, his concern for her clear even in the haze of his own desire. "Easy," he said, his voice a gentle rumble, "Take it out." She obeyed, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink as she coughed, her eyes wide with apology.

"It's okay," he assured her, his hand moving to her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. "Here," he said, taking his cock into his own hand, "Let me show you." He began to stroke himself, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. "You want to start slow, with just the tip," he instructed, demonstrating with his own hand. "Use your tongue to get it wet, and then gradually take more."

With renewed confidence, she nodded and leaned back in. She took him into her mouth again, this time more tentatively, her tongue swirling around the head before taking a little more. His eyes closed, his breath hissing through his teeth as she found her own rhythm. She could feel him growing harder with each stroke of her tongue, his hips moving slightly to meet her mouth.

Her cheeks hollowed out as she took him deeper, her eyes watering a little as she fought back the gag reflex. She focused on his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell with each intake of air, the way his hand tightened and loosened in her hair. It was like learning a new dance, one that was both intimate and powerful.

With each stroke of her tongue, she grew more confident, her movements more assured. She could feel his excitement building, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she explored his length. She took him deeper, her teeth grazing his skin lightly, and he groaned, his hips bucking upwards involuntarily.

"Good girl," he murmured, his hand guiding her, his voice a gentle rumble that spurred her on. She felt a surge of pride at his words, the power of her submission making her wetter than she already was. She took more of him, her eyes watering slightly but her resolve unwavering. This was her gift to him, a demonstration of her love and trust.

Her movements grew more confident, her tongue swirling and teasing, taking him deeper and deeper with each stroke. He groaned, his hand tightening in her hair, guiding her as she found the right rhythm. His hips began to buck, his breathing grew erratic, and she knew she was doing well. She felt his cock thicken in her mouth, a sign of his approaching climax.

The room was filled with the sound of his heavy breathing and her soft slurps. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face contorted with pleasure. "You're doing so good," he mumbled, his voice strained. "So fucking good." His praise spurred her on, and she took him even deeper, feeling him hit the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, but she didn't stop.

His whimpers grew louder, his hips moving in sync with her mouth. "So close," he whispered, his hand tightening in her hair. She could feel his cock swelling, the pulse of his arousal beating against her tongue. She redoubled her efforts, her mouth moving faster, her eyes never leaving his.

Suddenly, with a loud, pornographic moan, he came, his warm cum shooting into the back of her throat. She could feel his hot, steamy seed fill her mouth, the salty taste of him coating her tongue. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, she swallowed, her eyes never leaving his, taking every drop he had to give.

His eyes widened with surprise and pleasure, his grip on her head tightening as he pulsed into her mouth. She felt the warmth of his release travel down her throat, the sensation foreign but somehow exhilarating. It was as if she had conquered a new part of him, claimed a piece of him that was now forever hers.

Once his climax had subsided, he gently removed her mouth from his cock, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He pulled her up beside him, his arms wrapping around her as he cradled her close. "You did so well," he whispered into her ear, his breath warm and comforting. "Giving me your virginity, and that blowjob… You're perfect."

Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink at his words, and she nestled into his embrace. He knew she needed this, the aftercare that followed their intense moments of passion. It was his way of grounding her, of reminding her that she was safe and loved. He kissed her forehead, his hand stroking her hair as she laid her head on his shoulder.

a/n: guys this is my first time writing feedback is appreciated!😓

[delusionalwritingsofagay]

Home coming

Pairing :Alpha Daemon Targaryen x Omega Targaryen Male reader Tags: Omega verse, Targcest Word count :1516

Daemon had seen many strange things in his long and bloody life, but the news from King’s Landing felt the strangest by far. Viserys, that soft, ineffectual fool, had somehow managed to sire an Omega son. An Omega Targaryen. A gift from the gods, a whisper in the blood that echoed of old Valyria.

The very notion had tugged at something primal within him. Alphas, especially those with dragon blood like himself, were drawn to Omegas in a way that transcended mere desire. It was a claim, a need, etched into their very being. And a pure-blooded Targaryen Omega? Unheard of for generations.

He’d left Essos the moment the raven arrived, leaving behind bored courtesans and half-finished battles. Let them squabble. He had an Omega to claim.

Now, standing within the familiar, yet stiflingly dull, halls of the Red Keep, Daemon felt a familiar impatience prick at him. Viserys, bless his easily-pleased heart, had thrown a feast in his honor. How typical. All pomp and circumstance, and not enough fire.

But within the sea of faces, one stood out. A figure, slightly shorter than most men his age, with the unmistakable silver-gold hair of their house.Ten and Six, according to the whispers he had bothered to listen to.(Insert Name) .

He watched (Insert Name) from across the hall, his eyes narrowed, assessing. The boy was pale, almost ethereally so, and moved with a quiet grace that belied the strength of his blood.He seemed almost out of place amidst the boisterous revelry, his gaze darting nervously around the room. He spoke politely to those who approached him, but his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes. Daemon could scent the Omega anxiety rolling off of him and he couldn't help but feel possessive of the nervous prince.

Daemon observed the young prince at the long table beside his father. All of the lords were loud and crass, a bunch of Alphas already vying for positions in the kingdom. But not (Insert Name), he wasn't roaring for attention, he was silent, and in Daemon's expert eye, afraid. Of course he would be, A newly presented Omega forced to be around hoards of Alpha’s.

The feast droned on, filled with endless courses and tedious toasts. Daemon forced himself to endure it, his gaze rarely straying far from (Insert Name).He noticed the way Viserys dismissed his son causing an eyebrow raise. But Daemon also saw the subtle tension in (Insert Name)’s shoulders, the almost imperceptible flinch whenever someone touched him without warning. He wanted nothing more than to tear the boy away from this suffocating court, to spirit him away to Dragonstone where they could finally breathe, and where he could finally scent him.

And then, as the musicians struck up a particularly grating tune, (Insert Name) slipped away.

Daemon watched him go, melting into the shadows that clung to the edges of the hall. He made his excuses to Viserys, something about needing fresh air, and followed.

He found (Insert Name) in the gardens, a small, secluded courtyard bathed in the pale glow of the moon. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the world around him.

Daemon approached slowly, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth, and took a deep breath of the night air, letting the scent of flowers and damp earth mingle with the uniquely intoxicating aroma that clung to (Insert Name).It was a subtle, sweet scent, laced with a hint of something wild and untamed, a promise of vulnerability and strength. It stirred something deep within Daemon, a fierce protective instinct he hadn’t known he possessed.

He stopped a few feet away, close enough to be heard, but far enough not to startle him. “A beautiful night for a walk, wouldn’t you agree, nephew?”

(Insert Name) jumped, turning to face him, his eyes wide with surprise. Daemon saw a flash of fear in them, quickly masked by a polite, if somewhat hesitant, smile.

“Uncle Daemon,” he said, his voice soft. “I… I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” Daemon said with a wry smile. He gestured to a small package he held in his hand, wrapped in dark velvet. “I brought you a gift. From Essos.”

He stepped closer, offering the package to (Insert Name).The boy hesitated, his eyes darting from the gift to Daemon’s face, clearly unsure. “I… I couldn’t possibly,” he stammered.

“Nonsense,” Daemon said, his voice softening. “Consider it a welcome home gift. Or perhaps… a Presenting gift.”

He placed the package in (Insert Name)’s hands. The boy’s fingers brushed against his, and Daemon felt a jolt of electricity shoot through him. He suppressed a growl, forcing himself to maintain a neutral expression.

(Insert Name) looked down at the package, his fingers tracing the soft velvet. He seemed hesitant, almost afraid to open it. “What is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Open it and see,” Daemon said, his eyes fixed on the boy’s face, watching for any sign of discomfort or distress.

With a deep breath, (Insert Name) carefully unwrapped the package. Inside, nestled on a bed of silk, was a delicate silver Necklace, polished to a high sheen. It shimmered in the moonlight, reflecting the silver light.

(Insert Name)’s breath hitched, his eyes widening in awe. He lifted the necklace from its bed of silk, holding it up to the moonlight. “It’s… beautiful,” he breathed.

“It is Valyrian steel, The very same that forged Dark sister,” Daemon said, watching the boy carefully. “I thought it… suited you.”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out, almost involuntarily, to touch the boy’s cheek. (Insert Name) flinched, but didn’t pull away. Daemon let his fingers linger for a moment, feeling the soft, delicate skin beneath his touch.

“You are a rare and precious thing, (Insert Name),” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.”

(Insert Name)’s. He lowered the necklace, his gaze fixed on Daemon, his eyes wide and uncertain. He was clearly caught between a desire to trust and a deep-seated fear. Daemon could practically taste the omega's anxiety. He had to tread carefully.

“I... I don’t understand,”(Insert Name) stammered, his voice barely audible. "Why would you bring me this?"

Daemon stepped back, giving the boy some much-needed space. Too much pressure too soon would only frighten him. He needed to build trust, to show him that he wasn't some monster looking to take advantage. Though Daemon knew, the desire to claim him was building rapidly and it was becoming harder to control.

"Because, (Insert Name), you are family," Daemon said, injecting a touch of warmth into his voice. A lie, but a necessary one. "And because The world is a dangerous place, especially for one such as you." He let the words hang in the air, allowing the implication to sink in.

(Insert Name) swallowed visibly, his fingers tightening around the necklace. He knew exactly what Daemon meant. His presentation as an Omega had made him a target, a prize to be won or a weakness to be exploited. The looks he got from the Alpha lords at court were enough to make his skin crawl.

"The court... they don't understand," (Insert Name) whispered, his voice laced with a quiet despair. "They see an Omega and they assume... they assume..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the crude assumptions that dogged his every step.

Daemon's jaw tightened. He could imagine the leering gazes, the whispered offers. It made his blood boil. This boy, this jewel of their house, deserved respect, protection, and a love that transcended the base desires of lesser men.

"Then let us not concern ourselves with the court," Daemon said, his voice firm. "Let them wallow in their ignorance. What matters is what you know to be true."

(Insert Name) looked down at the Necklace, his fingers tracing its smooth surface. He seemed to absorb Daemon's words, drawing strength from them. A flicker of hope ignited in his eyes.

"What... what should I do?" he asked, his voice regaining a measure of confidence.

Daemon smiled, a genuine, reassuring smile that rarely graced his features. "That,(Insert Name), is entirely up to you. But know this, I am here. And I will do everything in my power to ensure your safety"

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Perhaps... perhaps we could meet again? Tomorrow, in the gardens? We could talk, away from the prying eyes and poisonous tongues of the court."

(Insert Name)hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I would like that very much." The scent of the omega was calmer with his agreement, not so heavy with anxiety and more sweet. The alpha in Daemon wanted to stay and relish in the moment.

Daemon inclined his head, a silent promise passing between them. "Good," he said. "Until tomorrow, then, nephew."

He turned and walked away, leaving (Insert Name) alone in the moonlight, cradling the necklace. As he disappeared into the shadows, Daemon allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. 

[centrally-unplanned]

There are two big "AI Art Discourse" events of note recently, which I thought were interesting: ACX's "AI Art Turing Test" and the new paper on "AI Poetry Beating Human Poetry". Both of these I think reveal the shape of "what is AI art for", and also say a lot about how these results were utilized in discourse.

To take the latter first, some academics quizzed people on some poetry and had these results:

We found that AI-generated poems were rated more favorably in qualities such as rhythm and beauty, and that this contributed to their mistaken identification as human-authored. Our findings suggest that participants employed shared yet flawed heuristics to differentiate AI from human poetry: the simplicity of AI-generated poems may be easier for non-experts to understand, leading them to prefer AI-generated poetry and misinterpret the complexity of human poems as incoherence generated by AI.

More human than human poems! This certainly seems impressive - and it is. You couldn't have gotten these results ~5 years ago. But that maybe doesn't mean as much as you might think? Because here is the opening half of the winning "Walt Whitman AI" Poem:

I hear the call of nature, the rustling of the trees, The whisper of the river, the buzzing of the bees, The chirping of the songbirds, and the howling of the wind, All woven into a symphony, that never seems to end. I feel the pulse of life, the beating of my heart, The rhythm of my breathing, the soul's eternal art, The passion of my being, that burns with fervent fire, The urge to live, to love, to strive, to reach up higher. I see the beauty all around, the glory of the earth, The majesty of mountains, the miracles of birth, The wonder of the cosmos, the mysteries of the stars, The poetry of existence, that echoes near and far

This fucking sucks. Straight up 2/10 poem. Did this bitch seriously establish the world's most predictable rhyme scheme only to try to rhyme wind with end? You had one job that you chose for yourself, and you screwed it up! This poem has been written a million times before, and says nothing - the Miley Cyrus lyrics of verse.

The reason this won is, yes, because AI tools have advanced heavily in the past few years. But it is also because it is being tested on a dead art. No one cares about poetry - certainly not the survey respondents:

We asked participants several questions to gauge their experience with poetry, including how much they like poetry, how frequently they read poetry, and their level of familiarity with their assigned poet. Overall, our participants reported a low level of experience with poetry: 90.4% of participants reported that they read poetry a few times per year or less, 55.8% described themselves as “not very familiar with poetry”, and 66.8% describe themselves as “not familiar at all” with their assigned poet. 

"Or less" is doing a LOT of work there; "yeah I read a few nonfiction books a year" oh sure, totally. 90% of these respondents haven't read a poem that wasn't displayed in the end credits of Minecraft since high school. No one does, poetry as a medium is essentially a relic. That isn't an insult to poets, by the way! There is no shame in being a niche. Not everyone can have the reach of hentai doujin artists; the community is small but they get a ton out of it. But you can't take the art of the community and expect that art to hit outside of it.

This survey didn't ask people to evaluate art; it asked people to evaluate their stereotypical impression of an art they don't care about. It was ~600 people hired off a website, they banged it out ASAP and moved on. This is not to invalidate the results; I am not actually claiming that "real" poets would have scored much better? Maybe, I don't know - that just isn't very relevant.

Let's swing to the AI Art Turing Test results to get more into why. Again, AI art is absolutely "art" in the sense that it is able to pass the test handily. You have to be head-in-the-sand at this point to think that AI can't make an impressionist painting a la the "most liked" art in this contest:

I have seen the "well real paintings have physicality this is a jpeg" discourse points and the cope couldn't be more real - 99% of art consumption in the modern world is digital or at least prints, let's get you back to bed grandma. But I did find it pretty funny that Scott noted this AI piece as one he particularly liked:

Because it is nonsensical, right? All that "faded paint", how was it originally painted - just bucket splashes of red and blue? What are those random doors, the random stairs going nowhere on the sides, the vague-nothings engravings? Scott just didn't care about that - he liked the vibe, right? Ancient ruins, epic scale. It isn't a coincidence that the Impressionist art did the best - current AI tools are always impressionist, they have an idea of the vibe and invent the details in between. In Impressionism that is the whole point.

Now the trap is to go "REAL artists can tell because of this or that" because idk, the tools might get better, they might fill in more and more details. The real revelation here is that you don't need the tools to get better - visual art isn't so different from poetry. Most people don't pay attention to it all that much. You see thousands, thousands of pieces of art a week; you probably don't even realize how many. Do you really care if the fading paint makes coherent sense on a billboard ad or a doctor's office wall painting? So much art that is made is "industrial" in this sense - it has no need to be good. Only good enough to fulfill its utilitarian role. In these fields AI absolutely is going to Take Your Jobs in some form, and already is (though imo not a ton of them). And it won't really bother most people. This can go pretty deep - I promise you people are "utilizing" AI porn right now. They are ~appreciating the details~ way more than is typical, the product is working.

All this works until it doesn't, though. When it is an art book by a favourite artist whose vision you want to pour over, learning that all the individual details were just made by AI completely defeats the purpose, right? Imagine reading a book of these poems. Outside of the novelty, "AI is the point" factor you would rather watch infomercials on repeat, I can't imagine a more pointless use of my time. "Reading arbitrary poems" is never fun, regardless of the quality of the poems. Most people don't care about poetry! The reason you care is that you care about the poet, and what they want to say. You read poetry with context, it being inserted with intent into the pages of a manga, at the end of a video game, because you like the artist and follow them on twitter. The quality of the prose isn't more important than that.

Which is a harsh limit for all of these kinds of tests. They essentially aren't testing art, right? You do not ever get paid twenty bucks to sit down and read a dozen poems and score them. That has no bearing on how you would actually ever learn to care about a poem. Which doesn't make AI art useless or anything, more that these tests will very quickly run into their limits of what they can meaningfully tell you. The actual bar is "creating something someone cares about". From that lens, I fully believe hybrid methods that privilege artistic intent are currently working and will improve. But I think for "solo" AI art getting that to work is going to be complicated.

[heliosunny]

Hello! Would you write for fyodor with a reader that is a princess or just royal and they both start falling for each other yet it is forbidden but that doesn’t stop them from sneaking around. And of course fyodor has a plan to keep her all to himself.

Yandere!Fyodor x Princess!Reader

The first time you met Fyodor Dostoevsky, he was merely a poet, an enigmatic figure cloaked in shadow and silver-tongued words, whispering verses of longing and loss beneath the ancient arches of the palace gardens

You had been drawn to him as if he were a figure plucked from one of the tragic romances you so adored, his ink-stained fingers clutching crumpled parchment, his violet eyes gleaming with unspoken wisdom. He was not like the noblemen who sought your hand with empty flattery and golden promises. Fyodor's words were spun from something richer, something darker. And despite every warning, you found yourself sneaking away from the gilded halls of your royal lineage to meet him again and again.

He was no noble, merely a wandering poet, at least, that was what you had been led to believe. But love, reckless and blind, cares little for consequences.

You and Fyodor had dreamed of escape. On moonlit nights, he would hold your hands between his own, pressing urgent kisses to your knuckles as he whispered of lands beyond the palace walls, places where titles held no weight and love could be free.

"One day," he had promised, "we will leave all of this behind. Just you and me, my love."

But your family had learned of your secret affair before you could run. They locked you away, confining you to the highest tower, where no letters could reach you and no visitors were allowed. You had screamed, pleaded, cursed them for taking away the one thing that had ever felt real. Yet, no one came to your aid.

Days passed in solitude, and despair crept in like ivy, curling around your lungs, suffocating you. You had begun to believe that Fyodor would never reach you, that perhaps he had already abandoned your foolish dream of escape.

And then, one night, he found you.

A shadow at your window, a whisper against the silence. You had barely registered the sound before the locks to your door clicked open as if by magic. And there he was, standing in the dim candlelight, violet eyes alight with quiet triumph.

"How—?" your voice was hoarse from disuse, from grief.

He merely smiled, pressing a finger to your lips. "Did you think any wall, any door, any force in this world could keep me from you?"

He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation.

The escape was seamless. No guards to stop you, no cries of alarm. It was as though the palace itself had conspired with him, bending to his will. When you finally stepped past the gates, you turned to Fyodor, breathless, your heart thundering with exhilaration.

"How did you do it?"

His hand tightened around yours. "A strategist never reveals all his secrets, my love."

Still, beneath the euphoria of freedom , something gnawed at you. The eerie ease of it all. The absence of pursuit. And the way Fyodor had smiled, knowing and patient, as if he had seen this moment long before it ever happened.

But love is blind, and you chose not to see.

Yet, beneath the poetry, beneath the gentle brush of his lips against yours, there lurked something else. Something unnerving.

The first time you sensed it was the night you asked him about his past.

"A poet does not dwell in the past, my love" he murmured, fingers grazing your wrist with delicate precision. "Only in the present, in the fleeting beauty of the now."

You frowned, searching his face for something, anything—that hinted at honesty. "But surely, Fyodor, everyone has a past. Where were you before you came to the capital?"

A slow smile curled his lips. "Do you not think it more romantic to imagine? Perhaps I was once a prince of a fallen kingdom, or a soldier who abandoned war for poetry. Would you love me more if I told you I was tragic?"

You laughed softly, but the unease remained. His answer was playful, but it was not an answer.

Over time, the unsettling moments grew.

One evening, you were discussing an upcoming royal engagement that had been arranged for you. "The Duke of Volkov is an honorable man," you said, more to convince yourself than anyone else. "Perhaps he will make a good husband..."

Fyodor leaned closer, his fingertips brushing your chin as he tilted your face toward his. "Do you truly believe that, my love?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge beneath the softness. "Or is that what they have told you to believe?"

You hesitated, and he seized the moment.

"A gilded cage is still a cage," he whispered. "And I would rather see you free."

The next morning, you awoke to hushed whispers and frantic servants. The Duke of Volkov had mysteriously vanished. His carriage had been found overturned near the river, but his body was never recovered. When you told Fyodor of the news, his only response was a knowing smile and a lingering touch to your wrist.

"Fortune favors the bold, my love. Perhaps fate has made its decision."

Another time, you arrived at your secret meeting place to find him waiting, despite the fact that you had told no one of your plans. "How did you know I would be here?" you asked, wary.

He chuckled, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "A poet understands his muse better than she understands herself."

Still, you ignored the chill creeping into your spine. You ignored the way he knew things he shouldn't, the way he would disappear for days only to return with veiled reassurances. You ignored it because love is foolish, and in the depths of your naivety, you had convinced yourself that you were still in control.

Until the day you were locked away. Again. For attempting to escape with that very same poet.

Your family had confined you to your chambers, guards posted outside, ensuring you would not escape. Days passed in suffocating silence. Yet, even within your gilded prison, he found a way to reach you. Unlike before.

One evening, as you sat by the window, a small velvet pouch was slipped through the bars. Inside, nestled within folds of dark silk, was a single note written in his elegant script: Patience, my love. Even the strongest locks can be broken. Alongside it, a small silver key, a promise.

And then, just like the promise, he came for you.

You awoke to the sound of the lock clicking open, and there he stood, a shadow against the moonlight, violet eyes gleaming with triumph. "Come, my love" he whispered, extending his hand. "It is time."

You hesitated for only a moment before grasping it. Yes, you hesitated.

As he led you through the darkened corridors, his grip firm yet gentle, you realized that this, this was real. Not poetry, not illusion, but love made tangible by action, by the lengths he had gone to free you. And when he pulled you into a stolen embrace beneath the night sky, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, you felt your heart yield entirely.

"I told you," he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with longing. "You were never meant to be theirs. You belong to me."

You clung to him, both in fear and in love, knowing that whatever lay ahead, there was no turning back.

Until the day you tried to leave him. He held too many secrets from you. You can't love such man.

You had made your decision in the dead of night, slipping past your guards and donning a commoner’s cloak. The plan was simple: flee the palace, seek sanctuary in a neighboring kingdom, and forget the man who had made your heart race with both love and fear.

But as you reached the gates, a familiar voice halted you in your tracks.

"Going somewhere, princess?"

Your breath caught. Fyodor stood there, his violet eyes dark with something unreadable, his frame shrouded in the moonlight.

"Fyodor... I-"

"Shh." He took a step forward, and despite your instincts screaming at you to run, you remained frozen. "Did you truly believe I would let you go so easily?"

He reached for you, and though you flinched, he only took your trembling hands in his own. His grip was firm, unyielding.

"You don't understand," you whispered. "This isn't right. I need to be free."

"Free?" His smile was indulgent, but there was no humor in it. "My dear, you were never free. The moment you chose me, you chose this."

You were always the prey. His prey.

[svt-luna]

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lunalover Queen of beauty! How are you even real?!

moondancer99 Wrapped in white and wrapped around my heart 😍 absolutely stunning!

fashionisluna No one does fashion like Jiyeonie. The veil is giving bridal couture dreams 🤩🤩🤩

jeongna_child Luna in white??? Luna with a veil?!! JEONGHAN MUST BE SCREAMING RN.

↳ jeongnadaily she’s been rocking white A LOT lately 🤭

↳ jxjforever LET US NOT FORGET ABOUT THE VEIL?!? HELLO!!?

stellalight_ The veil, the pose, the glow! this is ICONIC. You’re a vision, Bae Jiyeon!

caratmoon13 Okay, but is this secretly a pre-wedding photoshoot?

↳ moonlightbae I personally don’t think it is because I don’t think they’ll marry until Han is done with his service AND I’m assuming… knowing Jiyeon, the actual pre-wedding photos will be a hundred times more better than this 👀

moonlit.soul This is a serve on another level! The veil is EVERYTHING.

jeonghanstan HERE COMES THE FUCKING BRIDE 🥹🩷🩷🩷

lunaticforreal I just KNOW Jeonghan is losing his mind over this because I know I am!!!

lunanova GORGEOUS GIRLLLLL 💖💖💖

svtqueen_ Girl, you’re out here dropping bridal hints like confetti, and we’re EATING IT UP.

etherealmoon_ This isn’t just fashion; this is ART. Luna, you’re an angel in disguise 💖

hanandluna_ We need Jeonghan’s reaction to this IMMEDIATELY. He’s the luckiest man alive 😫

softforluna BABE!! I AM ACTUALLY IN LOVE WITH YOU 😭🤍

↳ ashonashonash_ it’s actually unhealthy it’s not funny anymore 🥹

lunaticmoons STOP LUNA, THE VEIL??? YOU’RE ABOUT TO BREAK THE INTERNET AND OUR HEARTS.

jeonghaniyoo_n Angel in white. Next time, let me be the first to see it 🤍

↳ lunabae greedy…

↳ lunaticsquad SIR, WE GET IT.

↳ jeongnabiased You’re literally her fiancé. How greedy can you possibly get??

↳ lunahannie_ You’ve reached peak simp levels, and honestly, we respect it and we love to see it.

↳ marriedtogyu You’re already the luckiest man alive. Do you really need everything first?!

↳ moontastic_ Not Jeonghan gatekeeping his fiancée from the entire world 😂

↳ sebonguniv_ Jeonghan really out here reminding us that Luna is HIS and HIS only.

moonchild27 Wrapped in white and wrapped in Jeonghan’s love. I’m crying. You’re out of this world!

svtforever_17 How does one recover from this level of beauty? Asking for myself.

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SUBMIT A REQUEST AND ASK ME ANYTHING!

: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - lunaఌ

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[toto-the-cactus]

Primarchs + Daughters

My perception of how each Primarch would behave when nosediving into parenthood if they had daughters. Enjoy!

I wanna personally thank @moodymisty because a great deal of their works inspired this piece.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Lion El’jonson

The embodiment of 'tough love' made man. Having a daughter doesn’t do much to soften this guy… or at least that’s what others believe. The Dark Angels Legion are probably the only ones aware of the small gestures the Primarch often gives to his little girl in the safety that privacy offers. Where Lion lacks words of compassionate and parental love, he appropriately makes up for it with actions. He isn’t one to go over the top and prefers to give modest gifts to his daughter as the last thing the man wants is to raise a spoiled brat. Father-daughter bonding time can be summarized with strenuous training using the sword. This man will not let his precious Princess go through life without learning how to protect herself, even if he has made an oath to forever shield her too.

Fulgrim

The complete antithesis of Lion. Where this man views the Emperor as the perfection anyone should strive to reach, his beautiful daughter comes close to the second place in fulfilling that ideal. There’s a big fat chance that he teared up a little when his little gem called him Papa for the first time, but managed to wear his ever unshakable mask because he absolutely refuses to break character even in private. Has the mistaken notion that his baby is a blank canvas ready to be painted to its fullest potential; aka, molding her to what HE wants and expects of her. Fulgrim probably spoils her rotten but only through conditions that she must follow, as the Primarch understands the importance of fighting and earning for what you wish to obtain. He makes sure that any of his gene-sons are in her company as he refuses to let even a single scratch happen to his little girl. Honestly, a grown-up version of Fulgrim’s child has the chances to go both opposites of the spectrum with no in betweens: A shy aristocratic lady who is unable to speak her own mind or a completely haughty, sharp and manipulative noble woman. Too much to unpack there, yo.

Perturabo

(Slaps this bastard's head loudly) This bad boy can fit so much family trauma in it! Okay no but seriously, there’s a good reason why so many people agree that this bitch has a thing for gilded cages and all the fucked up poetry that comes with it. The good ol’ classic Greek tragedy of Medea. Perturabo may have big and insane expectations for his gene-sons but when it comes to having a daughter? The apple of his eyes. The sunshine of his life. For this Primarch, his little princess is the only living thing in the entire universe that loves him genuinely and unconditionally, making his love the equivalent of a child crushing a bird between his hands. While still easy to anger and with a resting-bitch face, he is incredibly tame and careful with his girl; always making sure that she is well versed in all kinds of science and engineering that could easily label her as a genius (but we all know how stressful can be to try and live up to big expectations). Most of his Legion finds the child either an annoyance or don’t even care enough beyond the factual point of her being the child of their mighty Primarch, beyond that? This poor girl is probably the loneliest child to ever grace the world. Remember that I referred to this like the Tragedy of Medea? Yeah…

Jaghatai Khan

Probably one of the few best papa-tier out there. This man will see his little daughter and think the only thing a good parent should do: To love and guide. He’ll be not afraid to say “I love you” to his baby girl no matter where they are, but he’ll know when to be stern and wise so she grows to be a fine and humble woman. Honestly, this guy would learn how to make a sling just for the single purpose of having his precious princess close while also being excited to teach her how to ride on a horse like he did in his childhood. The thing that makes this dude the best in this list is that if his daughter ever expresses to follow a different path in life like becoming a remembrancer or anything that doesn’t involve the Imperium, this Chad of a man will look deep into her eyes and tell her that he’ll support her no matter what. The only thing he asks is that she stays in contact as he’ll miss her terribly. Kudos to him, fr.

Leman Russ

Another one for the ‘tough love’ guys list, yo! On his defense! Hear me out… in his defense, this guy was literally raised first by Fenrisian wolves before even knowing what a proper bath entailed, so of course he’ll sometimes be a bit too much on his poor little baby girl. Roughhousing was his best first approach to teach her how to fight, trying to make his little pup have some proper backbone worthy of being called the child of a Primarch. Sometimes he’ll get carried away (either with words or actions) and is in those moments when Leman would learn what genuine and heavy guilt feels like; a very alien emotion for someone as brutal and fierce as he is. There’s no worse feeling than knowing that you are the reason behind your daughter’s tears. No one would ever say it out loud, but the way this giant of a man apologizes is by slowly and silently hugging his little girl while pouting until she hugs him back. He may suck at expressing verbally his love towards his baby, but actions are his best way to communicate and this is something his daughter eventually learns and accepts from him. Forgot to add that the entire Space Wolves Legion are not only suffocatingly protective of their Primarch’s child, but everyone takes turns when she asks them for piggy-rides or let her braid their hair.

Rogal Dorn

I don’t wanna be too mean to this poor man but lord have some mercy, trying to squeeze any emotion that doesn’t range to watching paint dry from this damn guy is already a miracle on its own. He’s probably the kind of dude that’ll leave his poor daughter in the care of his astartes and serfs while he works. Workaholic in bold, yo. It literally will take watching his poor little princess cry her eyes out for him to attempt some bonding time but man he just sucks at trying not to have a stick up his ass (Again, I’m not trying to be mean but god this is painful). This is the kind of man, besides Guilliman, that will search high and low for some paternity books to help him. At the end this father-daughter relationship can be salvageable by having a heart to heart between them both and even then, is the poor girl the one that gives more than she receives. Honestly, any daughter from Dorn has the patience of a saint. Besides this Primarch's ineptitude to properly communicate his feelings, everything else doesn’t change the fact that he loves his little princess and will do anything to make her as happy as possible so he gets some brownie points for the try.

I'll later write the second and third part of this, I swear <333

[calamityjoan]

A DAUGHTER'S CURSE ✮ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

SUMMARY | "Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons."

PAIRING | Dutch van der Linde x Adoptive Daughter!Reader

TAGS | Canon-typical violence, mention of sexual assault, daddy issues (a lot of it) and angst.

WORDCOUNT | 3.5k

NOTE | This verse screams Damned!Dutch's daughter. Enjoy the product of that. It is chaotic and messy and not proofread but⏤oh well⏤isn't that fitting for RDR2? The final part contains direct quotes from the game and, thus, may be a spoiler. But come on, it's been seven years.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Like the marvelous country that was the West, the loyalty of men knew no bound. It went beyond law and reason, and sometimes drove the purest hearts to the worst horrors.

Some had dedicated poems to its beauty, its dangers too, but no soul had ever created pentameters faithful enough to the loyalty of daughters for their fathers.

The daughter's loyalty was the father's weapon, a silent but destructive ammunition on which men could always count. The father sculpted his daughter and molded her to his will.

Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons.

It all began when he found you on Chicago's government pier, at the edge of Civilization and all its sins.

Above his head, night and its thick, speckled tapestry wove, as usual, the perfect place to conceal a plethora of crimes.

But certainly not the weeping—it drowned out the creaking of the merchant ship Dutch and Hosea had managed to plunder.

The outlaw turned and squinted, forgetting the bear fur to investigate the sound anomaly. It took him a few seconds to make out the small figure lurking in the shadows.

Wrapped up in an overcoat too big for you, you—a mere child at that time—shivered behind a barrel that reeked of rotting meat.

“What are you doing?” Hosea asked, his hand elbow-deep in a jewelry box. “Hurry up. Arthur and John are probably already on Dearborn Street.”

Dutch ignored his friend's protests and took a step towards you. Your face, innocent as can be and distorted by the ugliness of fear, blanched at his sight.

Your frightened eyes guided me to you, your father always said. Their tears aligned the stars, and I only followed my destiny.

You knew the truth—what had really caught his attention that evening had been the bloody knife you had brandished at him with trembling hands.

You would never forget the sparkle that shone in his eyes at the sight, nor the hand he offered you.

When your tiny fingers brushed Dutch's blistered ones—the fingers of a sinner—and the man promised you bed and a hot meal, the first poisoned drops of loyalty flowed and mingled with the night so easily that you didn't see their crimson color.

The first lesson Dutch taught you was how to shoot a gun. He gave you his, then too heavy for your small hand.

The dissonance between the tender skin of innocence and the ominous iron barrel disturbed Hosea (“Isn't it a bit too early for that? She's only seven. Show her how to pick pocket instead,”) but not Dutch, who merely smiled and corrected your grip on the weapon.

“For now, hold it with both hands. One on the stock, the other under the barrel. Your fingers should always be on or against the guard. Never on the trigger, unless you want to shoot yourself in the foot. Only pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.”

“How will I know I'm ready?” you asked in a timid voice.

A second passed. Dutch shrugged.

“You'll know when the time comes. Now, feet apart.”

His boot pushed against your frail ankle. 

“Bend your knees. Good. Now hold still.”

The man walked away. You almost reached out a hand but, remembering his words, quickly put it back under the barrel.

From a leather satchel, Dutch drew four glass bottles and placed them in a row. The remnants of a strong spirit, no doubt. The pungent aromas scented the camp often enough for you to recognize them.

The outlaw returned soon enough, and your shoulders relaxed. You had not been aware of their contraction until the scent of powder and musk embraced you again.

“You know how it works, don't you?”

You nodded shyly. A strand of hair escaped your braid and fell before your eyes. Dutch tutted. With a distracted hand, he tucked it behind your ear before pressing his palm against your shoulder blades.

“Now, both hands on the stock.”

You complied, hands trembling. Dutch pointed to the bottles with his chin as his hand at your back became more insistent.

“Try aiming for a–”

A deafening crack shook the barrel before Dutch had finished his sentence. The sound reverberated against the surrounding trees and the accompanying jolt struck your wrist with such force you were forced to let go of the gun.

Dutch's hand pressed against your shoulder blades.

“It's all right, it's all right. I've got you.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Dutch! I didn't mean to– ’m sorry!”

The words stumbled from your lips, drowned out by panic and the ghostly buzzing that persisted against your eardrums.

“It's very... noisy.”

“You'll get used to it,” the outlaw's voice snapped. “Do it again. But this time, breathe out before you fire. Your lungs must be empty, understand? It'll help with the recoil.”

Childlike fingers searched for the trigger.

“Empty lungs,” Dutch repeated.

The bottle, still intact, glinted in the sunlight. One of the rays shimmered against the barrel before disappearing as you aimed at the glass; a gloomy eclipse that made you shiver.

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled until you felt your ribcage fold in on itself, and hesitated only a second before firing.

The bullet whistled.

And disappeared in the bushes. 

You sighed.

“It's all right, Kid,” he reassured you. “We've got all the time in the world.”

You borrowed only an hour of the world’s time before a bottle finally exploded. Enchanted by the shattering glass, you turned back to Dutch, grinning from ear to ear.

And that singular sparkle reappeared in the man's brown eyes.

Years later, you would recognize this glint as that of an outlaw who had got his hands on a gold mine. For the time being, you were a mere seven-year-old and relished in the attention you were receiving for the first time in your life.

With your veins as the thread, loyalty wove its first stitches in your chest and condemned you to the worst curse of all: a daughter trying to make her dather proud.

At the age of twelve, you thus asked Hosea to teach you how to hunt. He took you to a forest on the edge of Chicago, not far from the camp, and placed a rifle in your blistered palms. Trapped between the silence of the forest and birdsongs, you shot a doe for the first time and regretted that Dutch could not be with you to see it.

At the age of fourteen, Arthur realized you weren’t going anywhere. Like him several years earlier, you had taken root and become a member of the pack—one of his to protect. When you were nearly killed during a stagecoach robbery, he handed you his old shotgun, muttering words about being more careful next time and left you standing there, with a new weapon in your arms.

At the age of fifteen, John tossed a bag full of throwing knives at your feet and dared you to hit the target drawn on the oak tree. Never one to pass on a challenge, you drew one out and weighed it on your finger. The steel, lighter than that of a revolver, nicked the pad of your index. John laughed. You raised an eyebrow and threw the dagger, stabbing it in the trunk as John looked on in disbelief. Behind you both, Dutch burst out laughing and you felt alive again.

Other members came and went over the next few years. Mary Linton didn't stay, but Susan and Tilly did, as Bill, Javier and Davey. You were introduced to other weapons—snipers, dynamite, bows, even axes—but you would always return to your revolver and the first memory of Dutch.

Loyalty wrapped itself around your neck for good when, at seventeen, you killed for Dutch for the first time.

Nothing remained of the sensation of that night on the pier, when the blade had sunk into the fat belly of the drunkard who had tried to rape you.

Today, dread was replaced by jubilation, as you reloaded the barrel of your revolver and blew the head off yet another O'Driscoll. Crouched behind a rock, adrenalin pounded your temples and sharpened your senses.

“Come out! Van Der Linde!” a voice taunted behind her. “Colm wants to say hello!”

A shadow in a green scarf swooped down on Dutch. You choked out a scream as the O’Driscoll threw the first punch.

“No, Father!”

Dutch fell in the mud with a grunt. The O'Driscoll turned back to her, a toothy grin on his lips. His fist, still clenched, was dripping blood. Your father's blood, you realized.

The butt of your revolver lacerated your palm as you tightened your grip around it.

“I didn't know good ol’ Dutch had a daughter! Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to see me blow your daddy's brains out?”

The Irishman grabbed Dutch's hair. You saw red and jumped.  

Three blows echoed through the clearing. Dutch fell back to the ground. The O'Driscoll raised a hand to his chest and blanched.

Empty lungs.

He collapsed, his scarf green no more.

You dropped your revolver and rushed to Dutch. The man was still lying on the ground, his face covered in mud and blood, but his bewildered eyes moved frantically as he caught sight of you.

“Are you all right?” you asked, breathless.

The look of disbelief didn't go away. Louisa thought at first of head trauma—his head, after all, had slammed against the floor—but when he got to his feet without your help, your own words came back to taunt you.

Your whole body froze before you straightened up and, avoiding his eyes, turned around to rush to your horse.

You straddled him and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“You called me ‘Father’,” he told her that evening, when you finally summoned the courage to go see him.

In silence, you sat at his bedside before grabbing a clean rag and soaking it with whisky. With a trembling hand, you wiped the clotted blood from the corners of her lips, searching their familiar shapes for the right words. Dutch always knew what to say.

“I did,” you admitted in a quiet voice.

He grabbed your wrist.

You tensed.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Dutch searched your face for something, but didn't seem to find it. He abruptly let go and pulled a cigar from his jacket’s patch pocket before lighting it. You watched the man take a short puff; for a moment, the arabesques of smoke diverted your mind from the anguish that swarmed within.

But Dutch's sigh plunged you right back into it. He spread an arm out.

You flinched but a hand between your shoulder blades prevented you from falling.

“Come here, Kid.”

You promptly burst into tears and fell into his arms.

Several minutes passed without either of you speaking. Dutch broke the silence first.

“Can I count on you?”

“I'll follow you all the way to Hell,” you immediately replied, unaware that the Styx and Phlegethon started from your father's wounds.

 “Dutch is just trying to get us out of here,” you sharply whispered to Arthur as you scoured tonight’s dinner’s dishes.

The incessant splashing of icy water was doing a poor job at masking your anger. The feeling of betrayal had cut too deep at your chest for that. It made your fingers shake as you rubbed a dirty coffee cup a little harder. 

Of all the members of the gang, you had never thought Arthur would doubt Dutch.

You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, reddened not by blood but by effort—a rare sight indeed. Lately, not a day went by without you being sent to kill someone.

You grabbed another plate to shake off the weight of guilt. The sponge squeaked against the iron and drowned your thoughts for a second.

“He ain’t been the same since Micah came,” Arthur began, “and you know it as well as me. Always talking about his big plan, dangling mountains of gold in front of us, but we both know it won’t happen.”

You slammed the bowl against the table, startling Pearson who was butchering a doe, and turned back to Arthur, your finger pointed at him.

“You don't know what you're talking about!”

“And you're blinded by your love for him! Look around, Y/N. We're the last. Civilization is on our doorstep. Dutch can't fight it. We've got to get out. John, Sadie and Abigail agree. Come along.”

A bitter laugh forced its way out of your chest.

“Please, love.”

You lowered your head and, with a lump in the throat, said softly: “Go away, Arthur.”

The gunslinger sighed and did just that. The strange sight made your lips part, ready to take back what you had just said, but no word came out. You clenched your fist.   

Dutch, you thought. Dutch will know what to do.

You abandoned the dishes and headed for your father's tent. Voices escaped from the canvas, and it only took you a second to recognize Micah's. You gritted your teeth. You didn't trust this snake any more than Arthur did, but one rotten apple did not spoil the whole barrel.

Both men fell silent when you came into view.

“Can I talk to you?” you asked Dutch.

“Not now, Kid. Micah got a lead that could be very good for us.”

Although his voice was soft, you couldn't help the pain that lacerated your chest. For the first time, Dutch had dismissed you. Beside him, Micah watched on with a victorious eye.

For a second, your fingers brushed against revolver at your belt, but you quickly recovered and, flashing your most convincing smile, nodded.

As soon as you turned, the facade dropped. You pushed back the tent flap with a trembling hand and, trying to ignore the crack that had just appeared, returned to your bedroll, where nightmares brought you back to the Chicago pier.

This time, no man reached out a hand.

Loyalty knew almost no bound—for only jealousy was a worthy rival and could, piece by piece, unravel the sacred stitches it sewed in hearts.

Micah Bell, more snake than man, had hissed his lies and perfidy into Dutch's sick ear—a modern reincarnation of the Garden of Eden where Eve would not bite the apple. No. This time, the sinner had only one name, ironic as it was.

Father.

The Daughter was and would remain a figure cursed by her sex—apple in the eyes of the Father, turned rotten with the appearance of a Son.

And what a son, you thought as Micah pointed his gun at an emaciated Arthur and a bruised John. A son who had ratted them out to the Pinkertons. A sellout. A traitor.

This thought awakened a rage you had hitherto tried to bury deep within yourself. It bubbled up in your veins and rattled your chest.

Slowly, your fingers slipped to your belt.

“All of you...” Arthur began, his revolver pointed at the crowd. “You pick your side, because this is over. All them years, Dutch... for this snake?”

“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke. Be quiet!”

You could not look away from your father. He hadn't answered. Why hadn’t he answered?

An enraged Susan Grimshaw sided with Arthur and snapped you out of your reverie. The rifle she was holding clashed with the strict image you had built up over the years.

“No. You be quiet, Mr. Bell… and put down your gun.”

“There’s Pinkertons coming, fast.”

Javier's announcement sent the camp into a deadly frenzy. Seizing his chance, Micah shot Mrs. Grimshaw, who collapsed to the ground in a bloodcurdling scream.

 “No!”

You fell to your knees and placed your hands on the gaping wound perforating her stomach.

“No, no, no, no, no... Not again, not again,” you whispered frantically.

You pressed harder on Mrs. Grimshaw's wound as she continued to writhe in pain. 

“Come on. Don’t die on me. Please,” you begged.

Kieran, Sean, Lenny, Hosea... How many friends had you lost? How many more names would join the cursed list? Would you be next?

Why hadn't Dutch answered Arthur's question?

Despite your pleas and efforts, Mrs. Grimshaw soon stopped moving.

When you felt the body exhale against your palm, you froze. As if they had a mind on their own, your hands slid to the muddy ground, now soaked with innocent blood.

You watched on with dull eyes.

“Who amongst you is with me…” Dutch's voice echoed behind her. “And who is betraying me?”

You raised your head and stared into Mrs. Grimshaw's dead eyes. Your hand shook. A few drops of blood dripped from it. You wiped them off on your jeans and clenched your fist before standing up on wobbly legs.

Meanwhile, the camp had divided itself: John and Arthur on one side, Dutch and the rest on the other.

And you, in the middle of this abyss, stood motionless, your chest empty.

It was only when Arthur collapsed in a coughing fit that you came back to life. You rushed to your brother and placed a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur's grip on his revolver wavered. The sight, so far removed from the gunslinger you had known all your life, tore at your heart. All had changed. Everyone you’d ever cared about was either a ghost of themselves or a decomposed corpse.

“He's lying... Cowpoke is lying,” Micah taunted, his two revolvers pointed at them.

That was the last straw. You let out an inhuman scream and drew your weapon.

“You!Shut the fuck up! I've had enough of your words!”

A toothy grin appeared on the blond's face.

“Oh... It seems the little one got claws after all.”

“Kid,” Dutch began but you kept your eyes and revolver on the traitor.

It's all his fault.

“Kid, put the gun down and come here,” Dutch ordered in a distracted voice.

No, in a confident voice.

After all, why should a model daughter disobey her father?

For the first time, you hesitated and glanced over your shoulder.

Arthur was watching you, his eyes tired but pleading. You recalled your conversation from weeks earlier.

He's not the same. We both know that.

You turned back to Dutch and searched his eyes for the familiar spark of the early days, but nothing but greed and arrogance swam in those irises.

You bowed your head and admitted defeat.

The Father's image withered before her very eyes. Loyalty evaporated in a second. The blood of the pact coagulated. The heart dried up. Already, the mind was feeling the poison’s effects and destroying the golden images to leave only the cold hard truth.

Suddenly, the choice seemed obvious.

You took a step towards Arthur and John.

“No,”

“What do you mean “no”?” Dutch laughed. “Come here, Kid, or–”

Your blood ran cold. The stitches of loyalty loosened and those of hatred replaced them.

“Or what? You'll shoot me? 

“Cut the crap and get over here, Kid!”

“I ain’t your kid!” you exploded.

Your voice echoed through the clearing. Dutch froze.

You took a deep breath and, hand trembling, pointed your revolver at him.

The sensation of déjà-vu strangled you. All you had to do was close your eyes to be transported to the Chicago pier. You could almost hear the creaking of the merchant ship and Hosea's muttering.

But Hosea is dead.

You tightened your grip on the butt of the revolver. The dozens of blisters covering your hands burst into flames. Dutch was the sole reason for their presence. If you burst them, would the blood of the victims you had killed for him flow?

“You're not my father,” you continued despite your quavering voice. “My father died when he chose to side with this traitor.”

Her index finger left the grip.

“Kid, put the gun down.”

If he'd wanted you to be an obedient daughter, why had he taught you to shoot at seven?

You went over the guard.

Empty lungs.

You exhaled.

A daughter's loyalty to her father knew no bound, except for the one Betrayal erected.

Then, filial rage spared nothing.

Not even the Father.

[limnsaber]

Stammi Vicino and the events of Yuri!!! On Ice are still mind boggling to me. Where’s that post about scarcely-fathomable level of romance.

Stammi Vicino is the first skating sequence in YOI. It is the first full skating routine we are presented with and it’s the choreography we see in the very first moments of the show. Lyrically, Stammi Vicino is about a man calling out for someone to hear him, speaking of intense loneliness and decrying love. The lyrics were written by the creator of YOI, Kubo Mitsurou, and translated into Italian for the composition.

In the first episode of the show, both Yuuri and Victor skate this routine individually. Victor skates it for Worlds, and Yuuri skates it because he wants to get his love for skating back.

Unbeknownst to him, Yuuri’s performance was recorded and uploaded to YouTube, and Victor comes into his life from there (directly because of Yuuri’s SV performance).

Victor sees Yuuri’s performance and comes to meet Yuuri, and that’s the inciting incident of the show. Both of their routines were a calling out into the darkness, and they were answered. (That’s love!) Through the show, we learn that both Victor and Yuuri were in bad places at the time of the routine of the first episode, and we see them grow wonderfully together in their relationship and as people through the series.

Stammi Vicino is also known as Hanarezu Ni Soba Ni Ite in Japanese, or Stay Close to Me. This line is said by both characters throughout the show, perhaps most significantly by Yuuri in their argument in the parking garage in EP 7 (a major turning point for their relationship).

The first time Yuuri sees Victor in the flashback, we get notes of Stammi Vicino underneath the dialogue.

This song is perhaps the musical foundation for the entire show! Every aspect of Victor and Yuuri’s relationship is writ in, from calling out into the darkness to finally coming together— represented in the closing routine of the show, Stammi Vicino: Duetto.

Yuuri skates Stammi Vicino once more as the show’s final episode closes, and this time Victor joins him for a pair skate. The final episode is one where they’ve finally fully come together — they agree on their future and on their future together. It’s a beautiful bookend to the story, and represents, as the skating routines always do, their characters and their relationship.

In Duetto, the verses about condemning love are gone and the piece has two singers instead of one. Verses in both the aria and duetto say “your hands, your legs / my hands, my legs / our heartbeats / are blending together,” referencing — and they were crazy for this honestly — Plato’s theory of soulmates. At the end of the piece, the singers “leave together”.

The creator, Kubo Mitsurou, has stated in the past very explicitly and publicly that Victor and Yuuri are soulmates. Canonically! The first time Yuuri sees Victor in the flashback, we get notes of Stammi Vicino underneath the dialogue. Stammi Vicino is the musical thread of Victor and Yuuri’s relationship.

They’re engaged!! To be married!!! They’re canonically soulmates!!!

The music in YOI is deeply intertwined with the storytelling. Each routine is uniquely representative of a character, who they are as person, and their journey. The relationship between Victor and Yuuri is the core of this show, and Stammi Vicino is perhaps the most important piece representative of their relationship.

Stammi Vicino, the aria and duetto, represent a story about loneliness and calling out for love and that call being answered. That’s the thesis of Yuri on Ice.

“There’s a place you just can’t reach unless you have a dream too big to bear alone. We call everything on the ice ‘love.’”

[rwrbficrecs]

A combined rec list for July & August ❤️

Before This, After That by @orchidscript (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry has a serious horse-riding injury and is in a downward spiral with his recovery until Therapist Alex pulls him out of it. I liked the sharp-edges interaction between them as they fall for each other. I actually read this one a while ago and it was just as good as a reread!

The darkest part of the forest by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've loved this entire series, but this was my favorite by far so far! The way the author does world building in her fics is incomparable, even in a fic this short! I would love if she decided to make this a multichapter someday!

Count The Stars and Constellations by @everwitch-magiks (book-verse)

@suseagull04: I've said it once already this month, but it bears repeating: the way the author does world building in her fics is absolutely phenomenal! This one's an outer space saga for the ages, plus it's a multichapter, so we get to see Alex and Henry fall in love over the span of several years, and it's a bit angsty, but absolutely worth it!

An Exquisite Temptation by @tinyarmedtrex (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Henry became a Catholic priest to escape his homophobic family. Never did he expect to meet a stunningly attractive and equally charming, mouthy Texan who would seriously challenge his devout faith. Y'all can guess where this is headed, right? Delicious in so many ways: emotional, full of ‘80s vibes, angsty, smutty—an absolute masterpiece! Chef’s kiss!

How to get over Henry Fox: A list by dazedandconfused (book-verse)

@na-dineee: This AU is set in 2002, and Alex breaks up with the love of his life Henry. Even though it's clear they’d only be apart for a year, the story is still so gut-wrenching. The hurt and angst really got to me—reading that fic is a challenge, but it's absolutely worth it.

late night devil (put your hands on me) by @nine-butterflies (book-verse)

@suseagull04: The way this author took a 4 chapter fic and gave the world so much history and lore is absolutely incredible! Plus there are so many moments of Alex and Henry's relationship that're reminiscent of the book. Everything about this fic is amazing- and it's also definitely a good fic if you're looking for something for Halloween when it arrives soon!

right there beside him (all summer long) by @theprinceandagcd (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: The winter in Australia had me craving a story with summer vibes and this fic was perfect for that. Loved everything about this fic!!

Interrupted (series) by RadioFriday (book-verse)

@dot524: Henry is diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, just like his dad was. This story follows him and Alex through their painful journey, including the end of it and beyond. Read this if you’re in the mood to have your heart broken, over and over.

the very essence of love by dollarstoreannabethchase (book-verse)

@suseagull04: It's RWRB, but from Henry's POV. The angst of the original is heightened in this (believe it or not, it can be done), but that makes the ending that much sweeter, and I loved the insight into Henry's thoughts!

somewhere in your world by @callmevenji (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Prince Henry, student at Oxford, tries to reach a hook-up gone wrong – and ends up texting someone else entirely: Alex. A deep chat friendship unfolds, while simultaneously Henry begins to fall for the charismatic FSOTUS. Whether it’s the universe at work, coincidence, or fate, the pleasure of reading this heartfelt fic is indescribably beautiful !!

In the Grand Scheme of Things by @itsmaybitheway (book/movie-verse)

@suseagull04: Meet cute at a wedding, instant attraction, intellectual banter- this fic has it all! Plus this is the best AU characterization of firstprince I've seen in a while, it's fantastic!

marked by rizcriz (book/movie-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: a soulmate AU with some extra drama - Henry learns that the reason he hasn't met his soulmate was his grandmother's plotting. Extremely well executed - my heart was breaking and then singing when it all turned out well.

Someday Soon I’ll See You (But Now You’re Out of Sight) by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays (book-verse)

@dot524: In the mood for some intense angst? I needed like two business days to recover from reading this one. The story is a devastating view of complex grief as different characters deal with Alex’s death. I thought that the odd and asynchronous ways the grief manifests for different people was raw, real, and well done.

peace by @raysletters (book-verse)

@suseagull04: This is the Sky High AU I didn't know I needed! I love how this isn't a carbon copy of the movie but uses each character's strengths and weaknesses- and it's also just a very cute magic high school AU, which is just the cherry on top!

Son of a Gun by foux_dogue (book-verse)

@na-dineee: I hope you’ve all read 'It's not a secret' by now? I wasn't aware until it was published, but I needed that follow-up so badly! In this fic, which can be read as a standalone, Alex cuts down his work as a tattoo artist to take care of the kids (good thing Henry is loaded) and inevitably has to deal with the Milton-Saylor Academy Mom Squad. Absolutely wholesome, full of domesticity—just like, excellent!

You Set The Tone by @iboatedhere (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Alex is an emergency room doctor and Henry a pediatrician in the same hospital, and their animosity (read: infatuation) with each other began just as unfortunate as in canon. Their gradual coming together, intertwined with the medical emergencies, is wonderfully crafted. The tension is effortlessly maintained over 70k words, never feeling contrived. I was so moved while reading, it hurt phenomenally good, and I cried more than I have in a long time.

pick your poison babe (im poison either way) by sheWritesToLiveVicariously (book-verse)

@na-dineee: Co-workers to lovers with lots of emotion and a touch of angst—it never gets old, right? This 5+1 story is part of the "little moments that pass us by" series, and like all the stories in it, it's rather short, but full of feeling, very soft, and so touching. I'm already looking forward to hopefully many more fics in this series.

Down In The Valley by @aforgottennymph (book-verse)

@daisymae-12: This Stardew Valley AU was such a lovely read and as an avid stardew valley player, I thoroughly enjoyed all the little easter eggs and references to the game. Even if you’ve never played Stardew, this is still such a sweet and delightful read!!

[sonamytrash]

Little one

Levi x reader fic about the birth of your first child. All fluff.

Warnings: Pregnancy, birth, labour, discussion of birth.

(I'm not as well versed with human parturition as I am with animals, couldn't tell you how many animals I've delivered. But I've tried to keep the science out of it for the most part.) Enjoy!

The sky was a perfect shade of blue, untouched by a single cloud. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees, their delicate greenery dancing in the afternoon sunlight. It was the kind of day that made you want to throw open the windows and breathe in the fresh air to revel in the simple beauty of nature.

The sunlight streams through the tall, arched windows of the conference room, casting a warm glow across the polished wooden table. The air is heavy with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the faint sound of birds chirping outside. It was a beautiful afternoon in spring, and yet there was an undercurrent of tension that seemed to permeate the room.

The familiar scent of your shared home greeted Levi as he burst through the door. He calls out your name, his voice hoarse from fear and adrenaline. The quiet that meets his ears is unsettling before he hears movement and a cry of discomfort from upstairs.

He enters the bedroom to see your face contorted in pain, one hand clutching the sheets, the other resting on your swollen belly. You let out another anguished groan.

Levi rushed to your side, his heart in his throat. "I'm here. I'm here. I love you," he murmured, taking your hand in his. Your eyes fluttered open, and you forced a weak smile.

"You made it." You whispered, gripping his hand tightly. "It hurts, Levi." Your voice broke, and you let out a shuddering breath. He could see the sweat beading on your forehead, the effort it took for you to breathe.

Levi's brow furrows with concern as he watches you grip his hand and the bedsheets, the lines of pain etched across your features. Brushing a stray lock of hair from your flushed face, he leans in, his steely gray eyes filled with a rare softness.

"I'm here, I've got you," he assures you, his voice firm but gentle. He reaches down to rub your back, hoping to offer some comfort. "You can do this. You're the strongest person I know."

You close your eyes and let out a shaky chuckle, "That's something coming from humanities strongest." You reply, your humerus side still shining through despite the pain, right as you feel your body tensing as another contraction grips you. Levi holds your hand tightly, feeling helpless as he watches you suffer. Wishing there was something he could do to take away the pain, to make it all better, as many fathers have thought before him.

"Just focus on breathing. I'm not going anywhere." Glancing up at the midwife, he arches a questioning brow. "How much longer?"

The midwife examines you again, "Not long now, you're doing great." She comments reassuringly rubbing your shoulders, smiling at Levi.

"You can do this," he whispers, kissing your forehead. "You're almost there." He could see the tension easing from your body as the contraction faded, and he took the opportunity to rub your back again, hoping to ease some of the pain. Guiding you to sit back comfortably on the bed.

Nothing in this world had frightened him like this. No calibre of titan could ever cause him to feel so scared and so helpless as he did in these moments.

"You're doing great. Just a few more pushes." The midwife exclaims reassuringly from the foot of the bed.

"You're doing amazing." He says again, though he's not entirely sure you're listening to him at this point. He watches as the midwife guides you through the next push, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride and awe as he watches you bringing your child into the world. A level of strength he has never seen from another human before.

Another contraction makes itself known, and you let out a primal scream that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. Levi holds you tightly, and he feels your body tensing, bracing himself for the final push for what feels like forever.

You let out a long, shuddering breath, your body relaxing into Levi's arms as the final contraction eased and the sound of a crying baby echoes through the room.

"Congratulations, mum and dad," the midwife says with a warm smile, deftly  cutting the umbilical cord and cleaning the baby up, bringing them to your chest. "You have a healthy baby boy." Levi's heart soars at the words, and he can't help but let out a shaky breath. Everything happens so fast, and yet time feels like everything around him is standing still.

Levi's eyes shine with unbridled adoration as he gazes upon his newborn son, a rare, tender smile tugging at the corners of his lips as the baby settles in your embrace.

While the midwife works around you attentively, making sure you're stable and comfortable. Levi feels a surge of protectiveness wash over him as he looks down at your child, marvelling at every detail: the downy fuzz on his head, the tiny fingers and toes, his little lips pursed.

Your eyes are filled with tears of joy and exhaustion as you gaze down at your son, your chest heaving with each breath, the pain almost a distant memory.

Levi wipes a tear from his own cheek, feeling a surge of emotion so intense it's almost painful. "He's perfect."

You look up at Levi and smile, your eyes glistening with tears of joy and relief. You reach out and gently touch your son's tiny hand, fingers entwining with his. "He is."

Levi's voice is low and gruff, barely above a whisper as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "You did it, love," he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. "You're amazing. God, I love you." He says. Shifting closer, he carefully wraps an arm around you both, his steely eyes reflecting the pure adoration he feels for his new family.

Levi brushes his fingers over the baby's impossibly soft skin, marvelling at the feeling of life, of newness in his touch.

Levi's lips curve into a faint, amused smirk as he gazes down at the dark-haired newborn, the resemblance to his own features unmistakable.

"Looks like he takes after his old man, huh?" His tone is gruff but tinged with a rare fondness as he brushes a gentle finger across the baby's downy locks. "Hopefully, he's got your personality to balance it out." He says quietly not to disturb the perfect scene in front of him.

He looks down at the dark hair that covers your sons head, the same hair that he has. It's a tangible reminder of the connection they share, of the life you've built together.

"Hello, little one,"

[galaxiasgreen]

🎼🌙Moonlight

Fluffy Ominis x MC!Reader drabble [G-rated, 800 words]

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise." "Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?" "I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

In search of distraction from Ranrok's rebellion, you dance with Ominis in the Undercroft.

[read on AO3]

A/N: I originally wrote this for @yoshitsuno's #Hogtober challenge last year, but I've since made some edits. Very short and sweet, no use of Y/N (just you/yours) and MC is gender neutral. Enjoy. <3

The music lilts up the lift shaft, reaching your ears long before it clunks to a juddering stop. When the grille slides up, you tiptoe into the Undercroft. It’s a classical tune you don’t recognise, a poignant operatic with a melody that evokes a sense of sadness and beauty – and you know immediately which Slytherin will be enjoying it.

Eyes shut, Ominis is reclined against the furthest pillar. He’s dressed down today, in an unbuttoned waistcoat and loosely knotted tie. You could almost believe he was asleep if not for his wand, gently mimicking a conductor’s baton against his thigh, tapping perfectly in time with each beat.

“It’s a lovely song.”

He doesn’t stop. “From Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune. I particularly like its message, comparing the human experience to rays of the moon.”

He gets to his feet as you drift closer. The voice swells dramatically; he flicks his wand, and the gramophone quietens.

“No, no, don’t turn it down on my account,” you say; Ominis’ hand hangs in air. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Why did you come?”

“To find something to do. To… distract myself. All this business with Ranrok…”

You don’t need to say anything more. He knows.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards. “There’s always homework. I believe we have eight inches to write for Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Already finished it.”

“Naturally. Don’t tell Sebastian though, he might want to copy.”

“If he doesn’t I’ll assume someone hexed him.”

Ominis smiles more warmly and takes a tentative step closer; in the light of the braziers, shadows writhe and bend against him, sharply cleaving his features, and it makes him look like he could set fire to the world.

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise."

"Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?"

"I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

“You can dance?”

“A little. And you?”

“No,” you admit, yet you breach his space, close enough to smell his cologne, “but it might be nice to learn.”

“It’s simple.” He guides your hand to his shoulder, and clasps the other gently in his own. “If a blind man can do it, you are more than capable.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“I’m only trying to make you feel comfortable.” His tone is lighter, laced with teasing. “Follow my lead.”

His free hand goes to your waist, and the touch dizzies you as he coaxes you back, to the left, forwards again and around. Ominis commands you so well you wouldn't believe he wasn’t born to play the role of the dutiful heir of Slytherin, born to lead his pure-blood family to its inherent greatness. Were it not for his virtuous beliefs, his unwavering loyalty and kind heart, perhaps it would be true. It was that compassion that drew you to him in the first place, so long ago – and it's the small ways he continues to prove his compassion that keeps you there, a stalwart presence at his side.

With him, leaving the mask behind is easier.

“Let the music show you the way,” he says, when you curse after a misstep. “Feet position doesn’t matter so much as the reason we're dancing.”

You step in again, basking in his scent. “What are we dancing for?”

“That depends on you.”

“To peace, then.” You smile at him though he cannot see. “We dance to carve out a moment of peace.”

“I like that.”

He leads, you follow. The Undercroft becomes your stage, Ominis the prince that sweeps you away. There is no rebellion, no school, no expectation of society, responsibility, or real life. All you see is him, all you feel is his compassion, the shadows that yield to him giving you room to breathe. He may have darkness at his beck and call, and you the tumult of an incoming storm, but together you make something brilliant and beautiful. Together you make the lone ray of the moon that lights the way through the everlasting night.

“You see?” he says, with that inexplicably captivating softness. “You're a natural.”

You squeeze his hand.

“I have a good teacher.”

A loud cough jerks Ominis back, out of your grip.

The grille closes, and Sebastian strolls inside, robe thrown over his shoulder, looking terribly smug.

“Interrupt something, did I?”

“No,” Ominis barks at once, that softness replaced by calloused edges and walls. He steps a polite distance away, but doesn’t turn his back. “You presume too much.”

“Or I don’t presume enough?”

You sweep down your robe, fixing Sebastian a glare. He only wiggles his brow at you. Ingrate.

“Either way, stop that racket. I need absolute silence to copy your Defence Against the Dark Arts essays.”

Moment dashed, masks on, Ominis makes a weary grunt and goes to turn the gramophone off… but you don’t miss the smile that lingers on his face.

Fin.

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

[read on AO3] [Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune on YouTube] [Divider credit]